Page 8 of A Favor Owed

I roll my eyes. “Have fun tonight,” I say. “Don’t get too wasted.”

“Well, which is it?” he asks. “Have fun or don’t get too wasted?”

I smile and turn around to grab my tray as Brady heads back across the bar.

“Cliff,” I call. He lifts his chin at me as he pours a drink. “The next time Kelsey comes over, would you send a round over to Brady’s table?”

“You got it. And it’s on me. That was the funniest shit I’ve seen in this bar in a long time.”

I signal to Russ before taking the beers to the table with obnoxious Muscle Man. Russ keeps his eye on me, and I head over, full of piss and vinegar. As I place the drinks down, I glance toward Brady’s table. It turns out that Russ isn’t the only one keeping an eye on things.

“Here’s your bill,” I say, dropping their check on the table.

“It’s not last call yet!” protests one of them.

I lean against their table and survey them with a syrupy-sweet smile. They have the distinct aura of freshly minted grad students: young, just old enough to legally drink, and high on their inflated egos. “It’s last call when I say it’s last call. And I’ve already told the owner to stop serving you. So, cash or credit?”

There are grumbles, and I catch one under-the-breath “fucking bitch,” but they pay up without further resistance.

“I don’t think there’s enough tip here,” I say, counting out the bills in front of them. “If there was a problem with the service, you can tell my friend Russ over there all about it.” I toss my braid behind my shoulder in the direction of Russ and his three hundred pounds of bulky muscle. His eyes are still trained on us. “Russ has some anger management issues, but his combat training usually gives him the discipline he needs not to completely lose his shit.” I smile again and fan out the bills. The grumbling stops and a few more bills of various denominations hit the table. “Thank you, gentlemen. You have a good night.” I wink at Muscles. “Congrats to you and Hortense.”

Another thing in my DNA: extortion.

For the next hour, my eyes constantly drift to Brady’s table. By the time last call comes around, two of his friends are lip-locked with the girls draped across their laps and the other two are doing shots with Brady and the remaining three girls. Again, I have to tamp down a flash of jealousy.

At two thirty, the lights go on, the music stops, and people start to stagger out the door. Brady and his friends leave with the girls. I busy myself clearing and wiping down tables, my ears ringing and my feet throbbing.

“You okay getting home?” Cliff asks when we’re done closing and heading out the back.

“Yeah, I’ve got my bike. Thanks.”

I say good night to him and the other waitresses, and they drive off, leaving me alone in the parking lot. As I unlock my bike, I hear a car door slam. My heart leaps into my throat, and I whirl around, holding my bike lock like a weapon.

“It’s just me, princess.”

“Jesus, Brady.” My voice and knees are weak with relief. “You scared the crap out of me.”

“Sorry. That’s twice I’ve snuck up on you tonight.”

“It’s okay. I just didn’t know…or, um, expect you to be… I thought you had left,” I fumble.

“I did. Now I’m back. Just wanted to make sure that guy wasn’t hanging around. Do you need a ride?”

“No thanks,” I say. “I have my bike.”

He looks at me skeptically. “You’re biking home at three o’clock in the morning?”

“I do it all the time. It’s not far.”

“Can I drop you off? Your bike will fit in my Jeep.”

“No, that’s okay.”

“Aw, come on. I’ll feel like a jerk if I don’t give you a ride home. It’s Saturday night, there are drunk idiots on the road…”

“Aren’t you?”

“An idiot? Occasionally, yeah. Drunk? No. Had a couple of beers and knocked back one shot, but that’s Sunday breakfast for me.”

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