Page 98 of Stroke of Fate

She glances up at me and then down again. “Coke is fine, but uh, no lemon, please.”

I nod and write it down before returning my attention to Sadie’s scowling face.

“Manhattan iced tea has alcohol in it, so I’m going to need to see some I.D.,” I say with a sugary, sweet smile.

She shoots me a dagger-like look and makes a big show of digging through her designer purse, handing over her ID. I flip it over, pretending to inspect the back and front.

I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I’m pretty sure it’s a fake. The card claims she’s twenty-five, but I doubt she’s much older than us, even with her heavy makeup and cosmetic enhancements.

“Is there a problem?” She snaps when I tut and tsk.

“We’ve been having some issues with people giving us fakes,” I lie, waving her card. “It wouldn’t be a problem if I put this into our machine, right?” I offer her a lopsided smile that says,trust me, I don’t want to, but those are the rules.

They’re not the rules. And I’m almost certain Preston does not have one of those machines in the back, but the anger blazing in Sadie’s eyes makes the lie worth it.

Sadie yanks the card from my hand.

“Iced teawithice is fine.” She says, not looking at me.

“Coming right up,” I reply.

With my back to her, I can’t help but smile.

Unfortunately, my victory is short-lived.

Returning to the table, I hand Kristen her drink, and she thanks me. Sadie stares at the iced tea in front of her with an unimpressed look.

“I said no ice.”

“No, you didn’t.” I sigh, frustrated she’s being this way.

But I’m not surprised she’s acting like this. Girls like Sadie are all the same: predictable and self-righteous.

“Isn’t that what I told her?” She says, fixing Kristin with a stare.

Kristen glances up at me and then back down. “I don’t remember.”

Sadie’s eyes pivot back to me, and her glare turns icy. “We could call your boss and see what he thinks.”

My stomach plummets to my feet. With one sentence, she’s got me cornered. And she knows it too, based on the self-satisfied sneer plastered on her face.

“I’ll get you a new one.” Without waiting for her response, I grab the drink.

“God, is getting good service around here so difficult?” Her snarky remark follows me as I walk away, but I refuse to let it get to me.

The rest of the night is more of the same.

Sadie claims she wanted her salad plain with dressing on the side, not on top, as she’d initially requested. When I bringout a fresh salad, she complains about the croutons. The same croutons she specifically requested be on there.

And on it goes.

She complains. I grit my teeth and bite my tongue, knowing the only loser in this situation would be me if she made good on her threat.

After returning from the kitchen for the third time, Sadie begrudgingly tells me her salad is “acceptable” before dismissing me with a flick of her wrist.

It’s a relief when they finally leave.

When I go to collect the check from the table, the space next to the tip line unsurprisingly doesn’t have a dollar amount next to it. But it’s not blank, either. There’s one sentence sprawled out in vaguely familiar handwriting. But it’s also so generically feminine that it could have been from anyone.

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