Page 4 of Spencer's Satisfaction
I love that she doesn’t automatically assume the worst of people. Or maybe she trusts my judgment about my colleagues. I bite my lip and shrug. “I hope not. Jamie’s not exactly in the best place financially. Medical bills would destroy them.”
It’s not like Tanya and I are flush with cash, either, mind you. But from the bits and pieces I’ve cobbled together from conversations with Jamie, I know we’re far more stable.
“Well, let them know that if they need anything, we’re here, okay?”
My sister and her big, bleeding heart.Tears prick the back of my eyes. She can be crude and off-putting, but she has the biggest heart of anyone I know. It’s the same heart that had her moving out of home when our Nonna kicked me out as soon as we graduated high school. She had insisted we pool our savings and move in together and never once looked back on the life she was leaving behind. The free room and board, the free meals, the love of our Nonna. None of it mattered to her when she knew I’d be suffering on my own. A decade later, she’s never once expressed regrets.
“I will,” I reply softly, full of gratitude I don’t bother to hide.
The look on Tanya’s face tells me that she understands everything I haven’t said out loud.
Maybe there is something to that twin mind-meld shit after all.
* * *
“You’re bussing tables tonight,” my boss, Gerald, tells me when I let myself in through the back door of the diner and into the kitchen, having parked the car I share with my sister in the tiny gravel lot out the back. When I make a face, he rolls his eyes before turning back to the burgers he’s got sizzling on the grill in front of him. “Jamie’s not the only one to call in tonight. We’re short staffed and stupidly busy: that freak club must be havin’ one of their open nights again.”
‘That freak club’ is The Grove, a BDSM club located a couple of miles down the road, just inside the industrial part of town. We’re the closest eatery by far and, because we’re open 24/7, we get a lot of business from the kink community.
I do my best not to scowl at Gerald for his attitude about our clientele. Honestly, the people from the club are always polite, courteous, and friendly, not to mention generous tippers. The same can’t be said of the truckers and out-of-towners and road-trippers who make up the rest of our business. Besides, with the amount of kinky romance I’ve been listening to and reading lately, I think the whole lifestyle has been given a bad rap by people like Gerald.
Narrow-minded dick, I think to myself as I reach for my apron and pull it on. My thoughts drift mournfully to the Bluetooth earbuds in my hip pocket. If I’d been allowed to man the grill, I would have been able to finish off the last of my most recent find on Audible. My favorite narrator had a new release recently, and I’ve been loving every second of it. But, sadly, it’s not meant to be. I’ll have to finish listening to it tomorrow, then.
Also, I prefer cooking to dealing with people face-to-face. Slapping food on a griddle, smelling the delicious scents, watching as I create something out of next to nothing…that’ssatisfying. Forcing myself to try to talk to strangers? Less so. Alotless so.
In the front pouch of my apron, I toss in my pen and one of the notepads we scrawl our orders on, then tell Gerald I’m heading out front.
A wall of noise assaults me as soon as I push the double doors separating the kitchen from the service counter open. It’s the sound of a packed restaurant of diners talking, of cutlery scraping plates and the jukebox near the front door blasting an old Elvis classic. It doesn’t matter how long I’ve worked here, it still takes me a moment to get my bearings in the din.
I absolutely hate the sensory overload, but I would hate being homeless even more, so I grit my teeth and tell myself it’s only six hours. Six hours, and then I can pop my earbuds back in and listen to Spencer Rhodes read me a steamy gay love story.
Another colleague, Betsy, bustles past me to type an order into the far-too-dated old register set up at the center of the long service counter, while Jenny, one of our greener waitresses, pours coffees to a line of patrons perched on stools just down to my left.
“Table twelve only just sat down,” Betsy tells me as she passes me by again, heading into the kitchen to pin the order she’s just printed up onto the line of fluttering slips of matching paper above Gerald’s head, “I haven’t taken ‘em their menus yet.”
“On it,” I declare, glancing over to the table in question and grabbing two vinyl-covered menus on my way.
When I get to the table, I greet the men seated there with my standard ‘customer service’ smile. It feels plastic and doesn’t reach my eyes, but my voice is genuine as I say hello and hand over the menus. “Can I get you anything to drink?” I ask, “Or are you okay to wait until I come back for your orders?”
They order a pitcher of Coke and I scrawl it messily onto my notepad, flash them another grin and assure them I’ll be back in a moment.
And that pretty much sets the tone for my whole shift. The waves of people coming and going never really slow. Not until it’s nearly ten o’clock. Then it seems to abruptly fade away until we’re left with an empty diner, save for one or two truckers drinking their coffees and keeping to themselves.
“Holy hell,” Jenny slumps against the counter, huffing out a breath to clear a few loose strands of pale blonde hair from her eyes, “that was crazy.”
“Theme nights at The Grove’ll do that,” I tell her, patting her shoulder consolingly. Then I grin. “But the tips make it worthwhile.”
She brightens at that and pats her pocket, shooting me a wink. “I did notice that.”
We chat idly as we wander the space, refilling salt and pepper shakers and napkin dispensers, wiping down tables and vinyl seats and sweeping the floors. Betsy handles the few customers that trickle in as we work, then declares she’s taking her break.
“My feet are killing me,” she laments. “I’m breaking in a new pair of shoes.”
“Ouch,” Jenny commiserates.
I just nod and wave her off. “Go on, we’ve got this covered.”
Maybe ten minutes later, Jenny starts getting agitated. “Sorry,” she says, “I’ve gotta go real bad.”
