Page 17 of Betting Blind
Her aging eyes roam over my face for several breaths before she reaches out to stroke my hair. I let my head fall to her knees as she continues her loving strokes and my eyes droop closed. I savor her motherly touch, reminiscing about a simpler time—a time when cookie-stuffed panties were the most of my worries.
When I was a little girl, there was hardly a day I didn’t come home covered in bruises and scrapes from running around with the neighborhood boys. I have to stifle a laugh at the younger tomboy version of myself. If I ever played too rough or got hurt, I’d kick up my chin and try to tough it out so the boys wouldn’t see me cry. But when it was time to come home, I’d curl up at my momma’s feet and let her comfort me until I no longer felt the pain.
“Cassidy, I don’t know how many times I have to tell you to live your life for you. You can’t fix everything, and I don’t expect you to. There’s no need to work both jobs. We’ll get the car fixed eventually.” Her voice catches when she speaks again. “I’m thankful that you want to provide for me, but at some point, you’re going to have to move on, baby.”
A silent tear squeezes out of my eye, absorbing into the blanket covering her legs. I can’t imagine a life where I’m not providing for her. How can I lay my head down at night, in a house of my own, when I’ll do nothing but worry that something will happen to her if I’m not here?
“I love you, Momma.”
She stills her hand on my head and sighs. “I love you, too, sweet pea.”
* * *
The Pound is slammed tonight. Saturday night is in full swing, and we ran out of places for customers to sit a long time ago. “I need another order of wings out to table eight!” Micah shouts at me from the middle of the bar. It’s so busy that both Micah and I have been running drinks and food out to the floor all night.
The lingering aroma of greasy food and IPAs coats the room like a dense fog, mixing with the stench of cigarettes. For my second weekend here, I’ve been gifted a double, no thanks to dear old Jack. Working four days a week at Margie’s leaves Fridays and Saturdays for me to serve and bus tables at The Pound, and it’s been killer, but the money has me panting like Gordy when he’s begging for scraps. At first, I was intimidated by the crowd that frequents this joint, but the more time I spend here, the more I’ve learned to trust them, and I even get along with most of them.
What can I say? I know how to work a crowd.
I almost have enough tip money to pay for the new axle, but I’m thriving here, and the thought of leaving this place stirs up a certain sadness I wasn’t prepared for. At Margie’s, I’m just another pretty face with a pink apron, working hard for hardly anything. But here, I have a purpose. They often let me take the lead and never hesitate to involve me in their conversations. Jack has even asked for my opinion on the remodel he’s planning for this place, and what’s better, they make me feel like I’m one of the guys and the comradery is intoxicating.
“Watch your step, Jimmy!” I yell to a drunken old man I’ve become friendly with. Bless his heart, even missing three teeth and an eye, his compliments will make me blush redder than a cactus fruit. And I’m always saving his butt—literally.
He glances down at a slice of pizza that must have gotten dropped in the chaos and pats my back lovingly. “Thank you, Cassidy. I don’t know what I’d do without my good eye.”
“Cass!” Micah hollers again. People surround the long wooden bar in front of him, and I nod, confirming I heard the order for table eight.
After picking up a few stray napkins and sticky food crumbs, I toss them into a trash bin, and make a dash for the computer that’s next to the bar. I unload my list into the system in five minutes flat while mumbling the lyrics to the Prince song coming from the jukebox. I bob my head and sing lightly, smiling at people I’m coming to know as they pass me by.
“Getting your ass kicked out there?”
I slowly peek my head around the POS and lock eyes with Jack. He looks dapper tonight with his hair slicked back and styled and his dark beard trimmed tight. My eyes roam over large biceps and broad shoulders that strain against his long-sleeve V-neck. The sleeves are rolled up, showcasing his art and baring his forearms for any of the women in here to see. The man makes clothing a visual game.
Who knew peekaboo wasn’t just for babies?
Clearing my throat, I answer, “Yeah, you could say that.” I still haven’t forgiven him for how rude he was to me last weekend, but the fact is, he’s a great boss to me and all these guys, so I try to be cordial.
I lean an elbow on the bar, resting my cheek against my fist, and my eyes fall to those of the doorman who I've come to know as Tank. He stares at me with his soulless eyes and the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention.
“I don’t think he likes you,” Jack says from behind the bar, reaching below for a glass and pouring me a much-needed water.
I have to agree with him. Ever since my first night, any time I so much as look in the man’s direction, he starts glaring daggers. I take a long, refreshing sip of the cool liquid as I stare back at Tank. Without breaking my concentration, I tease, “What’s not to like?”
Tank narrows his eyes at me, and I get a feeling that I’ve poked the bear.
Jack slings a kitchen towel over his shoulder and chuckles as he turns to help Micah, leaving me to sit in my thoughts. I’ve gotten everyone around here to warm up to me in a matter of a couple weekends—everyone, except Tank. I tap my pursed lips in thought as we silently stare each other down. There’s got to be something I can do to get this guy to crack.
Chapter 9
Cassidy
“God, I am so sick of this place.” Juliana rolls her eyes at two guys across the diner who have been catcalling her for the last forty-five minutes. “Look at them, hollering at me with no regard for the other customers around!Pendejos,” she curses quietly.
She leans over the counter beside me, elongating her thin waist and sticking out her ass. Jules is the definition of “itty-bitty waist, round thing in your face,” so I can’t exactly blame them, but I understand her frustration. This is a family business, not a strip club.
“Do you want me to take over so you can go on break?”
She pops up off the counter. “Yes! Thank you, thank you, thank you.” She gives me a kiss on the cheek and rips off her apron before sprinting to the back and away from her suitors.
