Page 32 of Hot Mess Express
Patient, even.
“Here you go.” I set the bottle in front of him. I’m still smiling. “Why don’t you give it a taste? See if it’s to your liking?”
The douchebag doesn’t even look at the bottle. “I’m sure it’sdandy,” he says politely, pops off the lid, drizzles a hell-spiral of doom on his meat, then saws off a bite of steak and pops it into his mouth. “Tastes much better,” he says.
Or tries to say—before the spice kicks him in the nuts.
“Huh? What’s that?” I ask innocently. Beautiful Bridger is still sputtering for words. He looks so stupid. I wish I could photograph his face right now and frame it on my wall. “The taste is outta this world and you feel like you’re shitting your pants?”
He gags, rasps, and drops his fork.
“Tastes so good you’re chokin’ on it?” My own question makes me chuckle. Bridger continues to struggle for words. Then I stop chuckling at once. “Wait. Are you choking? For real choking?”
Bridger grabs at his throat.
My stomach falls out of my butt, horrified.
“Move!” shouts Pete, flying out of his seat and shoving me aside—and causing Cody to rise to his feet at once, visibly shaken by the outburst. With Hulk-like strength, the guy lifts Bridger out of his seat with ease, hugging him from behind, his fists pressed to his stomach, and starts giving him the Heimlich right there, over and over. I stand before Bridger, petrified, as the guy continues to gag, gasp, and hiss, his eyes watery and panicked, with Pete thrusting his fists into him over and over.
An excruciating four and a half seconds later, the evil piece of spicy shoe leather rockets out of Bridger’s mouth.
And nails me right in the eye.
I fly back with a shriek I can’t believe just came out of me.My hand flings out to catch myself from falling. The only thing I grab hold of is the tablecloth. I’ve always applauded myself for having amazing grip strength.
That grip takes everything on the goddamned table with me.
Drinks and dishes and meat and buttery mashed potatoes.
The whole thing must last a few seconds, but I look like an F5 tornado just fucked me into next week when I open my eyes from the ground, covered in everyone’s food, looking up at the tower of Bridger standing over me sucking in breath after breath.
The restaurant is silent, except for scandalized gasps here and there, along with the rustling of clothes as people rise from their seats to get a look at what happened.
I pull a slice of tomato off of my face as I slowly sit up. Something smarts in my lower back. I sure didn’t land good. But all I can see is Bridger, his eyes locked on mine, lips agape, still desperately catching his breath.
Fury in his eyes.
Or something worse that I can’t name.
I don’t know when it happens, but suddenly Gran is there, and I’m hearing her pouring apologies all over them. Every time I try to move, something shifts around me—the sharp edge of a broken plate, a hot or cold piece of food, something sticky. The tablecloth seems determined to keep me on the ground, wrapped around one of my wrists somehow. My head spins.
When all the chatter grows quiet, I look up to find Gran, Pete, and Bridger all staring down at me, as if awaiting a response.
Now it’s me sputtering. Choking on absolutely nothing but the cottony dry air in my mouth. “S-S-Sorry,” I finally get out, my own piece of meat lodged in my throat—an empty, hollow-ass word no one hears or believes.
“I swear I didn’t mean for that to happen!”
Gran isn’t having it, cornering me in the break room. “Did I do you wrong in a past life? Why are you trying to murder one of my customers with habanero sauce on asteak?”
“How do we know it was even real?” I ask. “He could’ve been pretending to choke, then spat his steak at my face! That guy’s had a vendetta against me since yesterday! He’s deranged!”
“For fuck’s sake.” She stops herself, leans against a break table with a heavy sigh, and shuts her eyes. “Cursing on a Sunday. That is what you’ve brought me to, Mr. Myers, cursing on a Sunday.”
“He sprayed fuel all over me and got me fired from Duncan’s! Then he came between me and Juni at the bar when—!”
She lifts a hand, shutting me up. For some reason, I only now notice how crazy long her fingers are, long and full of authority—and a shit ton of expensive-looking jewelry, too. “No.” She shakes her head, eyes still closed. “No, no. Enough’s enough. Nine strikes and you’re out. Or is it ten by now? Take off that apron.”
“Please.” I come up to her and drop to my knees. How damned desperate can I get? “This is my best-paying job, even at part-time. My only regular gig. I’m sorry this happened. Very sorry, the most sorry a guy can be.”
