Page 2 of Romanced By the Rat
Chapter two
Jeremy
“Jeremy, did you get all that?” Trisha, my aggravated trainer, asks, shooting me a look.
“Um, yeah!” I reply, a little too eagerly. She just read off Ratcliff’s seasonal wine list, and I most definitely did not get that. Even if I was paying attention and not thinking about what I need to eat tonight to stay in a calorie deficit, I couldn’t possibly remember the different varietals and pairings of over thirty different bottles. Memory has never been my strong suit. Physical challenges, personal goals—I’m your guy, but mental shit? Nah.
“You sure?” Trisha places her hands on her hips, eyeing me with enough judgment to send me to the fiery pits of hell. Luckily for me, I’m used to judgment. In fact, I thrive on it. It’s the main reason I’m so drawn to bodybuilding—the thrill of being under a watchful eye, critiquing your most minuscule movements. It makes my cock hard. If only body building didn’t have to be so damn expensive. I made a decent enough income at the supplement store, but it’s not enough to cover my entrance fees, spray tans, bathing suits, protein, andsupplements. Servers make more money, so when I saw that the local French restaurant in town, Ratcliff’s, was hiring, I jumped at the opportunity.
The problem is, I don’t know shit about the restaurant industry, which is already evident to my sour-faced trainer. The only reason I got the job is because I lied and said I worked as a server at a country club in Florida that had recently shut down. There was no one to call as a reference, and I’ve always been a charmer. I just had to flash a few of my pearly whites, run a hand through my blonde curls, and my manager, Kelly, was putty in my hands. Trisha doesn’t fold so easily.
“Don’t worry about me, Trisha. If I get lost in the beginning, I’ll just give a shout to my beautiful trainer.” I wink.
She deadpans. “I don’t like repeating myself.”
I think the more I talk, the more she hates me. So instead of making matters worse, I just nod. “Got it.”
She turns back to the floor, walking through the rows of white-lined tables, explaining how the tables are numbered. I was supposed to watch a series of online videos, and Trisha is my last barrier before I’m on my own tonight. I honestly didn’t think serving would be that difficult, so I opted to scroll on my phone instead of paying attention to the information. Now, as Trisha reviews my supposed training at lightning speed, I regret my decision. I’ve been able to escape most of my life’s fumbles, which keeps my nerves relatively in check, but I can’t deny the dampness under my armpits as I watch people trickle up to the host stand.
A young blonde girl walks up to me, handing me a white slip of paper. “You’re up. Table ten, party of four.”
I nearly shit my pants.
“Well, looks like it’s time for action.” Trisha pats my back and walks past me.
“Wait, aren’t you going to help me with my first table at least?”
She turns around, walking backwards. “Didn’t you have a shadow shift?”
I did, two days before, with a coworker named Greg, but he was too controlling to allow me to take any of the orders. I just followed him around and helped him drop off drinks. I didn’t mind. It was an easy day. Now, I wish I had made an effort to try it out on my own. “Yes, but…”
“You’ll be fine! Good luck.”
My heart pounds thunderously as I turn to my table—a ghost couple in their fifties with two teenage ghost children. Living in Ghostlight Falls all my life made me accustomed to the supernatural, the paranormal, and all the walks of life in between. From my travels and watching TV, I’ve realized the population here in our secluded community in Oregon isn’t the typical demographic of most places, but I can’t imagine living somewhere without the differences. It makes life more fun. Except now. Now I wish the ghost family would disappear, carry on to the afterlife, so I wouldn’t have to embarrass myself. I walk up to their table, pulling at my collared shirt to release the building steam. “Hi, um. Welcome to Ratcliff’s. What can I get you?”
A bald, translucent man stares up at me, scrunching his forehead. “We just sat down. Give us a minute.”
“Bring us some water, dear,” the woman says, shooing me away. “Right, sorry about that.” I never knew if ghosts could eat or drink, maybe they just like feeling like the living, but it’s not the time to ask. I spin on my heels, wanting to get out of this awkward situation. I slam into Greg, carrying a tray full of beverages. I’m on my ass, soaked. Greg recovers at the last moment, standing above me, with an empty tray in his fingertips. He shakes his head, and I scramble to get up. “Sorry about that,” I say to my guests, staring wide-eyed at me.
I scurry away. My white shirt molds to my body, revealing the outlines of every one of my muscles. Normally, I’d revel in the opportunity to show off my physique, especially after noticing the beautiful dark-haired woman slipping through the entrance, but I’m too frazzled. It hasn’t even been five minutes on my own and I’ve already fucked up. I need money for my next competition. Ratcliff’s won’t keep me on till next payday if I continue to screw up like this.
As I walk into the back, I run my hands through my hair, heading for the closet. I search a rack for a new apron, find one, and pull it over my wet uniform. Something scampers behind me, and I scream, stumbling out of the closet and into Trisha.
“What are you doing?” she asks, clearly annoyed.
“I think there’s an animal in there,” my voice an octave higher than I would prefer.
“Are you on drugs?” she asks, examining my eyes.
“What? No?”
“Are you sure? Because right now you’re soaking wet and stumbling out of closets shrieking like a little girl.”
I straighten myself, gathering my composure. “No, I’m not on drugs. I just… Never mind.” I shake my hand, walking past her to the beverage station. I need to get waters to my tables. I can’t lose this job.
Even if it’s infested with rodents.
Chapter three
