Page 12 of Dirty Money
Aullie snagged a few coasters in case her new table occupant had some joiners. She was powering up a phony megawatt smile, but it dropped almost immediately.
“What are you doing here, Weston?”
His unkempt hair hung loose, it was longer than Aullie thought it was and the floppy cut made him look younger, a little softer, and almost more human somehow. He smiled, bitterly, “Obviously, you didn’t listen to my last voicemail.”
“Yeah, I didn’t listen to most of them,” Aullie snapped. She was furious that he was there. It wasn’t going to be any easier to get over him if she could see him, especially since she had spent so much time trying to forget him that she had forgotten just how attractive he really was.
“Why not?”
“Because I didn’t want to.”
“Why not?” he repeated.
Because hearing your voice would’ve made me want to call you back.“Does it matter why not? I didn’t want to because I don’t want to. I’m not interested, ok? You’re not my type. I’m sure it won’t be hard for you to find another woman who wants to slobber all over you and all your money, so I would appreciate it if you would just leave. I have a job to do.”
“But I don’t want to leave. And, considering that you’re a waitress and I’m seated at a table in your section, why don’t you go get me a beer?” he said, smiling like a fox.
In lieu of a response, Aullie stormed away. Hot rage burned down to her fingertips.
How dare he? What an entitled prick!
She’d meant to find someone else to take the table but found herself angrily jabbing her fingers at the POS screen, ordering him a stout. In the midst of cursing him, she cursed herself for remembering his order from his previous visit. Once the beer was rung in, she printed the elderly men’s tab, she’d also been waiting on just to waste more time.
Striding over to the bar, she drummed her short nails against the metal grate. Recognizing her nervous habit, Brittany appeared behind her. “What’s wrong?”
Still seething beyond the point of words, Aullie jerked her ponytail backward toward her table and waited while Brittany scoped out the table.
“Oh, shit! That’s him, isn’t it?” she replied, appropriately surprised.
“Yep,” Aullie spat. The rhythmic clackety-clack of her nails against the metal did nothing to soothe her agitated state.
“I’ll take him if you want.” Brittany’s eyes were still fixed on Weston.
Aullie was suddenly prickled with a very surprising and unwelcome jealousy. “No, it’s fine. I’ll deal with him.”
The bartender, a blonde named Teri with a tragically crooked boob job, set the frothy glass on the well. Aullie grabbed the dark beer and thumped it on the table in front of Weston. She had a new table and, anxious to walk away anyway, she asked impatiently, “Need anything else?”
“Not presently,” he said, that smooth British accent sounded even better than she had remembered. “Seems as though you’ve gained another table of customers, peach. Attend to them, I’ll still be here. You can come check on me later.” Then he winked.
Infuriated, she hissed, “Don’t count on it… Wait, why do you know my section?”
“Checked the host stand when I got here. Wanted to know when you were busy and had valid reasons not to be talking to me.” His grin was sly enough to make her fury grow.
“Any reason not to talk to you is valid,” she snarled, stalking away.
Thankfully, in her years of waitressing work, Aullie had learned to fake a good mood and quickly. She cheerfully greeted her table, a foursome of preppy college boys and checked their IDs. When she brought them their pitcher of beer, she could feel the warmth of Weston’s gaze upon her back, which she purposely turned to him. It sent a shiver down her spine. Despite being thoroughly creeped out that he was there, she was actually a little flattered that he cared enough to show up.
The Friday evening drinking crowd began to filter in. The more bodies that packed into the tiny bar, the hotter it got and the muggy air began to smell more like body odor and beer.
Cooks yelled at each other in the kitchen while fryers sizzled, waitresses bickered and shoved each other around. The bar was in chaos but Aullie was actually grateful, not only for the distraction from Weston but from the high-income potential.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Weston typing swiftly on his phone with his thick brows furrowed. His glass was empty, save for a thick layer of tannish foam. Hoping that whatever he was doing wouldn’t be easily interrupted. Aullie stopped next to the booth, arms laden with dirty dishes, with sweat beginning to bead under her thick bangs.
On her next trip to the computer, Aullie printed a tab and slapped the flimsy scrap of paper down next to Weston’s finished beer.
Before she could walk away, he asked, “What’s this?”
“Your tab,” she replied. “Shouldn’t you be going?”
