Abyss (Elements of Rapture Book 4)

1. Kavi

KAVI

From: Kavi specialk_jain@gmail.com>

To: Nathan nathans@gmail.com>

Date: June 2 4:43 PM

Subject: The Waiting Place . . .

First day of work. Wish me luck.

And yes, I know what you’re going to say. I haven’t worked in the food industry before. I haven’t worked in any industry before. But I just need something to tide me over for three months. Then I can do the thing I’ve been waiting my whole life to do.

Speaking of, I haven’t painted in two months. I can practically see your eyes popping out.

You know how I get without the smell of paint after a while. I just haven’t had the time! Last month was crazy leading up to graduation, and this month I was trying to find a damn job. How many places did I tell you I interviewed at? Fourteen?

And I doubt I’ll have the energy after this shift. From what I could tell, they’re short-staffed and overworked. I’ll be lucky to have the energy to brush my teeth before going to bed.

Anyway, I’ll tell you how it all goes. Here’s to hoping my tray skills are stronger than my basketball skills.

Or my tennis skills.

Or my dance skills.

Shut up. And stop laughing.

xoxo

-Special K

I’ve only messed up twice tonight.

Not too shabby, in my humble opinion. Though, I have no one else to weigh in and tell me if that’s normal on the first day except my boss, Arlo, since they’re all busy running around like chickens with their heads cut off. Arlo doesn’t look impressed.

For a high-end restaurant, I would have expected more staff and fewer delays, but hey, what do I know?

Suits me just fine since I’m not much of a talker, anyway.

Besides, it was just two plates delivered to the wrong table, and an eggs Florentine instead of eggs Benedict sent to the guy at table seven, who still seems to be holding a grudge against me, what with his red-faced glare and exaggerated frown. Apparently, he’s very particular about having spinach in his eggs.

As I see it, people who order eggs for dinner are psychopaths, anyway.

“No, Arlo, I’m not serving his table again. The guy’s an asshole,” Stella whines, her expression a mix of agony and a plea as she glances across the room at a table in the back. She’s the server I shadowed last week for an evening, who’s been working here for a year.

Arlo keeps his eyes fixed on the computer screen at the waitstand while addressing her. “He’s also part owner of the establishment you’re employed by, in case you forgot.”

“Then have someone else serve him. See if you can maybe free up Kevin. Or, I don’t know, you can do it, but I won’t. No tip is worth dealing with a man who has a pitchfork for a tongue.” Her gaze narrows when she finds me placing some extra menus in the designated cubby. “Have Kavi do it.”

Gee thanks, Stella! Why wouldn’t I want a verbal beatdown on my first day from Mr. Temperamental Dung beetle over there?

Arlo takes an exasperated breath. “Kevin already has too many tables, and Kavi’s too new—”

Agreed. Kavi’s too new.

“It’s not rocket science,” Stella interrupts. “He might be nicer if he knows she’s new.” She wraps her arms around her chest. “Arlo, I stayed back to help you fold the silverware way past my shift yesterday. I even came in on my day off last week when we were short-staffed. The least you can—”

“Fine.” Arlo’s jaw shifts slightly before he blinks at me without an ounce of the empathy I’m starting to feel for myself, given Stella’s high opinion of our boss and overlord. “Kavi, take table sixteen—the booth in the back with the two gentlemen. Make sure to take a bottle of the limited-edition vintage Dom Perignon. It’s what he likes.”

“Yeah, because apparently, a fourteen-hundred-dollar bottle of champagne is just a bottom-of-the-barrel, budget-friendly choice for the rabid beast to keep his snarl at bay,” Stella mumbles with a tightened jaw before replacing it with a mile-wide fake smile when a family of four walks to the stand.

I hesitate for a few seconds before finally walking toward the bar while Stella directs the family to the other side of the room.

While the bartender looks for the bottle, I run my hand down my black skirt. It’s on the shorter side, well above my knees, and tighter around my waist and ass than I remember it to be, but it’ll do. I’m just happy I found it in the pile of clothes in my closet I was waiting to donate. With less than a hundred dollars in my bank account, it would have killed me if I had to spend any of it on a skirt.

My normal attire consists of bargain-basement and thrift-store finds. Occasionally, I’ll rummage through my mom’s closet, but since most of her things are about a decade or two out of style, I’m usually stuck with jeans, some sort of graphic T-shirt, and my trusty old pair of Doc Martens. It’s a win when neither my jeans nor my T-shirt have holes in them, but a purposeful fashion statement when they do.

If only the popular rich bitches from high school could see me now.

Taking a calming breath, I walk over to the table in the back with the bottle of champagne that costs more than my car, two flutes, and a couple of ice waters on a tray.

One of them, a younger man—likely a few years older than me, and also of Indian descent—stops speaking when I approach, turning to me with a smile. I set the waters and empty flutes in front of each person and regard the other . . .

Oh . . .

The other is . . . He’s . . .

Am I having a brain aneurysm? Why am I losing my grasp on my vocabulary when I should be composing sonnets about this guy’s jawline, writing dissertations about his ridiculously chiseled face? Seriously, the man looks like he was carved by angels themselves.

And I haven’t even moved past his face.

He doesn’t grace me with an acknowledgement—not even sparing me a look—so I continue my perusal down to his smooth, pink, and oh so kissable lips. They’re surrounded by salt-and-pepper stubble that looks more than a few days old, but not because he hasn’t had the time to shave. No, it’s intentional.

Everything about this man—from the way his obscenely broad shoulders look both tense and relaxed, to the way he continues to stare ahead, watching me in his periphery, to the way his jaw ticks subtly—is intentional. Purposeful and confident.

He doesn’t have the time to be casual or spontaneous.

My eyes continue down, past his unbuttoned collar, settling on the divot at the base of his neck. There should be no reason for a divot to cause my vagina to pulse like she’s under duress, but here we are, fluttering and pulsing like she’s about to take flight.

His biceps are basically trying to rip out of his suit, his thick forearms—one banded with a watch that probably costs as much as a house—peeking out at the end of his sleeve. His thick fingers, attached to massive hands, are steepled on the table almost as if he’s trying to refrain from tapping out a bored rhythm.

I’ve just dropped my eyes to get a glimpse of his wide thighs—How much time does this man spend in the gym?—when a cleared throat has them landing back on that divot. I mean, snapping to his lips. Er, his eyes.

His very sharp, very irritated blue-gray eyes. “You’re new.”

“Uh . . . um,” I stammer, trying to come to. How long was I out? Five minutes?Five hours? Jesus Christ, did I fall into a coma? I place the tray against the bottom of the booth and wrap my hand around the champagne bottle. “Yes. Um, I’m Kavi. I’ll be your server today—”

“Where’s Stella?” His deep voice, along with his two-word interruption, like a veiled threat, causes my stomach to dip. “I don’t like dealing with new staff.”

“She’s, um . . .” I look around, as if perhaps Stella might materialize out of thin air, before wiping my sweaty hand over my skirt. “She’s serving other customers. But I can assure you, I’m perfectly capable of—”

“Then tell Arlo I’ve asked for Kevin.”

“It’s fine, Hudson.” The other man waves his hand, speaking to Mr. Personality. “Stop giving the poor girl grief.”

“I’m not here to be a guinea pig for new staff, Dev. I expect prompt and exemplary service,” he snaps.

Jesus. Asshole much?

I’m not sure how I do it, given my racing pulse and shaky legs, but I throw my shoulders back, tilting my head up. Mom always says that when faced with fear—or, in this case, a fire-breathing dragon with a stick up his butt—half the battle can be won with good posture.

“I assure you, the service will be everything you expect.” His narrowed glare at my response has me withering slightly before I look at the bottle in my hand, having no recollection of how it got there. I lift it to show him the label. “Do you . . . I mean, would you care for champagne?”

He doesn’t respond, going back to looking straight ahead, but the other man—Dev, I believe the snarling lunatic referred to him as—gives me the same pitying look I’d be giving myself if I could, sliding his flute forward. “I’d love some.”

I take a stilling breath, hoping my apprehension regarding the bottle in my hand doesn’t show. I haven’t opened a champagne bottle before, but I’ve seen people do it plenty of times. Honestly, how hard could it be? I’m sure those catastrophic videos online where the cork goes flying through a window or up into a lightbulb are probably just exaggerated scenarios for comic relief.

I look to my right—no windows close by—before I look up, feeling better about the fact that there are no lightbulbs above us, either.

It’s going to be fine. I’m just all up in my head about it. It’s really not that big a deal.

Pulling the wrapper off the top, I smile with feigned confidence at the two men awaiting their drinks.

Well, I smile at one.

The other can catch the next train to hell, if I have anything to say about it.

Still, my traitorous eyes brush over the way his hands flex, not missing the lack of a wedding ring on his finger. That doesn’t mean he’s not married, but let’s be honest, who the hell would marry his grouchy ass?

The gray at his temples and in his stubble, and the age lines at the corners of his eyes say he’s not young—probably in his mid-forties—but there’s also a ruggedness around his features, like he’s spent time in the sun or working with his hands.

Pressing my thumb to the top of the cork inside the wire cage, I untwist the wire tab, taking that moment to breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth as discreetly as possible.

Shoving the bottom of the bottle inside my abdomen to keep it steady, I take off the wire cage and place both thumbs under the cork. I push with all my might when I hear one of the men murmur hesitantly—something about never taking off the wire cage—before I feel the cork release and go flying with a pop!

As if I’m watching it in slow motion, the cork goes soaring, connecting with the gorgeous grump’s forehead, eliciting an oof! out of him before bouncing off to the side.

My eyes widen in horror as his hand flies to his head, and I quickly put the champagne bottle on the table and lean toward him, trying to form an apology while hoping to . . . hoping to do something. Anything!

But in my haste, with my heart hammering like a thunderstorm, I accidentally topple over his ice water, too.

He huffs audibly, trying but failing to move aside inside the booth, as cold liquid sloshes over the table and into his lap. Wet spots decorate his white button-down shirt, and his jaw tightens so hard, I’m afraid he’s going to break it.

Time freezes right along with my breath and my heart as his shocked eyes sear my face. A red welt blooms in the middle of his perfectly symmetrical forehead, and given the way his hands are now fisted on the table, I can tell his mild irritation has shifted to barely-controlled rage.

“Oh my God!” My cheeks burn as I stammer out an apology, barely hearing the other man snicker. “I’m so, so sorry!”

I reach for the black napkin around his silverware, sending his fork flying across the table, before bending over and patting the ridiculous amount of water pooled on his lap.

My brain tells me to get a hold of myself—to stop patting his fucking crotch!—but it’s as if my body is decoupled from its commands. My eyes prick and my face burns at a thousand degrees as blood rushes through my ears.

I’m not going to cry, I’m not going to cry.

A calloused hand wraps around my wrist, halting my movement, and if I wasn’t heating up with embarrassment, I’d actually have goosebumps fly across my skin. But as it stands, I feel nothing but mortification.

His gaze softens as he examines my pooled eyes, and for a moment, it seems like the edge of his anger fades, but all too soon his nostrils flare again. “Stop.”

“God, I–I’m so sorry.” My eyes snap to the red welt on his forehead. “Are you okay? I didn’t mean—”

I lift my hand instinctively to touch his head—Please, God, save me from myself—when his snarl squeezes past his lips. “I said, stop.” At my nod, with a stray tear dropping onto his wet hand, he releases my wrist. “Send Arlo here at once.”

I rise from his lap, still nodding with my shoulders slumped. So much for good posture and winning battles against dragons or whatnot.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, wanting to shut myself inside the nearest bathroom and live out the rest of my days there.

His words hit my back as I’m rushing to the waitstand, avoiding the sympathetic gazes of everyone watching. “Oh, and Ms. Kavi? That’s about all the incompetence this restaurant can handle for one day. Please turn in your badge and clock out. This will be your last day working here.”