Deviant Obsession

Chapter 3

Rhea

My feet throb with every step as I balance three plates along my forearm, weaving between packed tables at Crave. The Saturday night dinner rush hit an hour ago and hasn't let up since. Sweat beads at my temples despite the aggressive air conditioning that has my arms pebbled with goosebumps under my black uniform shirt.

"Medium-rare ribeye?" I call out to the table of four, maintaining my practiced smile as I distribute their entrées. The businessman in the expensive suit barely glances up from his phone, just waving vaguely at the empty space in front of him.

Three more tables need their orders taken, table twelve is flagging me down for their check, and my newest table hasn't even gotten water yet. I'm running on autopilot, my customer service voice growing more strained by the minute.

"Hey, got a minute?" Jenna catches my elbow as I rush past the service station, her usually perfectly styled blonde hair starting to frizz around her face. "Fair warning, a party of six just requested a table in your section. Sorry girl, I know you're already slammed."

I blow out a frustrated breath, quickly calculating how to juggle yet another table. "Thanks for the heads up. I just need to drop these drinks off and I'll get to them."

"May the tips be ever in your favor," she sing-songs, already turning away to deal with her own busy tables.

I'm grabbing a fresh round of water glasses when movement by the host stand catches my eye. My heart plummets straight through the floor, taking my stomach with it.

Dean.

He's leading a pack of his frat brothers through the restaurant like a villain with his brainless minions, all of them dressed like they just stepped out of a clothing catalogue. I recognize the oh-so-charming Brett trailing behind him, but the others are strangers to me. They're all wearing nearly identical expressions of entitled amusement as they survey the dining room.

"Right this way, gentlemen," our hostess, Georgia, chirps, grabbing menus as she saunters toward a table in a way that makes it obvious she hopes they’re all watching the way she sways her hips. My silent prayers go unanswered as she guides them directly into my section, settling them at the large round booth in the corner.

Of course.

Dean sprawls across the curved bench seat like it's his personal throne, one arm stretched along the back. His pristine white henley pulls tight across his chest as he lounges there, managing to look both perfectly relaxed and completely in control. The sight of him sends shards of ice raking through my veins.

His eyes lock onto me the instant I approach their table, that increasingly familiar smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "Well, what do you know? Looks like we got lucky tonight, boys. The service here is already exceeding expectations."

I bite my tongue hard enough to taste copper as his friends snicker. Brett, at least, has the decency to look slightly uncomfortable, studying his menu with excessive interest.

"Welcome to Crave," I manage, proud that my voice stays even and that I’ve resisted the urge to smash a glass over his head…for now. "Can I start you all off with some drinks?"

"Actually..." Dean drawls, making a show of examining his menu. "I have some questions about the wine list. Would you mind walking me through your recommendations? In detail?"

My fingers tighten around my notepad while Brett and another crew member exchange knowing looks. This is going to be a very long night.

I launch into my rehearsed spiel about our wine selection, hyper-aware of Dean's gaze traveling over me as I speak, head to toe. He interrupts every few seconds with increasingly specific questions about vintage and region, clearly enjoying watching me scramble to recall the answers from our mandatory wine training.

"Fascinating," he purrs when I finally finish. "You really know your stuff, don't you? But I think I'll just have a beer. Whatever's on draft."

The urge to dump a pitcher of ice water in his lap is almost overwhelming. However, instead, I paste on my brightest fake smile and turn to take the rest of their drink orders, painfully conscious of Dean's eyes following my every movement.

This is my job. I can handle one terrible table, even if that table includes the last person on earth I want to see right now. I just need to stay professional and get through it. But as I hurry away to grab their drinks, Dean's low laughter floating after me, a sick feeling settles in my gut.

Something tells me he’s only getting started.

I chance a glance back over my shoulder to find him still watching me, that predatory gleam in his eyes making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. He raises his empty water glass in a mock toast when he catches me looking, his smile sharp enough to cut a diamond.

What did I ever do to deserve this?

The question circles my mind as I start preparing their drink order with trembling hands. I've never done anything to him. I’ve never even met him before last night. Yet here he is, clearly delighting in making my life hell.

Is it just a coincidence that they’ve shown up here while I’m on shift? Or did he somehow track me down to carry on his fun from the party?

I suppose it doesn’t matter much, he’s here now. I square my shoulders and lift my chin, gathering my courage along with their drinks.

I can get through this. I have to.

"So, tell me more about the ribeye," Dean says, tapping his menu with one long finger after I’ve managed not to spill their drinks. "Is it grass-fed? Free-range? What's the marbling like? And does the chef butterfly it, or is it served as a traditional cut?"

I've been standing at their table for too long already, rattling off every detail about every dish they ask about. My other tables are starting to give me impatient looks, but I'm trapped here while Dean pretends to carefully consider his options.

"The ribeye is prime grade, grain-finished beef..." I begin again, but he cuts me off.

"What about the salmon? Wild-caught or farmed? What kind of wood do you use for smoking? And the accompanying vegetables… Are they seasonal? Local?"

The nameless underlings are barely containing their laughter now, clearly enjoying the show. Only Brett stares fixedly at his phone, shoulders tense.

"You know what?" Dean leans back, running a hand through his perfectly styled dark curls. "I think I'll keep it simple. Caesar salad. But I want the dressing on the side, no croutons, chicken grilled—not breaded, extra anchovies, and can you make sure they don't overdress the lettuce? Nothing worse than soggy romaine."

By the time I finish taking everyone else’s equally complicated orders, my notepad is a mess of modifications and special requests. I practically sprint to the kitchen, desperate to check on my other tables.

"Where've you been?" Jenna hisses as I pass. "Table fifteen's been trying to flag you down for ages."

"Sorry," I mutter, already heading their way. "Difficult customers."

I spend the next twenty minutes running between tables, apologizing for the delays and trying to catch up. Just as I'm starting to get back on track, I see Dean raising his hand to summon me again.

"Hate to bother you," he says with a smile that suggests the exact opposite, "but we're gonna need refills over here." He gestures at glasses that are still more than half full.

"Of course," I reply through gritted teeth. "I'll be right back."

This becomes a pattern. Every time I start to focus on another table, Dean finds a reason to demand my attention. More drinks. Extra napkins. Questions about ingredients. Each time, his friends get a little louder, a little messier, their laughter following me across the restaurant.

"Hey, waitress?" One of them—I think they called him Kyle—waves me over again. "This fork has a water spot on it. Could we get new silverware? All of us, just to be safe?"

I gather up their barely used utensils, acutely aware of Dean's glacial eyes raking over me as I bend to reach across the table. My hands start to feel a little clammy as I consider the view he might be getting down the front of my shirt.

When their food arrives, it only gets worse.

"This isn't quite what I was expecting," Dean announces, prodding at his salad with obvious distaste. "The lettuce isn't crisp enough. And I specifically asked for the dressing on the side."

"The dressing is on the side." I point to the small container beside his plate.

"Yes, but see how some of the leaves are slightly wet? That means they pre-tossed it in something. I can't eat this. Can we get a fresh one? And maybe this time make sure they understand what 'on the side' means?"

I take his plate, grateful for something to do with my hands other than slamming my fist into his smug face. In the kitchen, I watch the chef prepare a new salad, meticulously ensuring each leaf is bone dry. When I return, one of them has managed to spill salt all over the table and they’re using their napkins to push it onto the floor.

"Much better," Dean declares after inspecting the new salad from every angle. "You're really going above and beyond tonight. Such dedicated service." His mocking tone somehow makes the compliment sound like an insult. I turn away quickly, but not before I see him dump the entire dressing cup over the salad he just claimed needed to be perfectly dry.

The next hour sweeps me up in a tornado of increasingly ridiculous demands. They find problems with every dish. They need fresh drinks the moment their glasses drop below three-quarters full. They rearrange the table settings when I'm not looking so they can complain that things are missing.

Through it all, Dean maintains his facade of polite requests and casual smiles, but there's a cruel enjoyment in his eyes that seeps into my skin like venom. He's orchestrating this whole performance to get to me, and we both know it.

I'm starting to understand why they say the customer is always right—because sometimes, they have you completely at their mercy, and they’ll press their advantage to their black heart’s content.

"Oh no!" Dean's voice rings out with exaggerated concern as his nearly full pint of beer tips over. The liquid cascades across the table and directly down my front, soaking my black pants. The cold sensation makes me gasp and jump back, but not before the damage is done.

"So sorry about that, sweetheart," he drawls, sounding about as genuine as a Monopoly bill. "Guess you'll have to clean that up." His posse snickers as beer drips onto my shoes.

My hands shake as I grab napkins from the service station, dabbing pointlessly at my soaked uniform. The smell of beer clings to me as I return with cleaning supplies, getting down on my knees to wipe up the puddle forming under their table.

"While you're down there," Kyle calls out, "I dropped my fork earlier. Mind grabbing that too?"

My vision goes red, but I say nothing. I need this job to afford my rent.

One minute.

Two minutes.

Three minutes of scrubbing at their feet while they continue their conversation above me like I'm invisible. When I finally stand, my knees ache and my face burns with humiliation.

"I think we're ready for the check," Dean announces, stretching languidly. "Unless anyone wants dessert?"

The table looks like a war zone. Crumpled napkins, scattered silverware, bits of food ground into the tablecloth. They've managed to make more mess than an army of toddlers.

I print their check with shaking fingers—$247.82 for all their sent-back food and endless drinks. When I return to hand them the receipt, they've already stood up, leaving a scatter of bills on the table.

Two dollars. Two crumpled one-dollar bills and a note scrawled on a napkin:

Better service next time ;)

I stare at the insulting tip as they file past me, Dean pausing just long enough to catch my eye and smirk. The message is clear.

This was never about the service.

The moment they're gone, I flee to the back alley, bursting through the heavy fire escape into the cool night air. My hands won't stop trembling as I lean against the rough brick wall, taking deep breaths that smell like garbage and cigarette smoke.

Fury and shame war in my chest, making it hard to breathe. I've dealt with difficult customers before, but this was different. This was calculated cruelty, designed to make me feel powerless. And it worked. The door creaks open behind me, and I quickly straighten up, trying to compose myself before I start screaming.

"Hey, hon," Jenna's soft voice carries across the dark alley. "I saw what happened in there. Those guys were grade-A assholes."

"I just don't understand," I say, hating how my voice quivers. "I've never done anything to him. Why does he seem to hate me so much?"

Jenna steps closer, her pale hair gleaming in the security light. "Men like that get off on having power over women. Just keep your head high. Don't let him see that he got to you."

"I try not to, but..." I gesture helplessly at my beer-soaked uniform. "He knew exactly what he was doing. They all did."

"Want me to cover your tables while you clean up?" Jenna offers. "I think there are some spare pants in the lost and found."

I nod gratefully, pushing away from the wall on unsteady legs. As I follow her back inside, I can't stop wondering what I did to deserve Dean's singular attention.

Why me? What could I possibly have done to make him target me like this?

The questions circle my mind as I change into slightly-too-short black pants from the box of discarded and forgotten junk. I scrub my hands over my face, trying to banish the lingering feeling of helpless rage.

Three more hours of my shift to go, and then I can go home and try to forget the whole thing. But as I step back onto the floor, plastering on my professional smile, one thought keeps nagging at me…

This won't be the last time I see Dean.

Whatever sick game he's playing, he's clearly enjoying himself too much to let it end just yet.