Chapter Eleven
Phoebe
Three hours into my shift and Chelsea has released me alone in the wild. Mostly because the widowers have grown an interest in me—or rather my assets.
“It’s what we call Mr. Burke, Mr. Ortiz, and Mr. Cunningham,” Chelsea told me after she referred to three well-groomed, middle-aged men as “the widowers.” They’ve been huddled near the main dining’s stately fireplace, drinks in hand and the latest tech gadgets on their wrists.
I caught Mr. Burke staring at my ass after I replenished his liquor, and Chelsea slipped me a sympathetic look. “You’re new, and they like shiny new things. Once another girl comes in, it’ll pass.”
Yeah, it’ll pass on to her. Like some sort of new-girl parasite.
I’d rather just take one for the team, I guess. Let the parasite die with me. So when Chelsea tells me they’ve requested me as their server, I’m not as disgruntled as maybe I should be. It’s not like there’s a perk to serving Lusty Eyes over there.
They can’t tip me.
And no tips mean no extra cash for being ogled like a rare prime rib. The attention might feel better if I was suntanning on the bow of a fifty-foot yacht while sipping a strawberry daiquiri, not waiting hand and foot on the rich elite.
Hailey is busy taking drink orders from a cluster of older ladies, all in pickleball skirts and visors. Chelsea has been hovering over her like a momma bird worried about the weakest baby in the nest, but Hails is holding her own.
“Where are you from, sweetheart?” Mr. Burke asks me before I can make a quick escape.
“Nowhere really,” I answer vaguely with a sheepish smile. “I moved around a lot growing up. Can I get you anything else, Mr. Ortiz?”
“A new business partner,” he jokes with a chuckle.
We all laugh.
So funny. What a comedian. I smile through my grimace. “I wish I could help you there. I don’t have a mind for business.”
“That’s too bad.”
Mr. Burke downs his liquor in one swallow. “I’ll take another Cognac.” He switched from bourbon to Cognac thirty minutes ago.
I take his empty glass. “Delamain again? Or would you like to try something better?”
“Better?” He laughs, his brows slowly elevating in intrigue. “You know your Cognacs, Phoebe?”
“I love a smooth Cognac.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Rémy Martin XO. It’s not as sweet as what you’ve been drinking, but you might enjoy the flavor. It’s nutty.” The word rolls off my tongue like a red-hot suggestion, and the smarmy smile he produces makes my skin crawl.
Ugh, I hate myself for somewhat flirting with Mr. Lusty Eyes, and for what? I’m Miss Zero Tips McFool.
“That, then.” He stares right at my boobs, not even hiding anymore. “Let’s try it.” Now back to my eyes.
“I’ll be a minute.” I turn to leave.
“I’ll be here.”
I’m sure you will be. As I walk far away from the widowers, an uneasiness tosses my stomach. Not from being ogled. Not from me subconsciously flirting.
But because I lied to him.
For one, I can’t stand Cognac, and I didn’t recommend him another brand because I thought he’d enjoy it more. I just sold him one of the highest-priced Cognacs in the club’s stock. Just to empty his wallet. At least, from what I’ve seen so far, it’s one of the most expensive liquors. (I didn’t take a thorough inventory of every bottle.)
Those are just white lies, though.
It’s not like this was a pig in a poke.
Avoiding the widowers, I check on other guests for a few minutes. Refilling waters and asking if they’d like anything else. It’s not so bad. Some tables are fun to visit. Two posh, gorgeous women, who are newly married, smell like Chanel and lilies, and they give me an insider tip.
“You have to go to Victoria Arts Cinema.” Jasmine hangs on to my wrist with earnestness; a beautiful sapphire bracelet sparkles on her dark brown skin. “You’ll love the classics.”
“They just played Silence of the Lambs last week,” her wife, Traci, says. “Isn’t The Shining all next month, Jas?”
“Oh, it is!”
I might’ve mentioned that I’m a horror movie nut. I smile, a genuine one this time. “Maybe I will like it here.”
“This town has its downsides, trust me,” Jasmine says, letting go of my wrist. “But there is good in Victoria.”
I’m not good.
My smile teeters. “I should let you two get back to it. Anything else in the meantime?” I wish they’d give me a laundry list of drinks, but they’re easy and let me go without any new requests.
Maybe I really can do this.
The newfound confidence lifts me as I slip behind the mahogany bar and fill a pitcher of water.
“Please tell me you haven’t been giving them that water.” Katherine’s brittle tone stiffens me, and her horrified face comes into view.
Shit...
I frown. “It’s purified.” There’s a purifier on the faucet.
“Fiji water only,” she whispers under her breath, careful not to cause a scene, but luckily, the bar is situated farther away from the guests. “Chelsea should have told you this. Did she tell you?” Katherine is already whipping her head left and right, searching for Chelsea like a predator seeking its next meal.
I see Chelsea first. She’s dealing with a crotchety woman who keeps sending back her coffee. Too weak. Too hot. Not the right milk. I’ve heard it all in passing.
Katherine catches Chelsea’s attention, and while she beelines for us, I say quickly, “She did tell me.”
“She did?”
No.
“Yeah, I just must’ve forgotten. Sorry.”
Katherine glares at me like I’m a complete idiot. And I stifle the glower I’d love to send in return. It dies inside my burning lungs as I breathe.
“Tell her what?” Chelsea asks our boss, coming in late to the conversation.
“Fiji water stuff,” I mention. “I forgot you already told me.”
Chelsea’s lips part, and her fearful side-glance to Katherine is thankfully only noticed by me. I try to enlarge my eyes to tell her not to say the truth.
Lies can be good.
Lies can be helpful.
Right?
“You are exceedingly slow,” Katherine says to me.
Well, fuck you, too.
I drop my head like a battered employee and stare at my boots.
“She’s learning,” Chelsea interjects hastily. “I promise she has what it takes, Katherine. Just give her a week.”
Katherine purses her lips, taking the longest second to ponder my fate. She wants me roasting over a bonfire, and it is slightly uncomfortable knowing Katherine could eat me for dinner like a cooked hog.
Being on the bottom of the food chain sucks. People like Katherine thrive off making others feel inferior and small. And that sort of power is gross to me. It deserves some pushback or a big ugly consequence. Like being swindled out of a grand or two.
But no, I will never mention this to Rocky. I don’t need to hear him say, Told you so, like a kindergartener. Over my dead and charred body.
I’m quiet behind the mahogany bar. Submissive. Shrinking into myself, and Katherine seems satisfied enough.
Finally, she opens the fridge beneath the bar, revealing the middle shelves filled to the brim with Fiji bottles. “Do better,” she snaps at me.
I just nod.
With one last glare, she struts away.
“So no pitcher?” I ask Chelsea.
“I’m so sorry,” she apologizes in a whisper.
“It’s fine. I probably would’ve forgotten even if you told me.” I wouldn’t have. But I don’t want her to feel worse.
She’s already clutching her chest like her heart skipped several beats back there. “Thank you for covering for me with Katherine. She can be such a B-I-T-C-H.” She hands me water bottles out of the fridge.
“Is there a no-cursing policy, too? Because I’m going to fuck that rule in the asshole.” It’s a joke, but Chelsea lets out a wheezy laugh.
My face falls.
Okay, she’s anti-cursing.
“I just... don’t really like it, is all. It sounds...” She crinkles her nose.
“Right...” Unladylike. “I have brothers, so... habit.”
Oliver doesn’t even swear that much. It’s dumb that I’m blaming this on my brothers. It’s also dumb that Nova barely gets told to stop cursing like a drunken sailor, and yet, when I say fuck there might as well be fireworks and air horns alerting the world that PHOEBE GRAVES CURSED!
Truth about my adolescent-turned-adulthood foulmouthed behavior: Nova, Rocky, and I all rubbed off on each other.
Really, that’s what I like to believe. Some truths aren’t truths at all, but just what we let ourselves believe is real.
Chelsea motions to the water bottles in my clutch. “You fill the pitcher with the Fiji. The water purifier is used to wash produce.”
Good to know. I prepare Mr. Burke’s Cognac and then finish refilling the pitcher with only the best Fiji water.
“I need you to take table 6,” Chelsea says quietly.
“Okay,” I agree without looking up.
Chelsea zips away as the old lady flags her down for more coffee. I already know table 6 is in the sunroom. Details like that are easy to remember.
Cognac and pitcher on my tray, I push through a set of French doors and into a bright, marbled sunroom with chess sets, rattan couches, and bistro seating for couples. The air smells like lemongrass and honeysuckle.
When I see who’s seated at table 6, my feet glue to the floor.