13. Jules
CHAPTER 13
Jules
For the record, I’m so over people.
I trudged all the way here on the subway, sandwiched between a guy picking his nose and a woman with her earbuds in, belting out her own private concert, completely unaware of how loud her banshee screeching actually was.
By the time I reach the restaurant, the stench of sweat and cheap cologne clings to me like a bad decision. My skin feels sticky, my hair’s a disaster, and my clothes have somehow absorbed an extra layer of grime.
Taylor better be off picking wedding venues with her future husband, because I am never, ever taking another one of her shifts again. Unless, of course, I decide to quit the Herald —a thought that makes my stomach turn, considering it’s my first official writing gig, and I’ve only been at it for, oh, no time at all.
I slip on my apron and glance at the board. Next to my name are a few table numbers and the dreaded initials: V.I.P. I let out a long, deflated breath. With my luck, I’m in for a night of Very Important Pricks .
Peeking out the door, I spot two VIP tables. One is blissfully empty, but the other is surrounded by a group of rich, entitled jerks. I don’t need to guess—they made it obvious when Lisa walked by, miming obscene gestures like grabbing her ass and licking their lips.
The sight of them makes me want to run straight to the shower. I can already hear Taylor’s voice in my head, reminding me to be on time or risk getting stuck with the worst tables. Which is exactly what’s happened.
Not my fault. Five measly minutes late because the subway doors refused to open, and now this is my punishment. What was I supposed to do, kick down the doors? Though, honestly, I was tempted. And I might’ve even cheered on the booger guy who actually tried to.
So, thanks to that fiasco, I’m now stuck serving the biggest snobs in the city. Lady Luck, you’re a ruthless bitch.
The eight of them are loud and obnoxious, snapping their fingers for attention and bombarding me with questions.
The guy with slicked-back hair and a Rolex taps his menu. Let’s call him “How’s the medium-well steak? Pink, or too pink?” he asks, his eyes narrowing as if sniffing out some deep, dark steak secret I’m hiding.
“Pink,” I reply confidently, forcing a smile.
Then there’s the woman with perfectly manicured nails and trendy designer clothes—I’ve mentally named her Chanel. She wrinkles her nose. “Is the lobster fresh?”
“Yes,” I reply, because honestly, it’s all subjective, right?
“How fresh?” she demands, as if I should personally assure her that I, myself, plucked it from the coast this very morning .
I’m not sure what the right answer is here, so I go with, “Fresh as a TikTok trend.”
Which is when Mr. Trust Fund with the preppy sweater draped over his shoulders asks, “Is it organic and cage-free?”
“Cage-free? The lobster?”
“Yes,” he says like a duh. “The lobster.”
I barely manage to keep a straight face on that one because, yeah, it’s definitely cage-free now—freed straight from its captivity to land on your plate.
“The chef assures me it is,” I say, delivering the line I’ve been mercilessly trained to recite.
After an hour of enduring their endless demands and haughty attitudes, half the dishes come back untouched, with the lot of them insisting on refunds. Fine by me—those plates become the ones we all snack on because management is too cheap to comp our meals.
And no matter how much their snooty expressions and dismissive waves make my blood boil, I let it roll off me like glitter off a preschooler. The food here is freaking divine.
I snack on a few truffle fries, feeling that familiar nervous anticipation as I finally check the tab. In an industry where tips are everything, this is the moment of truth—the deciding factor on whether I can restock my stash of Ben and Jerry’s or go without for the next week.
Instead of a tip, these yahoos scribbled, “Buy low, sell high” on the receipt.
Ya know, I don’t like wishing bad things on people, but I wouldn’t mind if their expensive Italian loafers crossed paths with a little gum. Or better yet, a steaming pile of dog poo.
By the end of my shift, my nerves are fried, and my feet feel like they’re about to fall off. I’m beyond ready for this to be over. I grab my bag and make a beeline for the door.
“Jules!” It’s Massimo, the manager.
I pretend not to hear him and hurry to the exit when he suddenly jumps in front of me, blocking my path. “You’re not leaving, are you?” There’s a hint of desperation in his voice—a certain pleading quality that I’ve fallen for too many times before.
I pause, biting back a grin as I knot my coat tighter. “Massimo, my shift is over. You’ll have to beg someone else this time.”
“I have a mega-important VIP, and three waitresses are practically at blows over who gets to serve them.”
I glance back, and sure enough, three girls are locked in a frenzied standoff, their faces flushed, postures damned near feral. It’s like watching a pack of rabid fans vying for a chance to slather sunblock on their favorite ripped celebrity.
One girl clutches a bottle of champagne to her chest like it’s a lifeline, her eyes wild. “I saw them first, Becky! You always get the good tables!”
Becky, practically bouncing on her toes, grabs the other end of the bottle and tugs. “You already had your chance. Remember the Esquire model?”
“That was months ago,” the first one snaps, tightening her grip as they start a full-on tug-of-war over the bottle.
The third, hands on her hips and glaring daggers, steps in closer. “Both of you, back off! The customer is always right, and he smiled right at me!”
I watch the three of them wrestling with the champagne, barely holding back a laugh. “Sheesh. Who’s coming? ”
“Roxana Voss is doing an interview with some exclusive VVVIP in the private dining room—Brandon something, I think—and if I let those three at him, they’re liable to serve him his food on their bare-naked asses.”
Their voices are rising, and the air is thick with the tension of a gladiator-level girl fight about to break out.
Unfazed, I pat Massimo on the shoulder. “Looks like you’ve got more than enough help for one table. I really don’t see a problem.”
“I’ll give you half off your dinner,” he pleads, desperation practically seeping from his pores.
Half off? He’d crap a brick if he knew we all had our fills of the last VVVIP’s leftovers. “Polite pass,” I say and breeze past him.
“If you don’t do this, you and Taylor are both fired.”
I stop dead in my tracks and whip around to face him. “You can’t do that.”
“Desperate times,” he replies, his tone a mix of apologetic and firm.
Oh, this guy. Me getting fired is one thing, but I can’t get my best friend fired. And despite her current jet-setting lifestyle, for the most part, Taylor actually needs this job.
I let out a frustrated sigh. “Fine. One last table,” I grumble, reluctantly shrugging off my coat.
“Table 23. And hurry, they’ve been waiting.”
Table 23 is technically the private-though-not-so-private dining room. It’s more like a slightly elevated platform two steps up from the main dining area, with full view from the kitchen.
He yanks the champagne bottle from the girls and thrusts it into my hands. “This costs a thousand dollars a bottle. Don’t drop it.”
Don’t drop it? I’m a total klutz. Has he met me?
I clutch the bottle tightly and head toward Table 23, mentally prepping for whatever awaits. But then I see the VIP in the flesh. There she is—Roxana Voss, and she’s not alone.
Hmm . Massimo mentioned a table for two. Funny, because I count two adults, though all I can see of the man is his back, plus one, two, three kids. And another chair. Not sure if they’re waiting on someone or if there’s a dog in that oversized purse, but whatever.
As I close in on the table, I can already sense it—this guy is going to be the Very Important Prick of the century, and I haven’t even seen his face yet.
His voice cuts through the restaurant, loud, demanding, and grating on my last damn nerve. “Can we get some water here, please?”
Seriously.
With the bottle in one hand, I grab a pitcher of water with the other and head over, mentally counting to ten. I let out a long, meditative breath, reminding myself that Taylor is definitely fired if I dump this pitcher of ice water all over Mr. Personality’s enormous head.