13. Rogue
“Gimme whatever you’ve got on tap that doesn’t cost an arm and a leg.”
It takes every ounce of willpower I possess not to roll my eyes at the man standing at the bar. When Waylon called to tell me that two staff members called off, I knew my night was gonna be long. I just didn’t realize I’d be dealing with douchebags.
Par for the course at a bar.
“Here ya go,” I say as I slide a full mug of brew across the bar. “That’ll be six bucks.”
He tosses down the exact amount before lifting the mug and walking away. Tips aren’t expected but damn, it’s shitty when one isn’t left.
The rest of the night goes by quickly. Purgatory is slammed, and the drunks are out in full force. Grim has tossed four patrons out on their asses to prevent arguments from getting out of hand, and Skye and Waylon have been filling orders non-stop. RaRa hasn’t had two seconds to himself, and Connie is running around the place like a chicken with its head cut off.
“Last call!” I shout.
Twenty minutes later, the last customers are leaving. Once the door is locked, I send Grim home.
“Holy shit,” RaRa says after walking out of the kitchen to join the rest of us. “We haven’t had a night like that in a while. And Apple wasn’t even singing tonight.”
I’m beat so rather than engage in conversation, I issue orders.
“RaRa, get the kitchen cleaned up and head out. Connie and Skye, once things out here are back in order, you can go. Waylon, you and I will count down the registers.”
We all dive into our tasks. Waylon counts down the register he used while I handle mine and Skye’s. My drawer is spot on, but Skye’s is short… very short.
“What’s up?” Waylon asks, having noticed the scowl on my face.
“I don’t know.”
I recount the money and get the same result.
“It’s short, isn’t it?” Waylon demands.
“Connie and RaRa, head on out,” I command instead of replying to Waylon.
“Shit,” Waylon mutters.
Five minutes pass before I’m alone with Skye and my manager, and with each passing second, my ire continues to rise.
Before I can begin questioning Skye, Waylon dives in.
“You’re short again,” he snaps. “What the hell, Skye?”
Skye’s eyes widen as she darts her gaze from him to me and back again. “I don’t know why it would be,” she says. “It was busy tonight, but nothing out of the ordinary happened.”
“Something happened because your register is short by almost three hundred dollars,” I explain.
“How much did you make in tips?” Waylon asks.
Skye reaches into her pocket and pulls out a wad of cash. She hands it to me, and I count it.
“There’s over four hundred bucks here.”
“What?” Waylon barks and takes money out of his pocket. “I only made a little over a hundred.”
“I’m good at my job,” Skye states, annoyance flashing in her eyes. “Can I help it if people tip me well?”
“I’m damn good, too,” Waylon insists. “There’s no way you made that much more than me.” He whirls toward me. “How much did you make?”
“Excuse me?”
Waylon takes a deep breath. “I’m just trying to prove a point. How much did you get in tips?”
I take the money out of my cut and count. “Almost two hundred.”
“See!” Waylon exclaims. “She made more than you, and you own the joint.”
She also has tits.
I bite back that particular retort. “Just because customers seem to like her more than us doesn’t mean anything.”
But something is going on.
“Rogue, it’s always her drawer that’s short,” Waylon insists. “It makes no?—”
“You both realize I’m standing right here,” Skye snaps. “Stop talking about me like I’m not.”
I take off my glasses and rub the bridge of my nose. “This is getting us nowhere. Let’s just all take a breather and start over.”
“I don’t think so.” Skye turns on her heel and storms toward the break room. “I’m tired of being questioned about shit that has nothing to do with me.”
“Wait a minute,” I bark as I follow her. “We can talk about this.”
“What’s there to talk about?” she demands. “You all seem to have your minds made up about me.”
I catch up with her just as she reaches her locker. She works the combination lock with jerky movements, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s so upset because she’s being accused of something she didn’t do or if it’s because she’s guilty as hell.
But no accusations were actually made.
When she yanks open her locker door, metal slams against metal. And when I glance over her shoulder and spot the stack of cash she lifts from the top of her bag, disappointment and rage war in my system.
“Care to fucking explain that?”