Chapter 8
“I hate it here,” I mutter under my breath as I place my tray on the serving station, waiting for the bartender to finish pouring the drinks I just punched into the register.
Despite it being Christmas Eve, the casino is packed with entitled and obnoxious assholes. I don’t think I’ve ever been hit on or propositioned as many times as I have during this shift.
And I’ve only been here an hour.
It’s the last place I want to be right now. I’d much rather be celebrating Christmas Eve with Maggie. I should be celebrating Christmas Eve with Maggie.
Instead, Frank threatened to fire me if I didn’t show up for my shift. Claimed he needed all hands on deck with the hotel at full occupancy.
I’m pretty sure he scheduled me as punishment for all the times I’ve been late for my shift, considering he knows I have a daughter. Being here on Christmas Eve is definitely making me give serious consideration to Beckham’s proposal. But can I really marry him and survive with my heart intact, knowing the power he once held over me?
The power I fear he still holds.
“It’s a jungle out there tonight, isn’t it?” Ivy exhales as she joins me at the serving station. “At least the tips make working on a holiday worth it.” She takes a few bills off her tray and shoves them into the top of her dress.
“I’d rather be home, to hell with the tips.”
“Why are you working?” She fully faces me. “Shouldn’t you be home with your kid?”
“Frank said he’d fire me if I called out. And since I’m on the verge of being homeless as it is, I had no choice but to come in.”
“What a prick.”
“Tell me about it.” I roll my eyes as I set my drink order on my tray. “Not only do I have to miss out on reading The Night Before Christmas to Maggie and listen to her excitedly talk about Santa, I won’t get home until four, so I’ll probably only be able to sleep for a few hours before she’ll be up.” I push out a breath. “I’d love to quit this job.”
“You just need to find a sugar daddy to pay all your bills.” She playfully nudges me. “There’s a casino full of prospective applicants, if you know what I mean.”
“Tempting, but no.”
“Suit yourself,” Ivy shoots back. “But if agreeing to be some rich dude’s mistress means I don’t have to work, I’d jump on that in a heartbeat. But you do you.”
“I always do,” I sing as I carefully balance my tray and head back into “the suck”, as I call the casino floor.
Machines whirl and clang as excited voices bellow through the space, the only evidence of it being Christmas Eve the decorations and pop remakes of carols being piped in through the sound system.
With a congenial expression plastered on my face, I skirt through the crowd toward the blackjack tables and drop off drinks for the men spending their evening gambling instead of with their families. After removing several abandoned glasses, some still full, I head toward the next table, where a bunch of rowdy men gamble.
“Can I get you gentlemen anything to drink?” I ask in a sweet voice after the dealer finishes a round.
Their eyes shift from the cards to me, their gazes lingering on my body like predators sizing up their prey.
“Are you on the menu?” a tall blond slurs with a suggestive waggle of his brow.
“I’ll come back when you know what you’d like to drink,” I reply with forced patience, ignoring his comment. I start to turn, but his voice stops me.
“How about an Irish redhead?” he asks, as if it’s the first time I’ve heard that.
I should be used to this by now. After all, these assholes are no different from all the other men I’ve dealt with since taking this job.
But tonight, it hits differently. Maybe it’s because I should be home with Maggie, setting all the presents beneath the tree. Or because Frank’s a prick for scheduling me to work when I requested the night off months ago. Or because I can’t stop thinking about Beckham’s proposal.
Whatever the reason, I’m more irritated than usual tonight, dangerously close to snapping.
“No. That’s not it. Not in the mood for that.” The heat of his eyes creeping over every inch of my body makes my stomach churn. “How about a redhead in bed? Think you can get me that?”
With every word he speaks, my smile fades, my grip on my tray tightening. Especially when his friends only seem to encourage his behavior, not a single decent one among them.
“Nope. Nope. That’s not it, either. As much as I’d love a redhead in bed, I think I’m in the mood for something different.” All the amusement disappears from his tone as he moves toward me.
I abruptly step back, my eyes briefly locking with the dealer, who raises a brow in question. I shake my head, telling him I can handle myself. No doubt Frank would find my inability to handle an unruly customer as another reason to fire me.
“Do you know what would make my Christmas really memorable?” He glances back at his friends, his smirk growing. Then he returns his gaze to mine. “A redheaded slut.” He licks his lips as he rakes his stare down my frame. “From where I’m standing, you most definitely fit the bill.”
My heartbeat echoes in my ears as every muscle in my body goes rigid with anger. Normally, I’d walk away and let security know about a problem customer. That’s what I’m supposed to do.
But I’ve seen how these situations go. Nine times out of ten, they’re given a warning and continue their entitled behavior, hitting on more cocktail waitresses as if it’s their right. I’m so sick of everyone thinking they’re better than me. Of being taken advantage of. Of not standing up for myself.
I’m so tired of this fucking job.
When he runs a finger down my arm, all my self-control flies out the window. Without hesitation, I grab one of the full glasses off my tray and fling its contents onto his smug face.
All traces of his pompous attitude instantly disappear and he glowers at me.
“You… Do you have any idea who I am?”
“You’re a fucking asshole. That’s who,” I snap back, adrenaline coursing through my veins. “You have no right to touch me or anyone else.”
He laughs dismissively, wiping the liquor out of his eyes. “Get off your high horse. You honestly think I’m going to buy that? I’m more than aware of how all you girls supplement your income by spreading your legs for the right price. So tell me… What’s yours?”
My blood boiling, I reel back, delivering a harsh slap across his face with my open palm. “Fuck you.”
The seconds stretch as he stares at the carpet, massaging his cheek. Then he turns his malice-filled eyes on me. “You’ll regret this.”
“Actually, I don’t think I will. Because that felt really good.” I spin on my heels and hurry away, feeling everyone’s stare burning my skin as I go, the casino floor seeming unusually silent.
Probably because the thunderous beating of my heart is infinitely louder.
I’ve never done anything like this before. Up until now, I’ve just let these assholes get away with doing and saying whatever they want so I could keep this shitty job. Not anymore.
As I approach the serving area, Frank barrels down the hallway like an enraged bull, his dark eyes on fire and face so red I’m convinced he’s about to keel over and have a heart attack.
“Haley!” he roars, pointing an accusatory finger at me. “My office. Now!”
“That won’t be necessary.” I shove my tray at him, a surge of defiance washing over me. “I quit.”
His gaze widens. “You…what?”
“Isn’t that what you threatened me with if I didn’t come in tonight? Well, I’m done with this shitty job. Done letting asshole men ogle and grab at me, which your actions seem to encourage. Done with your sexist comments. So fuck off, Frank.”
I storm past him, my entire body vibrating with fury as I hurry into the break room and quickly collect all of my things.
It’s not until I’m driving away that the reality of what I just did hits me, unease gnawing at my stomach.
I quit my job.
I quit the job that provides the majority of my income.
I quit my job when I’m on the brink of having nowhere to live.
As I come to a stoplight, I glance into the rearview mirror, the lights of the casino visible. For a split second, I debate turning around and begging for my job back.
But I hate that job. Have been wanting to quit for a while now.
As skeptical as I am about the whole manifestation thing, I can’t help but wonder if the universe had something to do with my actions tonight.
I asked the universe for a solution to my problem. Seconds later, Beckham Lawrence knocked on my door with a proposition that would solve both of our problems.
Maybe this is the universe giving me a push in that direction.