Decisions We Make After Midnight Page 4

  I looked at the man. “And you, sir?”

  He also sighed and looked highly annoyed. “Whatever is usually in it is fine.”

  Well, then. Offering my brightest smile, I said, “I’ll give you a few minutes to look over our menu for the night. Be right back with those drinks.” Borrowed phrases I’d overheard Ada use, but the couple seemed to appreciate my exit.

  There were so many things about this job I didn’t understand. Starting with taking orders and followed quickly by using the computer. I had tried to just tell Miles the drink orders, which worked fine until the table needed to check out. Then I didn’t have a tab for them to pay because I’d been verbally handing over their orders to Miles.

  It had been a nightmare to try to remember everything and punch it into the computer after the fact. Especially when they wanted to split checks. And basically, nothing had been more embarrassing than when I’d had to go back to the table and ask them to re-tell me their drink orders so I could split it up correctly. I’d admitted it was my first day with hot red cheeks and trembling hands. But Ada told me after the fact that I should always blame the computer.

  “Everyone is predisposed to distrust technology,” she said. “Especially in the South. When in doubt, rally everyone around mutual hatred.”

  It had actually made sense. But I forced myself to start using the complicated order-taking system anyway. I wanted to avoid admitting mistakes to tables completely.

  Not like that was possible, though. Taking drink orders was hard. And if they added food to their ticket, it was even harder.

  Mainly because I kept forgetting to check on the food. The bar was busy and demanding. I bounced between tables as quickly as possible, but everything was new. It was too easy to forget to run back to the kitchen for orders.

  Ada was helping, but she was just as busy. Case had even had to walk plates of food out himself. I kept trying to remind myself that it was only my first night and that things would get easier, but I was winding myself up as the night went on. I could barely breathe by the time I made it back to the computer on the side of the bar. I punched in my code with shaking fingers and began scrolling through the massive drink list. I could hear a table behind me complain loudly about needing their drinks refilled, but my brain felt close to bursting.

  I swiped my finger over the list of Current Cocktails without finding a cosmo or a Manhattan. I searched the depths of the vodka page and beer page, whiskey page and wine page. But there was nothing to be found.

  Ada had told me during our one hour of formal training that if a customer wanted a drink that wasn’t on the menu, I had to add the ingredients separately. The problem was, I didn’t know what went into any of the drinks, so I couldn’t just do that.

  I was three seconds from pulling out my phone and googling the damn things when tears pricked my eyes. Don’t do it, Lo, I scolded myself, biting the inside of my cheek to focus my attention anywhere but on how sucky this night had been. Don’t you dare cry.

  “You look lost.”

  That voice. Hard and annoyed and the opposite of the persona he put on for his customers. Will English was a hypocrite, I decided in my frustration and stress. An asshole and a hypocrite.

  I blinked rapidly, hoping to hide the wetness in my eyes, and took a steadying breath before I looked at him. He leaned over the bar, his face a grim depiction of the tone of his voice. I wanted to die. Actually die. Or disappear. Or just straight up run away. Basically, anything other than talk to this man—my boss. “Um, I’m having a hard time finding the drinks my table just ordered.”

  “No shit,” he clipped out.

  The tears pushed against my lashes as shame spiraled through me. I didn’t need this job, and at this point, I didn’t even want it. I’d been too afraid to face Florida, so I’d ended up here. It had been a stupid plan to avoid stupid decisions, and I was feeling all of it—completely stupid.

  Struggling to swallow around the fist-sized lump in my throat, I said, “Well, could you be helpful then? Standing there insulting me obviously isn’t going to point me in the right direction.”

  His chin jerked toward his chest as if he couldn’t believe I’d just called him on his bullshit. In the next three seconds, his glower became so fierce, I braced myself for him to fire me. But the moment passed and with stilted movements, he walked around the corner of the bar to the computer station giving me so many problems.

  His shoulder bumped into mine, and I stepped to the side so he could work. “What did they order?” he demanded.

  “A Manhattan and a cosmo.”

  He snorted his distaste. “Is it for that couple in the middle?”

  Surprised by his accurate guess, I said, “Yes. It is. They have no alcohol preference.”

  “Figures.” He swiped to a page labeled Common. I hadn’t noticed it before because it was a sub-page off the Current Cocktails list. I noticed a second tab labeled Uncommon and made a mental note to check it out later. Cosmo was at the top of the page, listed alphabetically. Will punched it in quickly, adding the table number plus guest number, then scrolled down the page and found Manhattan, repeating the process. “Anything else for table twelve?”

  “Not yet. I have a feeling a food order is coming soon.”

  His gaze flicked back to that table, obvious disdain twisting his mouth. “Think you can handle that on your own?”

  I nodded quickly. “The food side is way easier than the alcohol side.”

  Again, I seemed to surprise him. He lifted one dark eyebrow. “You’re serious?”

  Shrugging, I pulled out my notebook, readying to head to the table still loudly complaining about my terrible service. “I understand food, er, for the most part. Your alcohol selection is like learning a new language while running a marathon for the first time. It’s intense.”

  He chewed the corner of his mouth, considering. “You don’t drink?”

  His question was a dare, though, a challenge, like he couldn’t possibly believe I’d have the audacity to abstain. “I drink. I just don’t drink entire liquor stores at a time.”

  A sound pushed out of him, half laugh, half growl. His gaze moved to the table of guys now pounding their fists in unison in an attempt to get my attention. “Tell them someone called in sick tonight, so you’ve been slammed. Then tell them you’ve ordered them a round of Patrón for their patience.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Goddamn, New Girl.” He scrubbed a hand over his face as if he had never been more frustrated. “It’s tequila, all right? But don’t say tequila, or they’ll assume you’re handing them the cheap shit. Say Patrón. Yeah?”

  “Sure, yeah, Patrón.” I fiddled with the notebook, feeling overwhelmed and nauseous. “That’s nice of you.”

  “It’s nice of you. It’s coming out of your tips tonight.” He turned toward the bar, but just as quickly turned back, assessing me once again with that cold gaze. “And smile, for God’s sake. You look scared out of your mind. Remind them you’re pretty and they want to give you all their money.”

  My shoulders stiffened at the instruction. “That’s not—”

  He didn’t want to hear it. “Go already, before they leave, and you have to pay for their whole bill.” Going to the bar, he added, “Let me work on the drinks.”

  Well. All right, then. Irritated with my new boss, afraid of basically every order I had left to take tonight and, wondering for the hundredth time why I’d thought this was a good idea, I tossed my head back and forth, popping my neck, then headed toward the now mutinous table.

  “It’s about damn time,” one of them yelled, earning a round of ruckus agreement from the rest of them.

  God, I didn’t want to smile. Actually, I wanted to puke. But somewhere inside me, my grandfather’s voice rumbled through the loud bar and my tumultuous emotions and whispered, “The customer’s always right, Lolo. Always.” My dad had instilled the same idea, only he’d always said, “Sometimes, Lola, we just gotta grin and eat shit.” r />
  So that’s what this was then. Grinning while eating shit. I plastered on my coyest smile and nibbled nervously on my lip. “Dang, what a night, guys. I’m so sorry for the wait. One of our girls called in sick and another quit this morning, so we are slammed. But I have Patrón shots coming up now—on the house, of course. And I’ll get this next round in for you right away.” They smiled affably and rattled off their order one by one, adding appetizers and plates of food to share.

  Hurrying back to the bar, I punched everything into the computer, almost seamlessly, albeit very slowly, before reaching for the tray covered in small shot glasses brimming with clear tequila. “Wait,” Will snapped, grabbing for a small plate of pre-sliced limes and lemons. He didn’t look up when he said, “They look like the kind of group that needs training wheels.”

  “Training wheels?” I murmured, staring at the saltshaker he set down next.

  He jutted his chin at the accoutrements. “Lime and salt. Training wheels.” I must have still looked confused. “You’re telling me you’ve never done a tequila shot before, New Girl?”

  “Lola,” I reminded him since he seemed to be having trouble remembering my name.

  “I know,” was his terse reply.

  Then why didn’t he ever use it? I wanted desperately to roll my eyes, but instead, I said, “No, I’ve never done a tequila shot.”

  He leaned forward, and I had his full attention now. “Have you ever done a shot at all?”

  Something in his expression completely unnerved me. I shifted with the tray in my hands, clunkily trying to catch them before I dropped them all over my feet. I just managed to keep from spilling anything. “Of course I’ve done a shot before,” I said with just the right amount of irritation to make it seem like I took them all the time. “I just usually stay away from tequila.” And all hard alcohol. But I didn’t tell him that.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “My friend Reese and I do shots all the time,” I lied. We’d had a few nights of shots in college. Mostly lemon drops and Fireball, but I had been a wimp about the hangover the next day.

  “Right.”

  I took a step back, so over this guy. Tilting my chin and scrambling for some dignity, I said with an air of authority, “Anyway, I’ll be right back for the cosmo and Manhattan.” They weren’t made yet, so the insinuation to get to work was, er, bold. Also, maybe suicidal by the way his eyes narrowed, and one side of his mouth kicked up in an unbelieving smirk.

  The guys at the table made room for me to set the tray down. I quickly passed out the shots as they pounded their fists in celebration. “Just in case.” I shrugged sweetly, setting the limes and lemons next to the salt on the table. “Training wheels for those who need them.” Then I winked at the ringleader while the rest of them hooted and hollered. Hooray! Happy customers. Finally. Was it really that easy? Free shots and a little flirting?

  Neither were my specialties, but I could adapt. Maybe.

  “I like her,” declared a burly, thick-armed lumberjack. He donned a short-sleeved plaid shirt and everything.

  “You should do one with us,” another shouted.

  I tipped my head back and laughed, genuinely amused at his suggestion. But thankful my excuse would hold up. “If only I wasn’t working,”

  The ringleader, a guy who reminded me of Gaston from Beauty and the Beast, leaned forward, dropping his voice. “Who cares? It’s just for fun.”

  “Do it, do it,” the other guys exclaimed, pounding their fists again.

  “Do it,” the ringleader said, smiling a smile I was sure got him all the girls.

  “Oh, no, seriously, I can’t—”

  “Sure, you can,” Will said from right beside me. The noise at the table screeched to a halt as he thrust a small glass of clear liquid in front of me. “Don’t worry, y’all. I’m her boss.” The table erupted with cheers. “Lola, here, does shots all the time.”

  “Yeah,” the table cheered.

  Noooo, I inwardly cringed.

  I dared a glance at Will, who, not surprisingly, was grinning smugly. He nudged the shot into my open hand. “Come on now, New Girl, show us how it’s done.”

  “You’re an asshole,” I huffed under my breath.

  “What was that?” He was still smiling, so surely he hadn’t heard me.

  “Sounds fun,” I said louder, reaching for a lime with my free hand.

  “Here we go then,” the ringleader shouted. In unison, they tapped their shots on the table then tossed them straight back.

  Knowing the point was to do it together, I tossed mine back too, unprepared for the bite of hard liquor going down. My face scrunched up as I sucked down on the lime, unable to hold back the groan. “Oh, my God,” I squealed, stomping my feet too.

  The table cheered for me, and Will’s deep rumble of a laugh kept me from running to the bathroom and spitting it out. Holy hell, give me lemon drops every dang day over that vile stuff.

  Will smacked me harshly on the back, a friendly gesture in appearance, but it was more like a smug victory taunt in disguise. “Enjoy your night, gentlemen. Lola and I need to get back to work.”

  I was still sputtering as I dropped the tray off at the bar and picked up the two glasses with my ticket attached to them. Miles stared at me wide-eyed from across the bar as if that was the craziest thing he’d ever seen.

  Well, first impressions had never been my strong suit.

  Without a doubt, I had revealed myself as the amateur drinker that I was. Not that I felt ashamed about it under normal circumstances. There was just something about Will English that felt like a dare, a challenge. And I hated losing.

  “You going to quit?” the devil himself asked. He still hadn’t looked at me. His attention was on the gleaming bar top, where he scrubbed at a sticky spot with a white hand towel.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m asking if an experienced shot-taker like yourself has had enough fun for tonight and is going to quit.”

  My hands trembled as they held the full glasses, so I rested them on the bar and leaned forward. “Why would you think that?”

  He shrugged, his eyes hidden beneath the swoopy flop of his dark hair. “A feeling. Call it intuition.”

  “Well, you’re wrong.” Dang, it felt good to say that and to mean it. “You have terrible instincts.” Before he could slow me down any further, I spun around, taking the drinks with me, and headed for the snobby couple who had been waiting way too long.

  “I’m so sorry,” I told them, setting their drinks down accordingly. “We’re short-staffed tonight and slammed.”

  “Finally,” the woman breathed, reaching for her drink and sucking half of it down right away.

  “Yeah, you’re busy,” the man said, a little kindlier than I expected.

  I smiled and pulled out my notepad again. “Do you want something to eat? Or can I put another drink order in for you so you don’t have to wait?”

  They rattled off their order, adding a second round, and I breathed a sigh of relief I wasn’t going to have to buy them shots too.

  My skin prickled with heat from the alcohol for a solid thirty minutes after that dang shot. But the night got easier after that, smoother. The computer began to make a little more sense. Miles went out of his way to help me understand it. And I had no more run-ins with Will English, the bartender from hell.

  Thank God. Honestly, I didn’t get his beef. I was a likeable person. I was generally too shy and nonconfrontational to cause problems. I was a people pleaser through and through, always going out of my way to make sure other people were taken care of and comfortable. Sure, this was my first night, and I had absolutely no clue what I was doing, but I was trying. Why did that bother him so much?

  At least I was done dealing with him for the night. Or so I hoped.

  4

  “That’s the last of them.” Ada locked the door with flair and turned around with her hands up in the air like she’d won some great victory. “Peace out, bitches.”

/>   It was after two in the morning. Despite my sensible shoe choice, my feet ached. My back ached. My hands ached. My brain ached.

  And there was still work to be done.

  I collapsed on a barstool and dropped my head into my hands. “I’m so tired.”

  Miles moved to grab the glasses I’d brought over to the bar and put them in the dishwasher. “Wait till Sunday morning. Then tell me you’re tired.”

  I thought about working the next couple of nights like this. It was only Thursday. No way would I make it till Sunday. Maybe they wouldn’t schedule me three days in a row. There was hope.

  “You going to make it three days in a row?” Ada asked, plopping down next to me, destroying my hopes and dreams with one question. “You look dead.”

  Optimism dashed. “I thought I was in shape,” I said with a muffled voice behind my hands. “I was wrong.” They laughed at me. Miles reached for the glasses Ada had brought over. “Seriously, that was intense.”

  “It gets easier,” Ada assured me. “Once you’ve learned the menu and the computer.”

  “And how to deal with assholes,” Miles added.

  It was just the three of us on the floor. Will had disappeared to the back when things slowed down after midnight. Eliza had stepped out a few times to talk to tables, make sure we had everything we needed, and make a few drinks. Charlie was nowhere to be seen tonight.

  “Is it always like this?” I asked, wishing I’d poured myself a glass of water before I sat down.

  “Always,” they said in unison.

  “Weekends are the worst,” Miles said. “But it’s always this busy.” He pulled over a giant glass jar, stuffed to the top with dollar bills in varying amounts. “Although you find reasons it’s worth it.” He winked at me. “Mostly green reasons.”

  I blinked in shock when I saw a couple of twenties clustered together. “Those are your tips?”