Sweet Dreams
Page 14
“You got a problem with Tate?” he asked in disbelief.
Seeing that even though Tate wasn’t nice enough to know better but I was, I didn’t share by saying words I shouldn’t say.
I threw a beer mat in front of Jim-Billy and put his mug on it. “We just don’t see eye-to-eye.”
“Shit,” Jim-Billy muttered and I saw he looked like he was fighting a smile.
“Shit what?” I asked.
“Nothin’,” Jim-Billy mumbled into the beer mug that was at his lips.
“Shit what?” I repeated and Jim-Billy took a sip then grinned at me.
“’Nother time, Lauren, when you aren’t on and you and me are shootin’ the shit, drinkin’ a brew, I’ll tell you shit what.”
“Jesus, Billy, we aren’t open for twenty minutes.” I heard Tate say and I jumped a mile as he walked up behind me and then stopped at my back, just to the side but then leaned a hand into the bar so he was totally in my space. So totally in my space, I felt the heat from his body and if I moved, I knew my shoulder would brush his chest.
I was forcing my body to stay still again while Jim-Billy was surveying Tate and me and continuing to fight his smile.
“You know how it is, Jackson,” Jim-Billy replied and that was the second time I heard someone refer to Tate as Jackson and I wondered why. Was that his last name?
“I know how it is, Billy,” Tate said in that soft voice of his. Then he said, “Ace, you gonna wipe down those tables or what?”
I twisted my neck to look at him to see he was staring down at me and he was closer than I expected and I expected him to be pretty danged close. He was also back to looking impatient and I resisted the urge to give him a sharp elbow to the ribs.
“Right away, oh Captain, my Captain,” I mumbled and moved away, nabbing the spray and cloth.
* * * * *
“Two Miller Lites, a vodka rocks and a Jack and Coke,” I ordered from Tate, my eyes bent to my pad of paper where I kept my notes as to what I ordered.
I learned about two hours into my shift that this was a perfect way of avoiding eye contact and pretending he didn’t exist at all. If I tried hard enough, I could almost believe my drinks appeared by magic.
Now it was ten minutes from the end of my shift and I was nearly home free.
This tactic had worked beautifully and I’d been able to do it nearly my entire shift seeing as we were busy nearly all day. Ten bikers roared in at one thirty and hadn’t left and with the drifters and the regulars I’d been pretty much on the go which was an excuse to be away from Tate.
I was also attempting to ignore Tate’s very existence by sliding into research mode, trying out strategies in an effort to up my tips. I was keeping track and I figured what I was doing was working.
My first strategy was to be a little more friendly and talkative, take a little more time and hang out and it appeared the boys liked that. So, since that worked, my next strategy was to find out names, memorize them and use them. Even if you weren’t at your regular bar, anyone liked to be made to feel at home, and nothing felt like home more than someone knowing you, or acting like they did, or at least that’s what I guessed and, from keeping tabs on by my escalating tips, I was right.
In no time at all, I found when I was in my approach to see if anyone needed a fresh one, eyes slid to me, smiles lit faces and the witty rapport would ensue, sometimes even before I made it to them they’d call out a joke or a silly compliment I knew they didn’t mean.
And sometimes they’d order drinks even though their last ones weren’t close to empty.
And my tips went up and up.
Because of this, I was pretty pleased with myself and my efforts for the day even though they came on a day I had to share with Tate.
“Babe,” Tate called, taking me from my end of shift pleasant thoughts.
“Yeah?” I answered, pulling a pencil from behind my ear to make my additions to my pad.
“Ace,” he called.
“Yeah?” I answered again, scratching on my pad.
“For f**k’s sake, Lauren, look at me,” Tate demanded and my head came up because he used my name for the first time ever and also because he sounded slightly angry.
“Yes?” I asked.
He was leaning into the bar with both fists on the top but out to his sides. This could be a casual stance for some but for him it seemed both aggressive and dominant.
“What’s your game here?” he asked.
“Sorry?” I asked back, confused at his question and his apparent irritation.
“Your game,” he repeated then went on, shaking his head. “Fuck it, I don’t care. Just stop playin’ it.”
My head tipped a bit to the side when I asked, “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t be stupid,” he answered and at his words, I edged closer to the bar as I felt my temper snag.
“Stupid?” I whispered.
“Gettin’ friendly with those guys to make your point.” He jerked his head to the pool tables to his right where my most generous customers, and my new best buds, the bikers from one thirty had been camped out.
“What point?” I asked.
“And don’t think I’m stupid,” he told me.
Now I was really confused.
“I don’t think you’re stupid.”
“You do if you think I don’t get your game.”
I changed tactics. “Why’s it stupid to be friendly? I thought it was my job.”
“Your job is to turn drinks, not flirt and get yourself into trouble.”
Now I wasn’t confused and my temper wasn’t snagged, it was frayed.
I leaned into the bar too, put a hand on it and my voice got quiet as I hissed, “I’m not flirting!”
“Babe, shit, seriously? Do I look dumb?”
“No, but you are if you think I’m flirting,” I replied and I watched his face grow hard.
Then he leaned in further too, taking his fists from the bar and leaning onto both of his forearms, one resting on either side of my hand so he was in my face.
“Knock it off,” he ordered and the way he said those three words, I knew he wasn’t irritated, he was, for some reason, angry.
“I’m not going to knock it off,” I said. “My tips are awesome!”
“You think we had problems before, you keep playin’ those boys, you’ll see what a problem with me means.”
I stared at him.
How could he have problem? He said half his waitresses were terrible, one would think he’d leap for joy to get a friendly one who sold a lot of booze.
Seeing that even though Tate wasn’t nice enough to know better but I was, I didn’t share by saying words I shouldn’t say.
I threw a beer mat in front of Jim-Billy and put his mug on it. “We just don’t see eye-to-eye.”
“Shit,” Jim-Billy muttered and I saw he looked like he was fighting a smile.
“Shit what?” I asked.
“Nothin’,” Jim-Billy mumbled into the beer mug that was at his lips.
“Shit what?” I repeated and Jim-Billy took a sip then grinned at me.
“’Nother time, Lauren, when you aren’t on and you and me are shootin’ the shit, drinkin’ a brew, I’ll tell you shit what.”
“Jesus, Billy, we aren’t open for twenty minutes.” I heard Tate say and I jumped a mile as he walked up behind me and then stopped at my back, just to the side but then leaned a hand into the bar so he was totally in my space. So totally in my space, I felt the heat from his body and if I moved, I knew my shoulder would brush his chest.
I was forcing my body to stay still again while Jim-Billy was surveying Tate and me and continuing to fight his smile.
“You know how it is, Jackson,” Jim-Billy replied and that was the second time I heard someone refer to Tate as Jackson and I wondered why. Was that his last name?
“I know how it is, Billy,” Tate said in that soft voice of his. Then he said, “Ace, you gonna wipe down those tables or what?”
I twisted my neck to look at him to see he was staring down at me and he was closer than I expected and I expected him to be pretty danged close. He was also back to looking impatient and I resisted the urge to give him a sharp elbow to the ribs.
“Right away, oh Captain, my Captain,” I mumbled and moved away, nabbing the spray and cloth.
* * * * *
“Two Miller Lites, a vodka rocks and a Jack and Coke,” I ordered from Tate, my eyes bent to my pad of paper where I kept my notes as to what I ordered.
I learned about two hours into my shift that this was a perfect way of avoiding eye contact and pretending he didn’t exist at all. If I tried hard enough, I could almost believe my drinks appeared by magic.
Now it was ten minutes from the end of my shift and I was nearly home free.
This tactic had worked beautifully and I’d been able to do it nearly my entire shift seeing as we were busy nearly all day. Ten bikers roared in at one thirty and hadn’t left and with the drifters and the regulars I’d been pretty much on the go which was an excuse to be away from Tate.
I was also attempting to ignore Tate’s very existence by sliding into research mode, trying out strategies in an effort to up my tips. I was keeping track and I figured what I was doing was working.
My first strategy was to be a little more friendly and talkative, take a little more time and hang out and it appeared the boys liked that. So, since that worked, my next strategy was to find out names, memorize them and use them. Even if you weren’t at your regular bar, anyone liked to be made to feel at home, and nothing felt like home more than someone knowing you, or acting like they did, or at least that’s what I guessed and, from keeping tabs on by my escalating tips, I was right.
In no time at all, I found when I was in my approach to see if anyone needed a fresh one, eyes slid to me, smiles lit faces and the witty rapport would ensue, sometimes even before I made it to them they’d call out a joke or a silly compliment I knew they didn’t mean.
And sometimes they’d order drinks even though their last ones weren’t close to empty.
And my tips went up and up.
Because of this, I was pretty pleased with myself and my efforts for the day even though they came on a day I had to share with Tate.
“Babe,” Tate called, taking me from my end of shift pleasant thoughts.
“Yeah?” I answered, pulling a pencil from behind my ear to make my additions to my pad.
“Ace,” he called.
“Yeah?” I answered again, scratching on my pad.
“For f**k’s sake, Lauren, look at me,” Tate demanded and my head came up because he used my name for the first time ever and also because he sounded slightly angry.
“Yes?” I asked.
He was leaning into the bar with both fists on the top but out to his sides. This could be a casual stance for some but for him it seemed both aggressive and dominant.
“What’s your game here?” he asked.
“Sorry?” I asked back, confused at his question and his apparent irritation.
“Your game,” he repeated then went on, shaking his head. “Fuck it, I don’t care. Just stop playin’ it.”
My head tipped a bit to the side when I asked, “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t be stupid,” he answered and at his words, I edged closer to the bar as I felt my temper snag.
“Stupid?” I whispered.
“Gettin’ friendly with those guys to make your point.” He jerked his head to the pool tables to his right where my most generous customers, and my new best buds, the bikers from one thirty had been camped out.
“What point?” I asked.
“And don’t think I’m stupid,” he told me.
Now I was really confused.
“I don’t think you’re stupid.”
“You do if you think I don’t get your game.”
I changed tactics. “Why’s it stupid to be friendly? I thought it was my job.”
“Your job is to turn drinks, not flirt and get yourself into trouble.”
Now I wasn’t confused and my temper wasn’t snagged, it was frayed.
I leaned into the bar too, put a hand on it and my voice got quiet as I hissed, “I’m not flirting!”
“Babe, shit, seriously? Do I look dumb?”
“No, but you are if you think I’m flirting,” I replied and I watched his face grow hard.
Then he leaned in further too, taking his fists from the bar and leaning onto both of his forearms, one resting on either side of my hand so he was in my face.
“Knock it off,” he ordered and the way he said those three words, I knew he wasn’t irritated, he was, for some reason, angry.
“I’m not going to knock it off,” I said. “My tips are awesome!”
“You think we had problems before, you keep playin’ those boys, you’ll see what a problem with me means.”
I stared at him.
How could he have problem? He said half his waitresses were terrible, one would think he’d leap for joy to get a friendly one who sold a lot of booze.
