The Fortunate Ones
Page 2
“Done with your shift, or are you about to quit in a blaze of glory?”
I grin and pat my pocket. “The first one, but if these tips keep coming, I should have enough saved for the latter soon.”
She laughs. “You really have to swap with me one day for beer cart duty. You think you get good tips at the cabana, but you have no idea what you’re missing.”
“Thanks, but no thanks. The cabana is bad enough.”
She rolls her eyes. “You act like I’m giving members blowies between holes.”
I scrunch my nose. “Maybe you are, maybe you aren’t. Whatever you do in, around, and between your holes is your business, sis.”
She’s about to respond when her attention shifts to someone behind me. From the familiar stench of heavily applied cologne, I know it’s our manager, Mr. McDonald, though he insists we call him Brian.
“Is everything tip top here, Ellie? We start dinner service in 30 minutes.”
She beams at him. “The tables have been set, I double-checked the crystal for fingerprints, and I’ve ensured the chef has been prepped on all the nutrition and allergy guidelines for the guests dining with us tonight.”
He nods, scanning over the dining room as he continues, “I saw both the Daniels and Edwards family on the reservation list—”
“Already taken care of,” Ellie says with practiced patience. “Their reservations are two hours apart, and if the Edwards family arrives early, I’ll place them on the opposite side of the dining room. There shouldn’t be any problems.”
“Good.” He gives her a final curt nod of approval before turning toward me. “Brooke, I haven’t seen you in a few days. Is everything going well out in the cabana?”
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
I thought I would hate Brian when I first started working here. He’s firmly lodged deep in his 40s with a thick, outdated mustache. He valiantly but unsuccessfully tries to hide his ever-burgeoning pudginess beneath shiny polyester suits, and while he definitely has the personality of a boiled potato, I appreciate that he’s all business. The last thing I need is one more guy in this club trying to suck smiles out of me.
“The members have been speaking highly of you. Mr. Larson has requested that you pick up a few shifts out on the golf course.”
Mr. Larson is Mr. Oil Tycoon, the man I can thank for the hundred-dollar bill stuffed in my pocket.
“I was actually just telling Brooke she would love working out there,” Ellie prods.
I want to jab her with my elbow but the podium is in the way.
“Actually, Brian, I’m happy with where I’m at. I’ve only just now gotten the hang of the dining room and the cabana.”
He seems disappointed, like he doesn’t want to have to tell Mr. Oil Tycoon I said no. “Right, well…Ellie, let me know if you need anything regarding the Edwards-Daniels situation.”
When he’s gone, it takes me all of two seconds to ask Ellie about “the situation”.
She shrugs. “Didn’t I tell you? Mr. Daniels was having an affair with Mrs. Edwards. After their spouses found out, each filed for divorce. Once everything was settled, the cheaters got married. As for the cheatees, well…either out of spite or a reluctance to give up their country club membership, they went ahead and married each other too! Now they just avoid each other like the plague.”
“God this place is incestuous. You’d think if you were going to have an affair, you wouldn’t just choose another dusty ol’ cookie off the shelf.”
She laughs. “They’ve made it that way. You know you can’t even get a membership at this place if you aren’t a legacy? All the families moving to Austin with new money would cut off their right arms to get in here, so it doesn’t really shock me that Mrs. Daniels married Mr. Edwards. He might weigh 400 pounds and have a face like a shoe, but with an active club membership, he might as well be Daniel Craig.”
I’m still stifling my laughter when Marissa joins us at the podium.
“What’s funny?” she asks, scanning down the reservation list and scrunching her nose when she comes across a name she doesn’t particularly like. She’s one of my favorite waitresses in the dining room. Like every other front-of-the-house employee, she’s young and beautiful—black with a short pixie haircut and legs that should probably be insured for a million bucks.
“I was filling Brooke in on the Edwards-Daniels drama.”
Marissa groans. “Ugh, who cares? That’s old news. More importantly, did either of you see that he’s here?”
“Who?” I ask, because even though I know exactly who she’s talking about, I want to hear his name just for fun.
Marissa narrows her dark brown eyes at me. “You know who! Jared said he saw him go into the cigar lounge.”
I wonder if he likes it in there because it’s quiet or if he actually smokes.
Ellie leans in closer so the few members who just stepped into the foyer won’t overhear us. “Are you sure? I didn’t see his car in the parking lot when I got here. I heard he was traveling in Southeast Asia or something for the next few weeks.”
“Well you”—Marissa playfully boops her on the nose—“were misinformed. I looked—his car is definitely out there.”
“Whatever,” I say on a sigh, and they jerk their heads to glare at me. “Sorry, it’s just all a little ridiculous, the whispering and obsessing about him.”
Ellie shoots a knowing glare to Marissa. “Oh, of course. How could I forget that Brooke is too cool to give a shit about James Ashwood. Every other female in this club has a GPS tracker on him, but not you. Why is that exactly?”
I pin on a bored expression. “Not my type.”
They both crack up at that, which is fair. I’m not that good at lying.
“Riiiight. What else isn’t your type? Breathing?”
In the three months I’ve worked at Twin Oaks, James Ashwood has been talked about way more than the bevy of professional athletes and famous locals who also frequent the club. A royal asshole. A major dick. A shrewd businessman. A big tipper with an appetite for everything luxurious: beautiful women, top-shelf whiskey, and expensive cars. I’m confident it’s mostly fiction, made up by some kitchen staffer bored with plating $90 filets.
I’m about to tell both of them to go to hell when Ellie’s face flushes light pink.
“It’s him. It’s him,” she hisses, stepping up to the podium and grabbing for a pen. She finds one, drops it, and then smooths down the front of her dress. Marissa straightens her back and pushes out her chest. It’s mating season at the hostess stand.
I’m facing Ellie and Marissa as they watch him approach, and it takes all of my willpower to keep from joining in on their ogling. After all, Mr. Oil Tycoon forced me to miss James getting out of his Porsche when he first arrived; it’s only fair that I should get to turn around and see him now, just for a second.
I swear if I concentrate hard enough, I can hear his deep voice over the soft ambient music playing overhead. He’s getting closer. My hands fist at my sides and I know if I stay any longer, I’ll cave and turn.
Instead, I wave goodbye to Ellie and Marissa and rush into the dining room—away from him. I pass through the bustling kitchen and head for the locker room so I can change back into clothes I feel comfortable in and get the hell out of here. Unfortunately, there are more women in here whispering about James. I swear, they make him seem larger than life. We have all sorts of rich and famous members in the club, but no one has a cult following quite like James Ashwood. I refuse to drink the Kool-Aid.
“Did you see him out there, Brooke?” someone asks as I bang my locker closed.
“Oh, I see a lot of things,” I joke, deflecting any more talk about him.
Although, it is true—I do see a lot behind the scenes at Twin Oaks.
But I’ve never seen anything quite like him.
CHAPTER TWO
Most members of the country club live tucked away inside gated mansions, within gated neighborhoods. They buy houses in which most rooms exist for the sole purpose of employing a squadron of maids to dust them. By contrast, I live in cooperative housing north of the University of Texas campus. The co-op itself is an old two-story bungalow that’s been added on to and redesigned so many times over the years that it looks like a bad kindergarten art project, all popsicle sticks and macaroni.
I grin and pat my pocket. “The first one, but if these tips keep coming, I should have enough saved for the latter soon.”
She laughs. “You really have to swap with me one day for beer cart duty. You think you get good tips at the cabana, but you have no idea what you’re missing.”
“Thanks, but no thanks. The cabana is bad enough.”
She rolls her eyes. “You act like I’m giving members blowies between holes.”
I scrunch my nose. “Maybe you are, maybe you aren’t. Whatever you do in, around, and between your holes is your business, sis.”
She’s about to respond when her attention shifts to someone behind me. From the familiar stench of heavily applied cologne, I know it’s our manager, Mr. McDonald, though he insists we call him Brian.
“Is everything tip top here, Ellie? We start dinner service in 30 minutes.”
She beams at him. “The tables have been set, I double-checked the crystal for fingerprints, and I’ve ensured the chef has been prepped on all the nutrition and allergy guidelines for the guests dining with us tonight.”
He nods, scanning over the dining room as he continues, “I saw both the Daniels and Edwards family on the reservation list—”
“Already taken care of,” Ellie says with practiced patience. “Their reservations are two hours apart, and if the Edwards family arrives early, I’ll place them on the opposite side of the dining room. There shouldn’t be any problems.”
“Good.” He gives her a final curt nod of approval before turning toward me. “Brooke, I haven’t seen you in a few days. Is everything going well out in the cabana?”
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
I thought I would hate Brian when I first started working here. He’s firmly lodged deep in his 40s with a thick, outdated mustache. He valiantly but unsuccessfully tries to hide his ever-burgeoning pudginess beneath shiny polyester suits, and while he definitely has the personality of a boiled potato, I appreciate that he’s all business. The last thing I need is one more guy in this club trying to suck smiles out of me.
“The members have been speaking highly of you. Mr. Larson has requested that you pick up a few shifts out on the golf course.”
Mr. Larson is Mr. Oil Tycoon, the man I can thank for the hundred-dollar bill stuffed in my pocket.
“I was actually just telling Brooke she would love working out there,” Ellie prods.
I want to jab her with my elbow but the podium is in the way.
“Actually, Brian, I’m happy with where I’m at. I’ve only just now gotten the hang of the dining room and the cabana.”
He seems disappointed, like he doesn’t want to have to tell Mr. Oil Tycoon I said no. “Right, well…Ellie, let me know if you need anything regarding the Edwards-Daniels situation.”
When he’s gone, it takes me all of two seconds to ask Ellie about “the situation”.
She shrugs. “Didn’t I tell you? Mr. Daniels was having an affair with Mrs. Edwards. After their spouses found out, each filed for divorce. Once everything was settled, the cheaters got married. As for the cheatees, well…either out of spite or a reluctance to give up their country club membership, they went ahead and married each other too! Now they just avoid each other like the plague.”
“God this place is incestuous. You’d think if you were going to have an affair, you wouldn’t just choose another dusty ol’ cookie off the shelf.”
She laughs. “They’ve made it that way. You know you can’t even get a membership at this place if you aren’t a legacy? All the families moving to Austin with new money would cut off their right arms to get in here, so it doesn’t really shock me that Mrs. Daniels married Mr. Edwards. He might weigh 400 pounds and have a face like a shoe, but with an active club membership, he might as well be Daniel Craig.”
I’m still stifling my laughter when Marissa joins us at the podium.
“What’s funny?” she asks, scanning down the reservation list and scrunching her nose when she comes across a name she doesn’t particularly like. She’s one of my favorite waitresses in the dining room. Like every other front-of-the-house employee, she’s young and beautiful—black with a short pixie haircut and legs that should probably be insured for a million bucks.
“I was filling Brooke in on the Edwards-Daniels drama.”
Marissa groans. “Ugh, who cares? That’s old news. More importantly, did either of you see that he’s here?”
“Who?” I ask, because even though I know exactly who she’s talking about, I want to hear his name just for fun.
Marissa narrows her dark brown eyes at me. “You know who! Jared said he saw him go into the cigar lounge.”
I wonder if he likes it in there because it’s quiet or if he actually smokes.
Ellie leans in closer so the few members who just stepped into the foyer won’t overhear us. “Are you sure? I didn’t see his car in the parking lot when I got here. I heard he was traveling in Southeast Asia or something for the next few weeks.”
“Well you”—Marissa playfully boops her on the nose—“were misinformed. I looked—his car is definitely out there.”
“Whatever,” I say on a sigh, and they jerk their heads to glare at me. “Sorry, it’s just all a little ridiculous, the whispering and obsessing about him.”
Ellie shoots a knowing glare to Marissa. “Oh, of course. How could I forget that Brooke is too cool to give a shit about James Ashwood. Every other female in this club has a GPS tracker on him, but not you. Why is that exactly?”
I pin on a bored expression. “Not my type.”
They both crack up at that, which is fair. I’m not that good at lying.
“Riiiight. What else isn’t your type? Breathing?”
In the three months I’ve worked at Twin Oaks, James Ashwood has been talked about way more than the bevy of professional athletes and famous locals who also frequent the club. A royal asshole. A major dick. A shrewd businessman. A big tipper with an appetite for everything luxurious: beautiful women, top-shelf whiskey, and expensive cars. I’m confident it’s mostly fiction, made up by some kitchen staffer bored with plating $90 filets.
I’m about to tell both of them to go to hell when Ellie’s face flushes light pink.
“It’s him. It’s him,” she hisses, stepping up to the podium and grabbing for a pen. She finds one, drops it, and then smooths down the front of her dress. Marissa straightens her back and pushes out her chest. It’s mating season at the hostess stand.
I’m facing Ellie and Marissa as they watch him approach, and it takes all of my willpower to keep from joining in on their ogling. After all, Mr. Oil Tycoon forced me to miss James getting out of his Porsche when he first arrived; it’s only fair that I should get to turn around and see him now, just for a second.
I swear if I concentrate hard enough, I can hear his deep voice over the soft ambient music playing overhead. He’s getting closer. My hands fist at my sides and I know if I stay any longer, I’ll cave and turn.
Instead, I wave goodbye to Ellie and Marissa and rush into the dining room—away from him. I pass through the bustling kitchen and head for the locker room so I can change back into clothes I feel comfortable in and get the hell out of here. Unfortunately, there are more women in here whispering about James. I swear, they make him seem larger than life. We have all sorts of rich and famous members in the club, but no one has a cult following quite like James Ashwood. I refuse to drink the Kool-Aid.
“Did you see him out there, Brooke?” someone asks as I bang my locker closed.
“Oh, I see a lot of things,” I joke, deflecting any more talk about him.
Although, it is true—I do see a lot behind the scenes at Twin Oaks.
But I’ve never seen anything quite like him.
CHAPTER TWO
Most members of the country club live tucked away inside gated mansions, within gated neighborhoods. They buy houses in which most rooms exist for the sole purpose of employing a squadron of maids to dust them. By contrast, I live in cooperative housing north of the University of Texas campus. The co-op itself is an old two-story bungalow that’s been added on to and redesigned so many times over the years that it looks like a bad kindergarten art project, all popsicle sticks and macaroni.
