When I hit the server’s station, Alexis is already there picking at her hot pink nails. “Hey, Mac. I hope it’s okay, but I’ve got dibs on the back section tonight.” She points to her lower belly. “Red devil. I need an easy night.”
Fuck. That puts me in the front of the house, closest to the stage. “Sure thing, but don’t think you can use your period as an excuse to slack off all night. I’m not picking up extra tables.”
Her eyes narrow. “What’s up your ass?”
I exhale hard and shake my head. “I had to walk my bike for almost a mile. Made me crabby as hell.”
“Well, shit. This should be a fun shift. Between the two of us, we could probably clear this place out with our bitch-a-tude.”
I laugh and wrap a short black server’s apron around my waist. A sharp whistle from the bar turns my head.
Lucas, the bartender, points to a tray of battery-operated candles sitting on the bar. “Set up your section, Mac. I think we’re going to get slammed early.”
Groaning, I remind myself that I need the money and move my sour ass. I dress every table with a candle, stock my station with plenty of cocktail napkins, and make sure I’ve got fifty dollars in small bills for change.
Two hours later, the place is packed. I’ve been so busy with my tables I don’t notice whether or not the band has gotten in. That’s the other thing I hate about being a cocktail server—waiting on the band.
Every time I get close to Rex my tongue swells and I stumble over myself like a drunken teenager. He never looks directly at me, not that I blame him. And even though I look nothing like the girl from his past, there’s a part of me that dies every time he treats me like a stranger.
I place the last of five pints on my tray and negotiate the crowded room to a table up front. Movement from the stage catches my eye. I peek over and see Ataxia is there setting up.
My eyes find Rex out of habit, and no matter how hard I try to look away, I can’t. He’s dressed in charcoal gray Dickies and black Chucks. His faded As-I-Lay-Dying tee looks a half size too small, hugging his heavily tattooed biceps and stretching across his chest and shoulders. If he were to lift his arms, even a little, I’d get a glimpse of his rippled abdomen. He’s wearing a black baseball hat cocked just off center enough to showcase the two small silver barbells in his eyebrow.
I’m staring. I know I should turn away before I get caught, but tucked into the safety of the crowd, I think I’m safe. He’s setting up the mic, concentrating, and rolls his full bottom lip between his teeth. With a step back, he checks out the height of the stand, pulling at his lip ring.
He’s so different from the boy I knew, but no less handsome. Even behind all the metal in his face, I can see those same blue eyes. But there’s a hardness to them now, a steel that matches his expression, as if life has lost its luster and he’s adjusted to the disappointment.
“Yo, sweet tits, you gonna deliver us those beers or am I going to have to come and get ’em from you.” One of the guys at my table thinks he’s a comedian and laughs at his own crappy joke.
I drag my eyes away from Rex and deliver the beers. Get with it, Mac. Tonight could be the night I finally break through and have the courage to introduce myself. Yeah right. I say that every Sunday night Ataxia plays and haven’t gotten any further than offering him a drink.
To think I’ve been waiting most of my life to see him again, planned my speech to perfection over years and years of solitude, but don’t have the courage to follow through. Pathetic.
“You may as well grab me another one of these.” The jerk gulps down half the beer I just gave him and burps.
How long have I been standing here?
“Sure thing.” I turn and head to check on another table.
“Don’t know what I like better. Watching her go or watching her come.” The table of douche morons laughs, and I could’ve sworn I heard the palm slap of a high-five.
Usually I’d have some smart-ass remark that would shut that asshole up, but I’m in no mood to fight. I can’t get the visual of Rex and that girl out of my head: his huge frame towering over hers, long powerful arms swallowing her whole.
I shouldn’t care. His happiness is the most important thing. It’s the only thing I’ve ever cared about since I reappeared in his life. But why does it feel as though I’ve lost something?
Groupies hang on him all the time, but he’s never given them more than his polite attention. I’ve never seen him leave with a girl, and I’d know. I watch.
“Mac!” A familiar voice pulls my attention.
I search the direction and see Layla, a girl I met back in February, who is now living with Rex’s friend and fellow UFL fighter, Blake Daniels.
She’s wearing her usual kick-ass jeans with a heavy metal concert tee and biker boots.
“Hey.” My eyes swing to Blake, who seems to be giving a few guys at the bar dirty looks. “Blake.”