“Um… yeah, he popped by earlier and –”
She cut me off. “No, folk don’t know all that happened to her.” Then she mumbled, “Fuckers.”
“Got that right,” I replied.
She caught my eyes and surprised me again. “Thanks for doin’ the stock take, Lauren.”
“Um… you’re welcome.”
“And Tate says you wiped down most of the bar,” she went on.
“It was a slow day,” I told her.
She nodded. “Speakin’ ‘a that, with Tonia gone and Tate on the hunt, we’re losin’ the waitress durin’ the day. I’ve redone the schedule, copies of it are on the desk in the office. All the girls are nights now, even you.”
I nodded back again. “Okay, that’s fine with me.”
“You can handle it,” she said and I smiled at her.
She didn’t smile back.
Instead, she informed me, “Got ads in papers all over the county and then some. Gnaw Bone, Chantelle, everywhere. Hopin’ we’ll get a couple of girls in soon.”
“Okay,” I replied.
“It’ll be tough for awhile –”
I interrupted her. “We’ll cope.”
She held my gaze a long moment.
Then I said, “Better serve these.”
She turned away, muttering, “Yeah.”
*
I was in the bathroom studying myself in the mirror.
I was still in research mode in order to find ways to be the best waitress I could be in an effort to make a living when the time came when I actually had to make a living. Day tips weren’t great, as Krystal had warned. On Saturday and Sunday, when the bar was busy, tips were fantastic. Even fantastic, they didn’t make up for the weekdays. It would be good to work nights.
In my efforts at research, I was experimenting with makeup. Today, it was slightly heavier. Not Krystal, Jonelle and, rest her, Tonia heavy but not my normal subtle either.
I was also experimenting with footwear.
I’d dug into my clothes and pulled out a top that I bought a few years ago but it hadn’t fit in awhile. Seeing as I was constantly missing meals, on my feet and swimming regularly, my clothes were fitting loose. So I’d tried it and found it fit though it was just a smidge snug at the cleavage. A cream blouse, a bit see-through (so I wore an off white, stretchy camisole under it), it also fit snug up my midriff but it was supposed to because it had two darts at both sides under my breasts and the same at both sides in the back. It had a collar and such short sleeves they couldn’t really be called sleeves as they were just an inch of material. I’d also added a layering of a bunch of silver necklaces that I usually only wore one at a time, all of them having daisies or flowers dangling from them or pendants with daisies and flowers stamped on them. I’d put on my daisy stud earrings and my flower-dangling bracelets. I’d paired this with jeans, a tan belt and, the new tactic of the day, high-stiletto-heeled sandals. They were tan leather that almost matched the belt and they had five thin straps that led into a big rose at the toe and a wraparound ankle strap you couldn’t see under the bootcut of my jeans (which was too bad because I always thought it was sassy and Brad had agreed, he’d loved those sandals and he especially loved the sassy ankle strap).
Being on them all day, my feet were killing me which I decided to take Bubba’s advice about and look on the bright side. Focusing on my feet, I could stop thinking about my whole body aching. Also, when I walked up to a patron, I found they were giving me a head-to-toe and an easy smile, even if I didn’t know them.
I couldn’t be sure as I hadn’t counted them but I thought my tips might have taken a turn for the better. Maybe not a massive one that would allow me to add a manicure to my schedule every week once I settled in, bought a house and furnished it but I could at least maybe buy groceries.
At that moment, however, I was wondering about wearing high-heeled sandals on the back of a bike.
Was that okay?
I was also wondering if I should put on lip gloss.
I was wondering this because it was passed seven and I was waiting for Tate to come and get me.
And I was wondering all of this while wondering about me wearing a little cream blouse, jeans that were not tight but a bit loose and a pair of sandals that cost over two hundred dollars. Neeta’s whole outfit probably cost half that and Tate had carried her into a hotel room, kissing her.
I was not Neeta by any stretch of the imagination. I was not the kind of woman who was bad news, who made a man change careers because of whatever, who met him at a hotel at night.
I was the kind of woman who wore cream blouses, not tank tops, and needed a ride home because her boss, who might be a jerk on occasion but he’d certainly demonstrated a fair degree of assuming responsibility, knew she was a woman alone with no one to look after her.
So he was looking after me. That was it.