“Llegas tarde.”
I shifted my weight uneasily from one foot to the other as I stared at the patriarch of my family. Though I had lived with and been raised by my grandmother, Tío Alonso—my grandmother’s oldest son as well as Big T’s dad—had been the only father figure in my life since I was two. So, despite the fact I didn’t care for his autocratic attitude, he still knew how to make me behave...and rebel.
After lifting my chin, I gave him a tight nod. “Yeah, I know I’m late. I’m sorry, but I...” I paused, trying to come up with a plausible reason for my tardiness that wouldn’t get me an overly long lecture—since he abhorred my love for his least-favorite kind of music—but he obviously didn’t want to hear excuses today.
“Carmen didn’t come in tonight. We need you up front, pronto.”
I bit back an immediate curse. But...damn it. I hated waitressing more than anything. Fingering the hem of my sweater, I said, “I’m not dressed to work out front.”
“Solo hazlo,” he muttered his command.
“Sí, tío querido.” My answer made him scowl, because it reminded him how much of a tyrant I’d repeatedly told him he was. He hated it when I called him uncle dearest in my sweet angelic voice, like some kind of meek servant—since he knew I was anything but meek or sweet—about as much as I hated how he refused to call me by my first name.
Tío Alonso was the only person on earth who addressed me as Elisa, my middle name, because he thought Remy was much too masculine and not nearly Latin enough for his taste.
“And Elisa?” he grumbled, his accent thickening with his irritation.
I sighed, wondering what he was going to pick on now. “?Sí?”
“Limpia tu camisa.” He waved his pointer finger at my sweater.
I glanced down to see flour spotting the cloth. Muttering under my breath, I beat at it, to clean it off as best I could while Tío Alonso pushed his way back through the doorway and left us.
Behind me, Big T chuckled softly at my scolding.
“Idiota,” I hissed at him, using the much more kosher word this time, just in case Tío Alonso could still hear us. “Look what you did to me.”
He only smirked harder. “Hey, I didn’t know you were going to be forced to waitress tonight.”
“How about you wait tables then, and I’ll finish up these empanadas,” I begged, fluttering my lashes at him. But I must’ve tried that trick one too many times; he totally wasn’t swayed.
“Not on your life, prima. Get out there.”
“Asshole.” I flipped him off before hurrying my way through the doorway and finding myself behind the front counter facing the dining area where dozens of tables were already full. Ugh! I so did not have the disposition to be a good server tonight, and since it was a Monday, more of the family scene would be present, including obnoxious bratty kids and irritable fed-up parents.
The joy.
Wherever the hell Carmen was, I hoped her absence from here was worth it, because I was going to kill her for making me go through this today of all days. If I hadn’t been forced to work right now, I’d be at home, slaughtering Nazis or zombies on my Call of Duty game...because I was in the perfect mood to draw some virtual blood.
I was fishing a spare waitressing apron out from under the counter along with an extra order pad when a soft voice called my name from the cash register. I glanced over and caught sight of my tiny, gray-headed grandmother perched on a stool watching me.
I’d totally forgotten Big T had said she was here tonight...if that didn’t tell you how scattered my brain was after my auditions.
“Abuela.” I hurried to her to give her the dutiful granddaughterly hug. “Te extra?é.”
Abuela had been my legal guardian since I was nine, when enough drugs had fried my mother’s brain to the point she’d been put away in a mental institution. But since Abuela had lived with Tío Alonso ever since they’d come to the US on work visas two years before I was born, I’d been raised pretty much under his roof...and his rule. And even though my grandmother could be sassy when you crossed her, she was still the sweetest soul and usually compliant to her eldest son’s authority.
“Mi linda nieta,” she murmured, cupping my face and looking into my eyes. “Te ves triste.”
I forced a smile and shook my head. “I’m not sad,” I tried to reassure her in Spanish, all the while biting the inside of my lip and hating that she could always see so much in me. I couldn’t tell her about my failed audition either; she loathed my kind of music just as much as Tío Alonso did. “Just...upset about having to wait tables.”