Silver Edge
Page 2
“No, sir.” I made quick work of entering the order to avoid further convo with him.
“You need to use your pad so you don’t forget anything,” GM said.
“No worries. I don’t need to write it down.”
He crossed his arms over his chest in that I’m-the-boss stance. “I gave you this job as a favor. Don’t blow it. You’ve served nothing but attitude since you started your shift, and it doesn’t sit well with me. Being a waitress requires people skills, and I’m not seeing much of that from you.”
“I thought we were talking about the computer.” I grabbed a water pitcher and returned to work, my mind abandoning the conversation to calculate tile patterns beneath my feet. With the crowd’s ear-piercing volume and mixed smells of food and perfume, I needed something to hold my concentration.
Perhaps this waitress thing wasn’t the right job for me. Not that it mattered. I had to make it work if I was going to be able to survive on my own. Who else would hire an ex-addict high-school dropout with an attitude and no job history? I’d managed to find that abandoned warehouse space only a few blocks from here for sleeping until I could afford a place. There had been no mention of a place to stay before my middle-of-the-night escape. I had saved just enough money from my Community chores for food until my paycheck. Everything had fallen into place; I couldn’t wreck it now.
After filling water glasses and dropping off stacks of napkins, I retrieved the problem couple’s food from the warmer window, but my feet stuck to the tacky daffodil-colored tile. I forced one foot to move, then the other.
Slurp. Pop. Slurp. Pop.
The vibration carried up my calf and thigh to my hips then shook each rib. How long had it been since someone cleaned the sticky floor? I longed to grab a mop and make it stop, but I continued despite the feeling of garbage disposal blades slashing at my ankles.
With a forced smile, I lowered the plates. He returned my gesture, a gazillion-dollar smile that probably melted most women’s knees. One of my knees trembled slightly. Well, I was human, too. A whisper of a girl and clothed in Goodwill rejects, but human.
“I told you to write it down,” Monroe sneered. “I said no meat, no corn, no cilantro, and no tomatoes.” She huffed and lifted one perfectly manicured hand toward the GM, who stood at the end of the aisle. A breeze from the propped-open front doors sent her smoldering-weed perfume my way. My gut wrenched and my gag reflex engaged.
“Is that necessary?” Filet’s beaming smile dwarfed to a failing night-light.
The overhead lightbulb flickered, shooting stabbing pain into my brain. My heartbeat quickened, stinging my chest.
“Can I help you, miss?” The GM stood at my side, his gaze dipping to her voluptuous half-exposed breasts and back to her full lips.
At that moment, I knew she’d won. She snagged him easily in her web of beauty and societal superiority.
“Yes, sir,” she drawled with the sensuality of a jazz singer. “This young lady refused to write down my order, and now she’s ruined it.”
“She ordered a Mexican salad with no cilantro, no meat, and no corn. I remember everything,” I said, my voice lowering to that of a simpering child. Dang, I hated when my body betrayed me.
“No. I ordered a Mexican salad with no cilantro, no meat, no corn, no tomato, and no attitude.” She ran a finger down the neckline of her dress, accentuating her cleavage for my boss. And the dumb animal took the bait, practically drooling as he stood there.
“I don’t recall you saying no tomatoes.” Filet winked at me, his dark lashes fluttering with the promise to save me from the vengeful tramp at his side.
Her head whipped around like she’d been possessed. “No, I’m sure you’re mistaken.”
He closed his mouth like the good little pet he probably was. “Whatever.” With that one word, his status faded from conqueror to mosquito. Damn him. She must be a beast in bed.
“We’ll make it right, miss. I’m so sorry for your trouble. Scarlet, take this back to the kitchen and order it correctly this time.”
I bit my tongue and snagged her plate.
The woman nudged her companion’s plate with one finger, as if she’d missed her cootie vaccination. “You’ll have to remake Drake’s, too, or it’ll be cold.”
“I’m fine, really.” He opened his mouth as if offering a lifeline, but he’d already blown it.
“I’d be happy to.” I reached across the table and retrieved his plate. I about-faced toward the kitchen and took a step. My ankle snagged on the corner of the chair, but my upper body didn’t stop. The plates slid from my arms. I squeezed my fingers to maintain my grip, but they flew into the air. My palms broke my fall and the plates crashed, one by my ear, the other on my head. Lettuce, tomato, and ketchup coated my face.
I didn’t have to look to know all eyes were on me.
Two snaps sounded from behind before GM knelt by my right ear. “Get yourself cleaned up then leave. I don’t care what I owe Ton. You’re out of here.” His hot breath burrowed into my ear.
I shivered and shot up, only to slide in ketchup. Several slips and a knock on my head later, I stood. With chin held high, I marched to the back and out the dented metal door. There was no need to hang around. I wouldn’t be paid anyway.
I slid butt-first to the damp, ash-colored alley and lowered my head to my hands. The pounding subsided, and the realization of losing my job caused the sting of tears in my eyes. I’d failed again. If only I could control my attitude and actually learn to like people. There had to be a job out there where I didn’t have to deal with people. Didn’t have to listen to glasses clinking or people shouting or look at flickering lights. Tears itched at the corners of my eyes, but I refused to allow them to fall. Crying was a waste of time—a weakness. I’d learned that by my third foster home.
I rocked and cupped my hands over my ears to protect myself from the buzzing of the streetlamp, the honking of car horns, the squealing of brakes.
And my failure.
After a few moments, the swirls of unease tamed to a steady current and I took a long, cleansing breath, despite the smell of garbage and sour rags rotting in the September heat.
The door at my side flew open, sending rats, roaches, and forgotten souls scattering. “What the hell is wrong with you?” GM said. “Ton said he didn’t think you’d hack it on your own, something about being different, but that is too much.”
When did he speak to Ton? He hadn’t mentioned I was different the day he called GM about the job.
“Get your skinny ass out of here and don’t come back. That woman in there is the daughter of one of the wealthiest real estate tycoons in all of Atlanta. Her father could easily buy this entire block and force me out.” He paced in front of me. “Listen, here’s forty bucks.”
Two twenty-dollar bills floated to the wet asphalt in front of me.
Why did everyone treat me like a street whore?
“That should get you some food and clothing at least.” He clutched the faded silver handle to the back entrance of the restaurant and wrenched it open. The high-pitched sound shot a shiver through me and I squeezed my knees to my chest.
He hovered over me, no doubt judging me. No doubt thankful he had a way out of his promise to Ton. “You’ll probably just spend it on drugs.”
The door slammed shut.
Alone. Again. The way I preferred life.
I traced the red ketchup stains dotting the knees of my skinny jeans. The two twenties flittered in the breeze, so I snatched them and pressed my trembling hands to my chest. It was more than enough money to score something. In only minutes, the anxiety and pain would vanish.
“No!” I slid the bills into my front pocket, shoved from the ground, and retrieved my one-year-clean tag from my other pocket. With the tag firmly in my grip, I left the alley and turned the corner.
Drake and Ms. Monroe stood outside the restaurant. I halted and eyed the street. There was no escape route without one of them spotting me, so I r
etreated into the shadows.
“You didn’t have to cause such a scene.” He ran a hand through his thick hair in a way I’d seen men do in underwear commercials. I could only see the back of him. His strong ass accentuated by his tight jeans, his muscular back and massive shoulders called to me. I could get lost with him for a few minutes.
If only I didn’t want to run as soon as the act was over and need drugs to get through it, maybe I would make a good prostitute. But no, all that touching was too much.
I leaned in to hear more.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were attracted to that bony brat.”
“Margo, you’re being ridiculous.” He rested his gladiator shoulder against the brick wall, tugging his shirt tighter across his back.
“Am I? Admit it. You thought she was attractive.” Margo swayed on her platform diva shoes.
Me? I grabbed the gutter at the corner of the building to keep from tumbling into the street.
Drake lifted and lowered his hands in a mini shrug. “She was pretty, sure, but I didn’t disrespect you in any way.” He sighed. “I’m tired of your insecurities.”
“Insecurities? I am not insecure. I’m a beautiful, intelligent woman with a future. There are men lining up to date me.”
Drake pushed back his shoulders and stiffened. “Your threats are getting old.”
“Threats? I’m not threatening you. I’ve never held the fact that my father could shut down your little club with just a snap of my fingers over your head and leave you with nothing. Or that I’m the only thing stopping him.”
He shook his head. “You just did.”
So, the little tramp was holding his business over his head. A spark of interest returned and images of going horizontal with him plagued me. Still, I’d made a promise never to take that route again. My body could use the release of constant hormones. I traced the X on the back of my wrist, the tattoo to remind me of my promise to remain on the right path, to agree with the rules of Straight Edge.
No drugs.
No promiscuous sex.
No self-destructive behavior.
An easy task while living in the Straight Edge community, in Ton’s makeshift home for the crazies, but here I was on my own. If I wasn’t careful, I’d end up in jail, institutionalized, or dead.
Chapter Three
Drip, drip, drip.
Sigh.
Drip, drip, drip.
The water trickled over the pipe, drowning my patience. I was thankful to have any shelter, even if it was in an upstairs back room of an abandoned warehouse, but if that pipe would stop dripping I’d be happier. The forever optimistic words of Ton rattled through my brain: be thankful for all the gifts and don’t concentrate on the letdowns of life. This warehouse was definitely a blessing over a shelter full of snoring, smelly, sickly people who wanted to talk about their troubles. I’d been lucky to find my quiet home the first night I arrived in Atlanta.
I threw the thin blanket off my body, shot up from my makeshift bed on the floor, and kicked my adversarial pipe. Then I stormed back to the other side of the abandoned warehouse storage room.
Silence. Ah, finally.
Thwank. Chalang, chalang. Beurp.
Drip, drip, drip.
I huffed. Huffed for the hours I had spent walking the pavement, looking for a job, only to find one Help Wanted sign. Huffed for the hours I laid awake listening to the dripping water. Huffed at the hours I lived with my uncharged iPod—my Kevlar suit against noises. Most of all, it just felt good to huff.
I lifted the corner of the worn newspaper and peaked out through the murky glass. Years of pollution blocked my line of sight, so I lowered it again. A twinge in my lower back stole the air from my lungs. A Chihuahua had less aches after a dogfight. Sleeping on the hard wooden floor was better than when I’d spent my nights under that bridge, but apparently living in the psych ward had made me weak. I needed to toughen up if I was going to fight for the bartender gig at that club, Bands. Probably owned by some old fat man with a ZZ Top beard and comb-over, but it didn’t matter. I’d work for Donald Trump if it meant I could listen to music instead of snotty bitches. Hopefully the man needed reading glasses and my fake ID would pass with no issue. No one would hire a girl who wasn’t old enough to drink to serve alcohol at their club. Mental note, never buy an ID from a man named Snake on a bus from New York to Atlanta.
I twisted. Snaps and pops cracked along my spine. Muscles relaxed, freeing me to move, so I snagged my watch and glanced at the digital face. Nine fifteen. Forty-five minutes until Bands opened. A place with music and darkness and people with attitudes.
My utopia.
My pulse echoed three times faster than the dripping water. I crossed the cracked cement floor to my bag, retrieved my washcloth, and held it under the frigid, dripping water. Each drop pierced my skin with an icy chill.
I wiped the scratchy cloth over my face and arms before tugging my pants from my duffel and sliding them over my trembling legs.
Once I snagged that job, I’d upgrade. Hopefully the club owner didn’t mind a Goodwill fashionista for a bartender. After running a comb through my long, dark waves, I shoved everything into my duffel, except my dead iPod and charger, then hid my bag behind the old water heater in the corner.
I clutched the exposed pipe and shimmied to the bottom floor. More newspapers covered the windows on the front doors, so I peeled a corner back and peeked through the murky, taped-up glass. The world looked muted, less intense. If only reality were that euphoric.
It was time for me to snag that job. Not one Ton had found for me. Had he chosen that job because he knew I could never handle it? He knew of my issues with noise, smells, lights, and anything else that assaulted my senses or invaded my person. Waitressing seemed like a job for a master graduate of the real world rather than a high school dropout of life, but he wouldn’t have done anything to hurt me. Would he?
He’d sobered me with some strong will, offering me an accepting group of supporters. He’d taken care of me until I could manage on my own. I owed him my life, not my attitude.
Shaking the dizzying thoughts from my head, I cracked the door and searched the alleyway for any homeless. I wasn’t about to give up my oasis to every vagrant within a ten-mile radius.
With a quick exit, I slung the chain around the handle and silver hook protruding from the brick wall. I yanked the lock I’d purchased yesterday from my pants pocket and secured the door to keep out any unwanted trespassers, like myself.
I shuffled through the alley to the corner. Skyscrapers towered overhead. Restaurants, convenience stores, and coffeehouses owned the bottom-floor real estate along the street. Loud honks, people shouting, and sirens blaring halted my steps. How did people live with all this noise pollution? Not to mention, the smells were worse than a druggy vomiting from withdrawal.
Despite the fact no music sang through my earphones, I slid them into my ears and walked along the sidewalk through town to the skate park. It took longer than I’d expected, but the enormous warehouse-looking structure towered at the edge of the other side of the park. Bands. A strange building with an eclectic appearance. It looked like an old mill meets 1940s theater, with its large wooden water wheel out front, ticket booth, and marquee.
A line of people snaked around the side of the stone-faced, wood-beamed building. There was no way I could wait that long. I’d crashed enough clubs without paying to know another way existed. The band entrance.
I snuck around back and traipsed up a steep ramp until I found the loading and unloading zone where an eighties wannabe hair band member hefted a set of drums from an SUV.
“Come on. We’re up next. Get a move on.” A shaggy-haired boy’s voice cracked with more irritation than the cymbals clanking at the hands of his band mate.
I raced around the dark-blue Toyota 4Runner that had seen more miles than some of the bums in New York. “Here, let me help. I’m the bartender. I’ll carry one in on my way.”
“No.” Shit, shit, shit. I hoped my ID would speak louder than my skinny frame.
I snatched a guitar case and eyed the peeling paint, missing boards, and crumbling stone facade. Yep, I’d fit right in. I entered the building through the backstage entrance. Black walls, curtains, and pipes decorated the place in a dungeon motif. It swaddled me in loving arms of darkness. A small room to my left housed all the band equipment, so I dropped the case, nodded to the band members, then bolted through the backstage entrance to the bar area.
Two bars, one on each side of the dance floor, served the swarming patrons. The one to the left was small so only the one bartender would fit, but the busier one to the right housed two registers, plenty of room, and only one bartender. The lone bartender was zooming around behind the lacquered wood structure, people shouting orders at him. A medieval wrought iron chandelier swayed with the techno beat blaring from the overhead speakers. People crowded together underneath it, some dancing, others trying to scream into one another’s ears over the music.
This was my shot to prove my worth before sharing my job history. After a deep breath, I slid under the bar counter and greeted the first Goth-dressed, black-lipstick-wearing customer. “Whatcha want?”
“Whiskey sour,” the patron shouted.
I grabbed the bottle of whiskey and the sour mix, pouring with precision while scanning the bar menu pricing, then slid an orange rind on the edge of the glass. The man tossed a twenty next to the drink, so I made quick change and pocketed the tip.
The bartender at my side banged on the other register, his full attention on abusing the device. “Damn thing!”
“Beer!” A man with skinny shoulders pointed.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, popping the cap off a bottle of beer and sliding it to the patron.
His attention remained fixed on the machine in front of him. “Register won’t give change.”