Total pages in book: 44
Estimated words: 42202 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 211(@200wpm)___ 169(@250wpm)___ 141(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 42202 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 211(@200wpm)___ 169(@250wpm)___ 141(@300wpm)
Christine’s expression is hard to read when I go to the bar to collect my tray and order pad. Becca hurries over, her eyes wide. “Did you know about this, Caz?”
“Of course she didn’t,” Christine says before I can reply. “What’s this about?” she asks, turning to me.
“I don’t know. They’re full of stories that don’t make sense. And they say they want to take care of me.”
Christine’s eyes narrow, and she’s silent for a beat before she says, “Apparently, they paid Rusty a ton of money.”
I scan the room but don’t see him. “Where’d he go?”
“He left already. Said he’ll be back in tomorrow. He was talking about planning a long vacation. Said the bar sold for more than he ever imagined it would be worth.”
From information gleaned online, I knew the Stone brothers ran a successful business, and I figured they must have money if they could afford living in New York City, but I never imagined they’d be the kind of wealthy that could buy a bar at the drop of a hat. Hell, I have no idea what a bar would cost — even a little dive like this — but I know it’s more money than I’ve ever seen.
But the nerve of them, to think that I need their money or would ever take their money.
“We’re here for you, Caz,” Christine says. “Things will be okay.”
I give her a nod. If I get another job, I’ll miss Christine. Becca’s great too, but Christine exudes a sense of calm that I’m not sure I’ve ever had in my life.
I get on with my job and try to forget who I’m working for. I’m just here to earn tips; nothing else matters. From time to time, one or more of the brothers are out in the bar, and I notice them sending looks my way, but I ignore them.
At the end of the night, Becca and I clear glasses from the tables. Rusty always had a cleaner come in after hours, and I assume that will stay the same. Christine is finishing up behind the bar, and when we offer help, she tells us we can leave.
I’m nearly out the back door when Bronson calls my name. I consider ignoring him, but that would just create needless drama. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I tell Becca.
“You sure?” she asks. When I nod, she says, “See you tomorrow.”
I turn toward Bronson, who’s standing in the office doorway. “What do you need?” I ask.
“C’mon in,” he says, stepping into the office. I sigh and follow him, and am immediately struck by how much smaller the room seems with the four men inside it. I didn’t notice it earlier, when anger was clouding my vision. I’m still angry, but it’s more of a low simmer, and honestly, I’m mostly just tired at this point of the night.
I don’t know how they’re planning to run the place, but they’re going to need more furniture in here, or maybe they’ll have to expand the office. Though surely it won’t take all four of them to run this bar.
I shrug internally, not sure why I’m even thinking about their logistics. I don’t care what they do.
“We wanted to talk to you about the dress code,” Barrett says.
“Dress code?” I frown at him. “Rusty’s isn’t the type of place for a dress code. You’re going to lose business if you don’t let customers wear shorts or sandals.”
“Not the customers. The employees.”
My frown deepens.
“No more skimpy tops that let customers see your tits,” Bronson says.
I look down at my snug black tank top. Rusty didn’t care what we wore, and I never gave too much thought to it, except to model my clothing after other waitresses who were working here when I started.
“How the hell am I going to earn tips, then?” If a little cleavage increases my earnings — and it most certainly does — then I want the option to wear what I want to wear. Plus, when the bar is crowded, it gets hot.
“Your tips won’t be important,” Barrett says.
“You’ll be getting a pay increase,” his twin adds. “A hefty one.”
A normal reaction would be to jump at a pay raise, put it sounds an awful lot like them trying to take care of me, and to give me help I don’t need and have specifically told them I don’t want.
“I don’t want your money, and I’m going to wear whatever the fuck I want,” I say slowly. To emphasize my point, I tug the neckline of my shirt down, exposing a bit of the lace at the top of my bra, and a whole lot of skin above.
When I look up, I find expressions on their faces that I’ve never seen before. Oh, I’ve witnessed plenty of these types of looks from men in the bar, but never from my stepbrothers.