Loaded, p.2
Loaded, page 2
After spending a lifetime learning to make no impression on others, to attract no attention, it’s disconcerting. There’s a reason I wasn’t a performance major. There’s a reason I never considered trying to write and perform my own music. I have a terrible voice and shouldn’t sing in public, for one, but for another, it makes me feel absolutely ill to have people staring at me. Talking about me. Paying attention to me.
I can usually muddle my way through, as long as it’s sprung on me.
Instead of grumbling, or cursing Paul for flaking again, I just put my bag in my locker and head for the piano. At least at five in the afternoon, there’s hardly anyone here. None of the few patrons we do have seem to care that I’m playing. There’s an art to not playing so loudly that people can’t chat, but playing loudly enough that it creates ambiance.
That’s one thing I’m very good at gauging.
About three hours later, right as my arms are so exhausted from playing that I’m about to cry, Stacy shows up. They usually stack musicians on weekends. There’s only so many songs you can bang out before you need a break. I get paid almost the same thing for a three-hour shift as I make waiting tables for six, which is pretty nice.
Unfortunately, before I can leave, Iggy catches my eye and shakes his head. “Lincoln puked in the sink. You’re covering section 7.”
I don’t argue. I don’t complain. I just nod and close my locker without touching my bag. It takes me almost half an hour to get caught up on his tables, who cannot be told their waiter just puked his guts up. They were not super happy to have a twenty-minute interruption in their service, but I’ve nearly gotten them all happy when I catch a new table.
It’s only a two-top, but the client’s a VIP, apparently.
I used to think all VIPs would tip huge, but I was wrong. It’s honestly just as hit and miss with them as anyone else, but they’re much more likely to throw tantrums, so they almost always give them to their top servers, either me or Ollie.
When I reach the table, our host Frank is handing them menus. “Not that you’ll need this,” he says. “Not with Beatrice as your waitress.”
“What does that mean?” The woman’s lips are pumped so full of collagen that I’m shocked she can talk at all.
“She has a magical skill,” Frank says.
I wave him off. “Stop with that.”
“I mean it,” he says. “It’s uncanny. If you answer just three questions, she can order the perfect meal for you. Guaranteed.”
“You’re kidding,” the man says.
“Not at all,” Frank says. “You should let her work her magic. You won’t regret it.”
I was so distracted by the collagen-lipped, saline-chested woman that I hadn’t even glanced at her date. When I finally do, I realize to my horror that I know him.
It’s Easton Moorland.
His sister Elizabeth is married to my brother Emerson. We’ve met twice now—once at their friend’s video game launch, where my brother Jake half-knocked him over when they arm-wrestled. Jake doesn’t ever play fair, but it was pretty clear at Emerson’s wedding that Easton hadn’t let it go.
And now he’s my VIP.
His company was doing well for years, or so I hear, but it exploded not that long ago, and I’m kind of sick of hearing about it. If I’m lucky, he won’t even recognize me.
“Weren’t you just playing piano?” Easton asks.
I blink—how could he have seen that?
“The idiot hosts didn’t realize who he was.” The collagen-woman pouts. “They made us wait for a table.”
Easton, at least, has the decency to look embarrassed, but he doesn’t appear to know who I am. Thank heavens for small blessings. “I didn’t mind waiting—the music was incredible.”
“Incredible?” The woman arches one eyebrow. “If you like elevator music.”
“I do happen to like Chopin,” Easton says.
“I actually prefer Beving,” I say, “but they want straight classical here.”
“It was boring, so they should let you branch out,” she says. “Now, if you could play, like, the Piano Man, that would be something.”
“I’ll make note of it,” I say with a smile that I hope doesn’t look forced.
“How about it?” Easton asks. “Feel like working a little more magic tonight?”
“What?” Collagen asks.
“What questions do we have to answer to have you order for us?” He’s smiling, but not at his date.
At me.
“It’s probably easier if you just choose what you like from the menu,” I say.
“Oh, come on, Bea,” Easton says.
Apparently he knows exactly who I am, and that means he probably knew when I was playing, too. I hate when real life collides with work. I force another smile. “The first question is whether you have any allergies, Easton.”
“Wait, do you two know each other? Or, like, did they say your name earlier?” Collagen’s squinting as she stares at my very small chest. I’m assuming she’s looking for a nonexistent nametag.
“Bea’s brother Emerson married my sister,” Easton says. “Though until I saw her playing earlier, I had no idea she worked here.”
“It’s not like people advertise when they have this kind of job,” Collagen says.
Easton frowns. “I’ve spent the last few years chained to my desk at the office, but had I known you worked here, I’d have been here sooner. I’ve heard their pork chop is to die for.”
I cluck. “I don’t think that’s the right choice for you,” I say. “Once you answer the questions, I’ll pick something better.”
And I really, really want to get this one right.
3
Easton
Over a year ago now, I made a complete fool of myself.
In my thirty years of life, I’ve never done anything else that was so completely embarrassing. In fact, when boys got into fights at school, I always kind of laughed. Sometimes I’d roll my eyes.
It’s not that I never understood why they fought.
I get angry too.
But I always prefer to use my brains to sort things out. Only, when I met Bea for the first time, something in my brain broke. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She was so petite that I ached to wrap her up and protect her from the world. She had a gorgeous waterfall of shining, ebony hair. Her eyes were huge, almost anime-sized, and velvety brown. Her mouth distracted me so badly that I continuously found myself lost in the conversation.
And then her movie-star brother had flung his arm around her shoulders and something inside of me snarled. It wasn’t a friendly arm. He was saying “mine” with the movement. It made me angry.
Which was insane. I barely knew her.
But when, a few moments later, he suggested that someone who spent all day in a board room instead of physically training for action movies would have no chance of beating him in an arm wrestle. . .I’m not sure what happened. I mean, looking back on it, obviously my hours of sitting at a desk hadn’t prepared me to beat him.
I worked out.
Apparently not nearly enough.
I put up a decent fight, straining, heaving, puffing, and then he winked at me—winked—and slammed my hand down so hard it sent a bowl of popcorn, a whole bunch of water bottles, and a stack of papers flying off the table to scatter on the ground.
It was loud.
It was humiliating.
And while I fumed, that cretin slung his stupidly muscular arm around Bea and waltzed out of the party. To make everything even worse, he winked at me again as he strolled out.
With Bea.
In my entire life, I have never done something so shamefully embarrassing. But I did find someone online to show me how to arm wrestle after that, and I never skipped shoulders again.
Not that any of that matters.
After that infuriating and humiliating interchange, I spent the weeks leading up to Emerson and Elizabeth’s wedding preparing to meet Bea again. I asked Elizabeth about her, but my sister was worse than useless. She giggled, she made jokes, and then she threatened to tell Emerson I had asked.
It was almost worse than the arm wrestling.
At the wedding, that horrible Jake Priest never left her side, not for a moment for the entire wedding. I swear, maybe it’s because I know they’re foster siblings, and not real siblings, but he acts like she’s his girlfriend. No matter how many times I ducked around corners when I saw her head around one, Jake was already waiting there like a shield.
He didn’t wink again, but it was almost worse than if he had.
And now, as if the only time I can possibly meet her is when I’m at my worst, I bump into her here, at her job, with the most plastic, ridiculous date I could ever imagine. The contrast between Bea’s shining, natural beauty and this woman’s purchased and polished face is appalling, frankly.
I have no idea how I’m supposed to somehow make any inroads with her tonight, while I’m on a date, but if I have to come back here every night for a month, I will.
I decide to start by telling her that I’m excited to be here. “I’ve spent the last few years chained to my desk at the office, but had I known you worked here, I’d have been here sooner. I’ve heard their pork chop is to die for.”
“I don’t think that’s the right choice for you,” she says with a shy smile. “Once you answer the questions, I’ll pick something better.”
“Allergies?” Chaliesah asks. “Wasn’t that the first one?”
Bea nods politely.
Before I can say anything, Chaliesah continues. “Hmm, well. Citrus, sesame, and gluten, though I guess gluten’s not really an allergy, but I can’t eat it, or my face bloats. This face is worth a lot of money, so I can’t have it bloating.” She giggles.
I’m going to kill Mrs. Yaltzinger. This irritating woman is who their matchmaker came up with? They didn’t even tell me her name before our date—they just said my match has over a million followers on social and is an up-and-coming influencer for women’s cosmetics, like that matters more than her lack of a personality.
In spite of the fact that my last ten plus years were devoted almost entirely to either school or work, I’m not willing to marry anyone they point me at. I wonder what they’d say about Bea. For some reason, I doubt she even has social media. Although, who knows? Maybe she has a piano or music account. She looks exactly like a starving artist should, and not just because she’s thin. She just has this air of, “I won’t change who I am for you or anyone else, no matter what.” I had no idea how attractive that was until they set me up with this chameleon who desperately wants me to like her.
I’m wishing I’d spent more time with my new brother-in-law Emerson right about now. Maybe I’d already have run into Bea under better circumstances.
“And you?” When Bea turns toward me, her bright eyes locked on mine, my churning brain goes blank.
Just like the first time we met. I swallow.
“No allergies?”
The only thing I’m allergic to is bee stings, but saying a tiny bug can do me in doesn’t sound very manly, so I don’t mention it. It’s not like it impacts what I eat.
“Question two is, what was the best meal of your life?” She lifts her eyebrows. “Like, tell me what it was, how old you were when you ate it, and where you consumed it.”
“That’s like three questions,” my braintrust date says with a frown that somehow inexplicably creates no wrinkles in either her forehead or the place between her eyebrows. . .probably thanks to an extra helping of Botox.
“I’ll start with this one.” Maybe I can redeem myself. “When I was twelve, my parents took us to London, and I had fish and chips from a food cart, and we ate it while sitting on a bench on the Thames.”
“London sounds posh,” Bea says, “but eating fish and chips on a bench? That doesn’t fit the image of one of the youngest multi-millionaires in New York City.”
“Who knows?” I ask. “I might surprise you.”
Chaliesah’s frown turns into a scowl, which is only apparent by the pursing of her lips and the daggers she’s staring at Bea. “Why would you surprise her? She’s the waitress.”
“You’re right,” Bea says. “It’s my job to surprise both of you. So tell me, what was your best meal?”
“Last week.” Chaliesah straightens, glancing down at her immaculate manicure. “At Per Se in the City, I had the most epic chocolate mousse cake I’ve ever had.” She shrugs.
“That’s not a meal, though.” Bea bites her lip. “Did you love the entree you had there?”
“Of course I did,” Chaliesah says. “The lobster was amazing.”
Bea’s sigh is so slight I wouldn’t have caught it if I wasn’t watching her so closely. Her smile falters for the briefest of moments, like a computer screen that glitches.
It makes me laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Chaliesah snaps, but then, as if she has remembered something, she laughs. It may be the most forced laugh I’ve ever heard. “Just kidding. That was funny.”
Bea’s expression, like she’s seen someone urinating in public and desperately wants to back away slowly, is even funnier than the glitching smile. “My last question is what was your worst meal, and why?”
“Mine was every single time my mom tried to cook,” I joke. “Luckily it almost never happened.”
Bea’s laugh isn’t forced. It’s quick, sharp, and high. She tamps it down quickly, though, and that bums me out. “If you could be a little more specific—”
“He answered,” Chaliesah says. “And mine was peanut butter sandwiches at a friend’s house.”
“You don’t like peanut butter and jelly?” Bea’s lips pucker. “A good PB&J is one of life’s true indulgences, I think.”
“No one asked what you think, though. Right?” Chaliesah turns toward me and widens her eyes like I should be horrified that our waitress has more than two brain cells, and they aren’t fighting.
“Actually, I’m delighted to hear what she thinks, and like her, I love peanut butter and jelly, especially if the bread is soft and the jelly’s grape.”
“Grape?” Bea scrunches her nose. “Yeesh.”
“Too boring?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Not nearly as fun as, say, orange marmalade.”
Chaliesah tosses her napkin on the table and stands. “Why are we talking about peanut butter sandwiches?” She shakes her head. “We should go to a new place.”
“I like this one,” I say. “And I think that if you’re set up with someone by a high-end matchmaker, even if you don’t like them, you should grit your teeth and endure the meal, wherever you go, instead of making a scene.” I lift my chin and look right at her. “At least, that’s what I’ve been doing.”
Her jaw drops, her bright red lips parted alarmingly wide. “You’ve been. . .” Her mouth snaps closed and she frowns. “Wait, are you saying—”
“Get it faster,” Bea mutters so softly that I almost miss it.
She shouldn’t have to deal with this just because I am. “Bea, why don’t you take your best stab at what you think we’ll like,” I say. “And then we’ll let you know whether you were right.”
Bea inclines her head, spins around, and darts off.
Chaliesah huffs. Twice. I think she’s trying to decide whether she can bring herself to sit back down. The problem with her is that she’s used to being adored, and people who are always catered to—all their whims and fits indulged—become incapable of polite interactions. I could tell that was her problem within two minutes of meeting her. It was a common affliction when I was growing up, surrounded as I was by spoiled rich kids.
Of course, the slit running from her ankle to her hip bone was another red flag that this woman was probably not the kind of girl I was hoping to meet. I could have done without seeing her electric blue thong peeking out at me with every step, but I’m ignoring the things about her that bother me. She could at least have the decency to do the same.
“Are you really not having fun?” She sticks her bottom lip out.
“Is that a shock?” Maybe she really is extremely stupid.
“You’re not what I expected either.” She narrows her eyes, as if she’s trying to decide whether this can be salvaged.
“Yes, sticking around is a big waste of your time.”
“What happened to gritting your teeth?” She snaps.
Maybe she has more insight than I gave her credit for. “I suppose I couldn’t even take my own advice.”
She grabs her purse and stomps off. About three steps later, though, she’s shifted back into her sultry sway. I suppose it’s not very gratifying to stomp in four-inch Jimmy Choos.
Not three minutes later, Bea breezes by, setting two square plates in front of me. “I brought lobster dumplings for Miss Collagen USA, and I brought the burrata cheese and prosciutto salad for you.” She straightens and frowns. “Did she ask someone where the bathroom was?”
“No.” I shake my head.
Bea winces. “I should check and make sure she found it.”
“Is that something waitresses generally do?” I can’t help teasing her a little.
“Well, not usually, no, but. . .” She leans closer and drops her voice. “I was told you’re a VIP, and for VIPs, we’ll do most anything.”
“What if I told you my date ditched me, and I’m now terribly depressed?” I spread my hands across the top of the white linen tablecloth. “Would your boss let you eat with me to take some of the sting away?”
It’s that same laugh again. Short, sharp, high.
I love it. “I’m not kidding.” I hold her gaze.
“She really left?” She tilts her head. “I find that hard to believe, honestly. She seemed ready to challenge me to a duel when I—” Her mouth snaps shut.
What was she going to say? When she what? “When you. . .?” I raise both eyebrows.
She ducks her head. “Never mind.”
When she flirted with me? Is that what she meant? I hope that’s what she’s been doing. Is that really why Chaliesah stormed off? Can she tell I like Bea?
