Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 84250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
If I had a damn dime for every time those six words have left her mouth, I wouldn't have to work a second damned job to pay off the debt that her son left me in when he died.
"She could get sick being outside so late," she says, as if science and the presence of germs and viruses play no part in illness.
Instead of arguing, which if I go by what Hux told me about his parents could mean that they'll pull out of Larkin's life, I do what I always do and give in.
"I'll be by at seven," I tell her.
"That's only five hours of sleep," she says. "That's not enough time for yourself. Plus, you'll just have her right back here at eight-thirty before you go to work with Dr. McBride. Might as well just leave her here."
I clamp my lips together before asking her if keeping me completely away from my daughter is her goal, but I'm going to be late. Considering Walker hasn't even officially hired me, I know there's no sense in wasting time arguing a point that might be moot in an hour anyway.
"Tomorrow is Sunday, and the vet's office isn't open," I remind her. "I'll be here no later than nine. Have a good night."
Like the Southern woman that she is, she stands on her front porch and watches me leave. Almost everyone around here does the same as if it's disrespectful in some way to get back to their lives before the person they were chatting with disappears down the road.
Although I don't see Walker when I step inside the bar, his truck is outside, so I know he's lurking around here somewhere. Instead of finding him just for him to tell me to leave, I walk behind the bar like I've worked here for years and grab an apron.
I smile at Maggie as she looks over her shoulder while helping a customer and wait for her to finish up.
"Do you want to be behind the bar or on the floor?" she asks once she's done.
"Either or is fine with me," I tell her, knowing there's money to be made in either place.
“I’ll just stay back here then,” she says, indicating behind the bar.
"How are they numbered?" I ask, pointing to the tables.
"One over there in the corner by the door and zigzagging until you get to twenty-one," she says.
"Perfect," I tell her, fully understanding her explanation.
"Hey," she says before I can step away. "Do you need a pen and pad for orders?"
I shake my head no, and I see the sense of relief flash in her eyes as I step away. I have no doubt she has spent many hours training people who either haven't worked out or have never caught on to how a place like this operates. It's not a difficult job, but it's also not for everyone.
Although I haven't stepped foot in a bar other than trying to get a job in this one since I left El Paso over three years ago, it's like riding a bike. I smile and chat as I take and deliver orders. I chuckle like I'm supposed to rather than telling the college guys at table ten that they've got literally no chance of getting me back to their dorm rooms. The goal is to be available but not obtainable if my intention is to get tips. Also, I know I can't be too flirty either. I don't want this generation of entitled men getting upset because they think I promised something I haven't.
"I think those jeans would look better on my bedroom floor," one guy tells me as if this pickup line has worked for him in the past.
"Are you saying they look bad on me?" I ask with a pout, feeling like I stepped over a line. I guess that's the difference between working a room as a single woman and working a room as a mother. This guy, although legal to drink and only a handful of years younger than me, is someone's son. It gives me a certain level of ick.
The guy, already a few too many beers deep, gets confused with my question as if it was trigonometry homework, and I use the time to escape.
I key in several table orders for Maggie to fill behind the bar before pressing my back to the wood and looking around the room. I didn’t stick around long enough on Thursday evening to find out why the bar would’ve been so crowded, but most places have a ladies’ night on Thursdays, with their drinks a little more affordable for women. It draws the guys in, thinking they have a better shot at taking someone home.
It's seriously cringeworthy, but who am I to tell anyone how to run their business?
Tonight isn't as crazy as the other night felt, but there's definitely enough business that another waitress or two could easily find enough work to keep busy. It may keep me running all night, but I'm not going to argue about having an abundance of possible tippers.