locker, then pulled my shirt off. I didn’t
have a second to spare before Yvonne, who I was relieving, started chewing me
out for stranding her on the floor. I yanked a low-cut dress that showed more
leg than modesty out of my bag and wrestled into it.
“You’re late,” Freddie, my manager, said. He stank of cigarettes,
which I found disgusting.
“I’m sorry, I had a gig.” I kicked off my shoes and pulled my
pants off from under my dress. I had no time to worry about what Freddie
thought of me.
“Bully for you.” Freddie crossed his arms, scrunching his brown
pinstripe suit. He had a mole on his cheek and wore a puckered expression even
when he looked down my shirt, which was almost every time we talked.
I didn’t wait to argue. I slipped back into my shoes, slapped my
locker shut, and ran toward the floor.
“Yvonne!” I caught her in the back hall as she folded a wad of tips
into her pocket.
“Monica, girl! Where were you?”
“I’m sorry. Thanks for covering my tables. Can I make it up to
you?”
“I don’t get home in time, you can pay the sitter an extra hour.”
“No problem,” I said, though it was a big problem.
“Jonathan Drazen is at your table.” She put her hand to her
heart. “He’s hot, and he’ll tip if he likes what he sees. So be nice.” She
handed me the tickets for my station.
Drazen was my boss’s boss. He owned the hotel, but we’d never
crossed paths. Apparently, he traveled a lot, and he spent little or no time on
the roof when he was in town, so our paths hadn’t crossed. This development was more annoying than
anything. I’d just gotten the ovation of my life at a really cool club and was
bathing in the warm validation. I didn’t need to prove myself all over again,
and based on what? If it wasn’t my music, I didn’t care.
The place was packed: wall-to-wall Eurotrash ,
Hollywood heavyweights, and assorted hangers-on. The pool was a big rectangle
in the center of the expanse. Red chairs surrounded it, and a large cocktail
area with tables and chairs sat off to the side. Little tents with couches
inside outlined most of the roof, and when the curtains closed, you left them
closed unless someone looked as though they’d taken off without paying.
I stood at the service bar, flipping through my tickets. Five
tables, two with little star punch-outs in the upper right hand corners. Put
there by Freddie, they meant someone important was at the table. Extra care was
required.
My first tray was a star punch-out. I put on a smile and
navigated through the crowd to deliver the tray to a table in the corner. Four
men and I knew Drazen right away. He had red hair cut just below the ears,
disheveled in that absolutely precise way. He wore jeans and a grey shirt that
showed off his broad shoulders and hard biceps. His full lips stretched across
flawless, natural teeth when he saw his tray coming, and I was caught a little
off guard by how much I couldn’t stop looking at him.
“H-Hi,” I stammered. “I’ll be your server.” I smiled. That always
worked. Then I thought happy thoughts because that made my smile genuine, and I
watched Drazen move his gaze from my smiling face, over my breasts, to my hips,
stopping at my calves. I felt as if I were being applauded again.
He looked back at my face. I stared right back at him, and he
pursed his lips. I’d caught him looking, and he seemed justifiably embarrassed.
“Hello,” he said. “You’re new.” His voice resonated like a cello,
even over the music.
I checked Yvonne’s notes and picked up a short glass with ice and
amber liquid from the tray. “You have the Jameson’s?”
“Thank you.” He nodded to me, keeping his eyes on my face and off
my body. Even then, I felt as if I were being eaten alive, sucked to fluid,
mouthful by mouthful. A liquid feeling came over me, and I stopped doing my job
for half a second while I allowed myself to be completely saturated by that
warm feeling. In that moment, of
have a second to spare before Yvonne, who I was relieving, started chewing me
out for stranding her on the floor. I yanked a low-cut dress that showed more
leg than modesty out of my bag and wrestled into it.
“You’re late,” Freddie, my manager, said. He stank of cigarettes,
which I found disgusting.
“I’m sorry, I had a gig.” I kicked off my shoes and pulled my
pants off from under my dress. I had no time to worry about what Freddie
thought of me.
“Bully for you.” Freddie crossed his arms, scrunching his brown
pinstripe suit. He had a mole on his cheek and wore a puckered expression even
when he looked down my shirt, which was almost every time we talked.
I didn’t wait to argue. I slipped back into my shoes, slapped my
locker shut, and ran toward the floor.
“Yvonne!” I caught her in the back hall as she folded a wad of tips
into her pocket.
“Monica, girl! Where were you?”
“I’m sorry. Thanks for covering my tables. Can I make it up to
you?”
“I don’t get home in time, you can pay the sitter an extra hour.”
“No problem,” I said, though it was a big problem.
“Jonathan Drazen is at your table.” She put her hand to her
heart. “He’s hot, and he’ll tip if he likes what he sees. So be nice.” She
handed me the tickets for my station.
Drazen was my boss’s boss. He owned the hotel, but we’d never
crossed paths. Apparently, he traveled a lot, and he spent little or no time on
the roof when he was in town, so our paths hadn’t crossed. This development was more annoying than
anything. I’d just gotten the ovation of my life at a really cool club and was
bathing in the warm validation. I didn’t need to prove myself all over again,
and based on what? If it wasn’t my music, I didn’t care.
The place was packed: wall-to-wall Eurotrash ,
Hollywood heavyweights, and assorted hangers-on. The pool was a big rectangle
in the center of the expanse. Red chairs surrounded it, and a large cocktail
area with tables and chairs sat off to the side. Little tents with couches
inside outlined most of the roof, and when the curtains closed, you left them
closed unless someone looked as though they’d taken off without paying.
I stood at the service bar, flipping through my tickets. Five
tables, two with little star punch-outs in the upper right hand corners. Put
there by Freddie, they meant someone important was at the table. Extra care was
required.
My first tray was a star punch-out. I put on a smile and
navigated through the crowd to deliver the tray to a table in the corner. Four
men and I knew Drazen right away. He had red hair cut just below the ears,
disheveled in that absolutely precise way. He wore jeans and a grey shirt that
showed off his broad shoulders and hard biceps. His full lips stretched across
flawless, natural teeth when he saw his tray coming, and I was caught a little
off guard by how much I couldn’t stop looking at him.
“H-Hi,” I stammered. “I’ll be your server.” I smiled. That always
worked. Then I thought happy thoughts because that made my smile genuine, and I
watched Drazen move his gaze from my smiling face, over my breasts, to my hips,
stopping at my calves. I felt as if I were being applauded again.
He looked back at my face. I stared right back at him, and he
pursed his lips. I’d caught him looking, and he seemed justifiably embarrassed.
“Hello,” he said. “You’re new.” His voice resonated like a cello,
even over the music.
I checked Yvonne’s notes and picked up a short glass with ice and
amber liquid from the tray. “You have the Jameson’s?”
“Thank you.” He nodded to me, keeping his eyes on my face and off
my body. Even then, I felt as if I were being eaten alive, sucked to fluid,
mouthful by mouthful. A liquid feeling came over me, and I stopped doing my job
for half a second while I allowed myself to be completely saturated by that
warm feeling. In that moment, of
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