Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
At least the teens had the excuse that their damned prefrontal cortexes weren’t fully formed yet, though. This guy couldn’t claim the same.
He was just an asshole.
But even assholes had to be served.
“I’m sorry. I’m a little shorthanded,” I said, using the line that had been working so well for everyone else. Unfortunately, this was not one of those cases.
“Not my fucking fault you came to work injured,” he said. “This bacon isn’t crisp enough. How hard is it to understand the word ‘crispy?’”
“I will get that fixed right up for you,” I said, plastering on a smile that was so fake, my cheeks hurt as I grabbed the plate of bacon and made my way back toward the kitchen.
I went ahead and took my time even after the cook was done tossing the bacon in the fryer, “He wants crispy, it will be to a fucking crisp,” he said, tossing the shriveled pieces of meat onto a plate, giving me a sympathetic eye roll.
“Some people just can’t be pleased,” I said, shrugging it off, trying to ignore the shot of pain that still sent through my system, then making my way back out into the front.
I’d just made my way out of the swinging door when my gaze went to my picky patron.
To find him facedown in his plate of pancakes, a hand on the back of his neck, holding him there, as Salvatore growled something in his ear.
My gaze shot around the restaurant, seeing the looks of confusion, shock, and a little bit of fear in the eyes of the other customers.
I felt all those things as well.
But they were easily overpowered by a completely different sensation.
Heat.
Like, you know, that kind of heat.
Because, apparently, I now thought it was hot when a guy assaulted another guy for being rude to me.
Whatever Salvatore was saying, he seemed done as he gave my customer one last hard shove on the neck, making the syrup on his pancakes nearly get in his eyes, then releasing him to stand up.
“Tip your fucking waitress, asshole,” he said, taking a step back as the man reached with shaking hands for his wallet, pulling out a wad, and tossing it on the table without counting it, then making his way toward the door, nearly tripping over his own feet in the process.
From a back table, a group of young adults started clapping and whistling as the trash took himself out. They were quickly followed by several other tables.
It was right then that Salvatore turned to look at me, looking almost a little, I don’t know, bashful for a second.
Bashful?
A mafia guy?
Unlikely.
“You weren’t supposed to see that,” he admitted as I made my way over toward the table, where I could see that the man was so scared that he’d left me what looked like one-hundred bucks on a thirty-dollar tab, max.
“I’m kind of glad I did,” I admitted, shooting him a smirk. “I think every server in the world has fantasized about that very moment. Thank you. I mean, the cops might show up, but thank you.”
“He’s too big of a pussy to go to the cops,” Salvatore said, sounding sure of himself. And, I guess, when you made a living intimidating and beating people up, you grew to know who had balls and who just had big egos with weak spines.
“You’re the expert,” I said, starting to gather the plates and pile them for the busier.
“Take the cash, baby. You earned it,” he added, reaching for it and putting it into my hand, like he didn’t trust me to do it for myself, then making his way back to his table like nothing at all had happened.
While I stood there trying to convince myself that I didn’t just develop a very ridiculous, completely selfish little crush on the man.
For just being a decent person, really.
What can I say?
I’d never had a man defend my honor for me. Hell, I once had a guy tell me—to my face—that if we were out on a date and some random guy punched me in the face, that he wouldn’t do anything. Because “how would it help if I got hit too?”
Then, of course, there was that one guy who thought he could put hands on me. Luckily for me, my parents had instilled some good sense and at least a small amount of self-worth in me before they passed away, so I did not to stand for that shit, and got rid of him fast.
But, yeah, if someone made a rude comment about me, or was outright hostile toward me, every guy I’d known had just… looked the other way, pretended they didn’t hear it, anything not to have to get involved.
And these were men I was involved with at the time.
Then there was this guy. One who I didn’t really even know. One who’d freaking shot me. One who was paying me hush money to keep my mouth shut, and literally had nothing to gain for standing up for me. Pushing a guy’s head into his food just because he’d been rude to me.