“You’ll get a significant pay increase,” Cliff says. “Since you’re no longer considered a tipped employee.”
My throat tightens. I press my hand flat against the table to hide the tremor.
This.This is how I get out.
“You’re also eligible for health insurance,” he adds.
I barely hear it. No way I’m signing up; it would gut my paycheck. Besides, it’s not like I can afford to get sick.
Then something clicks. I glance up sharply. “Wait. I won’t be considered a tipped employee at all?”
Cliff nods. “That just means your main job isn’t serving tables. But you can still pick up shifts when we’re slammed.”
I nod slowly, trying to process the sudden shift in my reality.
“What about bartending?” I ask, hesitating over the last signature line.
Cliff tilts his head. “You can move into that position when there’s an opening. But you’ll need to complete the four-week class first. You knew that, right?”
I nod again, slower this time. That’s the catch. There always is.
He studies me for a beat longer, then says, almost casually, “I can start scheduling you as a barback if you want. You don’t have to wait until you’re twenty-one for that. Barbacks aren’t required to take the class. Only those looking to move up tobartender. Might help you down the line if you ever want to work somewhere that doesn’t require the certification.”
The unexpected offer wedges a lump in my throat. Not pity—opportunity. Real opportunity. The survival instinct to distrust it flares first, but this time, I push through it. I sign the last page, breathing a little easier than I have in a long time.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
Cliff smiles, small but real. “I meant it when I said I understand.”
Chapter 4
Candace
“Excuseme,miss?”
I barely have time to turn before a plate slams into my stomach, the chill of the ceramic bleeding straight through my shirt. It sinks deep, bone deep, an accusation I can’t outrun. My breath catches, not from the weight, but from the way her eyes slice into me. Sharp, unyielding, a blade she wields with a practiced hand.
“I asked for chicken. This has shrimp,” she says, voice clipped with irritation. “I’m allergic to shellfish.”
Her words aren’t just angry. They’re gleeful. Predatory. She’s waiting for me to flinch.
A slow, serrated breath in. My teeth grind together, molars pressing with the force of tectonic plates ready to rupture. A familiar heat prickles at the base of my neck—anger, humiliation, the searing urge to scream. But I bury it. I always bury it.
Her manicured fingers glitter under the restaurant lights, gold bangles chiming, each one a warning bell. “All my friends have already eaten. So I want mine to go. And I want it free.”
Of course she does.
The air turns heavy, thick with the cloying scent of citrus and spilled wine. My fingers tighten around the plate, nails biting into ceramic, desperate to anchor myself against the tide of fury clawing up my throat. Behind my eyes, pressure builds, the edge of a gathering storm.
I’ve dealt with worse. I’ve smiled through worse.
I force the sharp, bloody words shredding my throat back down, lock them behind my teeth, and stretch a brittle, practiced smile across my face. The same mask I’ve worn for years. One that hides the bruised pride, the exhaustion, the bone-deep ache of always having to be the bigger person.
“Of course, ma’am. I’ll have it out right away.”
Spinning on my heel, I stalk toward Cliff’s office, pulse hammering in my ears with the rhythm of war drums. I don’t knock. I shove the door open, the weight of my control barely keeping me upright.
Cliff’s head jerks up, brows furrowing at my sudden entrance.
