He squints at me, then at the tip jar, then back to me. “So you’re like…playing that you don’t know?”
I give him the double eyeballs ofknow what?
He glances at Oliver, then back to me. “Dude. That’s game to bring a girl to your show.”
“What show?” Oliver asks the kid.
He smirks. “Okay, yeah, I’ll play like you don’t know what’s up. They’re senior citizens, and they gave us a thousand bucks to not let anyone under twenty in the door. If you’re planning on shaking them down for more, can I get a cut?”
“I thought he was supposed to be in a medieval knight costume,” a woman says, much closer now.
“I thought he was supposed to be Sir Pollock.”
“Maybe he’s the handler.”
“I hope not. Look at that ass. I like looking at ass.”
I finally get the courage to look up at Oliver as the kid leaves the cash register to go get our food. “I swear, I didn’t know,” I sputter. “I’ve never—this is—this doesn’t happen at my usual Cod Pieces.”
Although now that I think about it, it’s a brilliant idea.
I’ll have to ask Bea if we should do this for her next birthday. Not the stripper part, but the party at Cod Pieces part.
Her birthday’s in the off-season for Griff. He could come home, and he’s making the kind of money that would lend itself to renting out a fast-food fish restaurant for an afternoon. Hudson might not have to be back at college yet. Ryker will be grumpy about it, but seriously, what’s new there?
And Simon—my eyes sting as I start to smile at remembering what Bea said this morning about making up with Simon.
Simon would be all in.
He’d make it fun.
In a kid-friendly way. His twin teenagers would want to be there.
And we could all go down the slides.
I never got to play in the kiddie areas at fast-food restaurants when I was little.
I mean, yes, I got to spend vacations in Europe and South America and luxury beach resorts, and there was that one trip to Japan, but shouldn’t everyone know the joy of a kiddie play area at a fast-food restaurant too?
Oliver’s staring at me with an expression I can’t interpret.
“Come on, honey, take it off.” An older woman with a tight brown bob and a shirt declaring herworld’s best auntshakes her tits at him. “Mama needs a show.”
Do I want to stand here and watch Oliver suffer?
Yes.
This is next-level hilarious.
But if I’m truly going to be a good wingwoman and not get left on the side of the road before I can convince him to turn around and go back home to continue running M2G and doing good in the world, then I need to get his cranky ass out of here. “There’s been—” I start, but Oliver interrupts me.
“Is it your birthday?” he asks her.
“Aren’t you precious, pretending like you don’t know.” She smacks his ass.
I gulp.
And also gawk a little.
