I try to issue a smart-aleck quip in reply but can’t get the words out. The tears that were remedial a second ago suddenly become embarrassing. I can’t wipe them from my face fast enough.
“Do you want a hug?”
I stare at him in bemusement. Half the time when I think of Patrick, which I do far more often than our limited acquaintance warrants, he scares the bejesus out of me. The other half, I’m confused.
It’s the latter that comes to the fore as he doesn’t wait for an answer before enveloping me in a warm embrace, surprisingly comforting. “Is the rotting garbage getting you down?”
I recover and wipe my tears away, fishing a half-full pack of tissues from my pocket and blowing my nose. “It’s the lack of employment. I just got fired.”
“How bad an employee do you have to be to get fired from the worst job in the kitchen?”
“Dropping every second plate type of bad.” I manage a watery smile. “But apparently, it’s nothing personal. The restaurant is just going through a downswing.”
He snorts in amusement. “It’s not called a swing unless you expect it to improve at some point.” He waves a hand at the building. “That place has gone through three tenants in the last five years. It’s like a black hole of commercial real estate. No one can make it turn a profit.”
“Really? And you picked the spot directly next to it with that glowing resume?”
Patrick’s smile spreads so wide and welcoming that it could make the hardest heart flutter. “I like a challenge. My business model also doesn’t rely on foot traffic, so there’s that. Come on.”
Before I know what’s happening, he grabs hold of my wrist, tugging me towards the propped-open exit door.
“Wait! Where are we going?”
“Unless I’ve mistaken things, you’re in desperate need of a low-paying low-skilled job and I have a ton of those available.” He drags me past a startled-looking man in whites and a woman with so much cleavage she could split the difference with me and still be a D cup. Patrick stops in a unisex changing room, which seems a startlingly bad idea to me. “There’re the uniforms,” he says, waving a hand at an open shelf stacked with clothing. “Take your pick and try them on for size.”
“You’re giving me a job?”
“Trial run. Casual contract.” He moves to the door, whistles, and gestures to a man standing just out of my visual field. “This is Glen. Tell him your schedule and how many hours each week you want to work, and he’ll tailor a roster. You’re over eighteen, yeah?”
My brain whirls from the offer, so I take a few seconds to catch up. “Yeah. Is that important?”
He looks past me to Glen. “Start her in the front, serving. You’ve waitressed before, right?”
I nod, still dazed.
Patrick seems to realise it, pulling a corset top and shorts in black and a white apron from the stacks and thrusting them at me. “Put these on and meet us out front. I’ll grab your relevant details and we’ll start you straight away.”
“O-okay.” I swallow hard, unsure if they’re expecting me tochange while they’re still in the room, but Glen gives me a friendly nod before leaving, Patrick close on his heels.
The speed of everything takes me by surprise, but I soon rally. The shorts come to mid-thigh, not long but also not arse-grab territory. The top zips up despite the appearance of ribbons, and is a snug fit, shoving the front of my chest in such extreme directions that it gives me a cleavage.
“Knock, knock,” a female voice calls out as I’m tying on the apron. “You decent?”
“Yeah, come in,” I say, pulling the door open to a brunette with a wide smile and a messy updo that contains at least three pens.
“I’m Verity. You worked tables before?”
“In a café. I’ve not worked at a bar.”
“Same thing,” she confidently asserts, leading me into the main area. “Most patrons order at the counter but we offer tableside service for those who prefer it. You’ll be carrying drinks back and forth and chipping in behind the bar when Faisel”—she nods at the bartender who’s still setting up—“needs a hand.”
“Where is everybody?” I ask since all the tables are empty despite it having gone five.
Verity chuckles. “We open from seven till two for the main area. Out back, it’s at the client’s discretion.”
My frown increases as I try to calculate how that fits into my school schedule. Much as I’d love to work all the hours I can every night, the last bus runs at eleven fifteen, getting me home just before midnight. That’s a maximum of four hours and I’m already tired getting home well before that. I can’t imagine how I’ll feel in a few weeks if I keep to that punishing schedule.
“If you’re not a night owl, don’t worry,” she continues, reading my expression. “The back rooms are hired out fromnoon each day on the weekends, occasionally during the week, and they need service, too.”
