“Byron Matthews’s nephew, Glen?” Owen inquires, a glint of excitement appearing in his whiskey eyes. The prospect of being able to interrogate someone so soon thrills him.
“That’s the one,” I confirm.
“Perfect, I’ll get word to my dad, and after we meet the girls for dinner, we can come back to find out what he knows,” Wes says, phone already in his hand, fingers flying across the screen.
Collective groans, myself included, object to the first part of his plan.
“Why the fuck do we need to meet Samantha and her mindless tagalongs?” Wyatt snaps.
“Because my task is to find out what her father’s up to, remember?” Wes snipes back.
I hate that he’s right. Any moment in the soul leech’s presence is a test of my patience. It’s bad enough I have to tolerate her at school.
“Fine, but this better not take long so I can get to my favorite part of the night— slicing, dicing, and fucking,” Owen mutters, peering out the window at the now setting sun. He turns, and we give each other another knowing look before we all go silent, mentally preparing for the draining ordeal.
“Oh, I’m in. Riri is supposed to be working tonight,” Wyatt gleams, stepping harder on the gas.
9
ARIAH
The diner has been crazy tonight. It’s like the first day of school made everyone decide they want to go out to eat. Not that I’m complaining. I’ve already made four hundred dollars in cash tips tonight. I’ll say this, the assholes in this town are pretentious as fuck, but they aren’t stingy on tipping.
“Can you believe how crazy it’s been tonight?” Lola, my co-worker who helped train me, asks. She lives a town over, in Lincolnville, and has worked here for the last four years, all through high school and, now, to help pay for college. “Girl, you’d think no one in this town remembers how to cook, or should I say, have their staff cook for them.” Her eyes dance with humor as we both break out into laughter.
It’s a running inside joke that many families here wouldn’t be caught in the kitchen cooking for fear of breaking a nail or something, but their stuffiness is our gain.
“I know. It was steady throughout summer, but tonight is crazy,” I say to her, heading out of the kitchen to see if Mary’s seated anyone new in my section.
As I step through the door, I hear my name.
“Ariah, I just sat a party of ten in your section,” Mary confirms.
Nodding, I stride toward the booth, pulling out my pad and paper.
Glancing up to see who’s sitting there. My feet stop before my brain signals for the rest of my body to follow suit, and I almost trip.Seriously?Isn’t seeing this group of asses at school enough? Collecting myself, I approach, plastering on my fake customer service smile.
“Hi, welcome to Monty’s, home of the world’s best New England chowder. My name is Ariah, and I will be your server this evening. May I start you all off by getting you something to drink?” I ask after finishing up my spiel.
“Oh, this is just too good to be true,” says Sam with a saccharine-sweet voice, as she looks up from her menu. Cackling, she continues, “I knew you were trash, but not service worker trash. I shoulda known. There’s no way someone who dresses like you could be anything other than the help.”
Of course, Sam and the fuckwad squad would come in tonight of all nights. None of them ate here over the summer. They were too busy traveling with Mommy and Daddy’s money. The taste of blood hits my tongue as I bite the inside of my cheek, remembering I need this job.
“What can I get you all to drink?” I ask again.
This time it’s assholian himself, Wes, who speaks, “Yeah, you can get me a sprite, trash troll. This place suits you. It reminds you that you’re only good enough to take our orders.”
I start to count in my head, ten, motherfucking Mississippi, nine, motherfucking Mississippi.I count until I reach one.
“That was a sprite for you, sir.” My face is tight, and with the fake smile I’ve plastered on, I turn to the next person.
Once I have everyone's drink order, I head to the kiosk, placing their order in the system, and then prepare their drinks. If tonight isn’t a test of my inner will to do what’s necessary, I don’t know what is. I deliver the drinks to the table and grab their dinner orders.
“Are you all ready to order?” I ask, pulling out my order pad. I’m still not as good at remembering people’s orders as Lola is. She doesn’t even write things down.
“Did we say we were ready?” One of the plebs with bottle red hair asks, laughing like she made a joke.
“Brittany, just quit it. You’re being so annoying. Just hurry the fuck up and order.” one of the guys from school growls before turning to Wes. “Why the fuck are we here with them again?”
