Drake
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
I had tried to stay out of the drama here. I had tried to just get my head down and work. I had been sucked into it too many times for my liking anyway, and then this.
There was no way you get could out of a situation like this without having to take sides. Even the very act of refusing to take sides would be seen as a betrayal by a group as tightknit as this.
And Beau was a good kid. I’d known him for two and half months, and it was long enough to know he didn’t have a bad bone in his body.
Finally, I had reached a point where I couldn’t sit on the fence anymore. Grey was shitting where he ate, quite literally. I had to make a decision. I didn’t want to work in an environment where people were running out crying any more than anyone else did.
“What do you mean, you’re gone?” Grey asked with a scoff. “We’re in the middle of service. We still have three tables waiting out there.”
“You don’t need me anymore tonight, right, boss?” Ainslie asked. AskedRafael, not Grey. When Raf nodded tightly, Ainslie clenched his jaw, took off his apron, and let it drop on the floor. “Great. I quit.”
Behind Grey, Kit had come in through the door, watching everything with wide eyes. Something passed between him and Nikolai in that secret language the two waiters seemed to share, something I couldn’t interpret. Before I’d had time to guess at what it might be, Nikolai reached around his waist and untied the thin black apron-like pouch that the waiters wore to carry their ticket books and checks.
“This is too far,” he said. His voice was calm and controlled, but there was pain in it. I imagined he’d had to spend the last month running interference for Grey, trying to stop Beau from seeing him engaged in bad behavior, and I fully understood why this would be his breaking point. He placed his apron down neatly on the counter, nodded at Rafael, and stepped towards the door after Ainslie.
“Me, too,” Kit said quickly. I had a feeling that wherever Nikolai went, he would follow. His apron landed on top of Nikolai’s as he wound his way between and around us, traversing a circle around the whole kitchen before reaching the exit.
That left me, Rafael, and Luca standing there looking at Grey.
“I’m leaving, too,” Rafael said. He was clenching his jaw. “I just have enough professionalism in me not to leave in the middle of service. The others can all go. I can handle the last orders alone.”
The message was clear. I clamped my mouth shut. I wasn’t going to speak up and quit on the spot like the others. I would stay.
“Um,” Luca said. He had a worried look on his face.
“Luca,” Rafael said calmly. “I know you’re in a position where you really need this job. If you need to stay, no one’s going to think less of you. But if you feel it’s right to go, I can take care of the dishes, too.”
The whole time, his eyes were locked with Grey’s, like the two of them were performing some sort of epic battle inside their minds.
There was no doubt in my mind, though, who was winning.
“If I leave, do I get paid for the whole shift?” Luca asked nervously.
Grey’s eyes snapped to him and narrowed. “No!” he exclaimed as if he was insulted by the very notion.
Luca cleared his throat. “I’ll stay until the end of the night,” he said. “And then, um. I don’t really have an apron to take off, but…”
Rafael finally glanced away from Grey to give Luca a brief and proud smile. “Well done,” he said.
Luca nodded and ducked his head. “You all stood up for me,” he said by way of explanation.
Grey was clenching and unclenching his fist. “This is ridiculous,” he snapped. “Who’s going to take care of the customers? We haven’t got any waiters left!”
I picked up Kit’s apron from the counter nearby. “Looks like you’re the waiter tonight, boss,” I said, holding it out to him.
He scowled; rage, denial, and frustration flitted across his face before he finally took the apron and turned to leave. He stalked back out to the front of house, probably to reassure the customers we still had and – I hoped – to tell his would-be one-night-stand to go home.
“We’ve got, what? Ten tables – maybe twenty or twenty-five covers and whatever they want for dessert?” I asked. There was something about it just being the three of us left that was almost exciting. Like we were going through the kind of experience that could bond people deeply for life.
“Twenty or twenty-five covers and whatever they want for dessert, during which time you can stick to your side of the kitchen and I’ll stick to mine,” Rafael said, going back to plating and looking away from me pointedly.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Are you serious?”
