“‘Bastard,’ huh? That song always reminds me of that Three Days Grace song. ‘I Hate Everything About You.’”
Those two songs were in fact almost nothing alike, Glory knew.
This might be the most unusual pissing contest she’d ever witnessed.
Or, more specifically, instigated.
She sincerely hoped there wasn’t a rock song called “Beat You to a Pulp.” Because things could get messy in here.
Glory felt a hand on her elbow and gave a guilty start.
It was Sherrie.
“Mr.Francone,” Sherrie said to Franco, “I see you’ve met our Glory. Glory, honey, your back has been to the restaurant for a while, so you may not have noticed that we have quite a number of other customers.”
That was admirably dry, given that the place was packed and heads were craning for waitstaff. None of them had quite figured out that Glory was a waitress, given than she hadn’t moved in a while.
“Maybe the braid is cutting off circulation in her head,” Eli suggested. “Maybe it’s making it harder for her to think on her feet.”
“Is that why you keep your hair so short, Eli? To take some of the weight off your brain, let a few thoughts get through?”
“You guys are so funny,” Bethany said somewhat uncertainly.
“Always good to see you, Eli,” Sherrie said warmly. Having delivered her other subtler yet pointed message to her new employee, she moved off again to attend to some of the hungry customers.
“Last time I saw you in a braid, Glory,” Eli persisted thoughtfully, “you were about eight years old. You got it caught in the door hinges of your classroom at school on your way out to recess and they had to call the janitor to get you out. We could hear you screaming bloody murder from across the school.”
This was true. Glory had always taken her hair very seriously. As seriously as Samson.
He could probably pull a memory of her out for every occasion. Damn him.
“She told them the hinges were a hazard and they ought to change them. Stomped her foot and everything. Glory always has very strong, understandable, if occasionally completely misguided feelings on issues.”
Well, well, well. Eli had been setting up a point.
Glory’s temper officially dialed up to a simmer.
She locked eyes with Eli.
“Speaking of hair, it’s been a little odd getting used to Eli with short hair. You should have seen him with a blow dryer when he was younger,” she said chummily to Franco and Bethany. “It was his crowning glory. What was it your grandma called you, again? Started with a ‘B’? Something to do with a shampoo?”
Eli’s eyes narrowed in warning.
“Breck Girl?” Franco supplied, blithely.
“Yeah. That was it,” Glory said slowly. “She said he had hair like a Breck Girl.”
Eli received this stonily.
“Gosh! These are charming stories,” Bethany said sweetly. “Did you know Christie Brinkley was a Breck Girl?”
“Hear that, Eli? You’re in good company,” Glory said. “Christie Brinkley.”
“She’s even more gorgeous in person,” Franco said offhandedly. “Speaking of gorgeous people, Glory here reminds me of a young Charlotte Rampling. Or maybe Katharine Ross. Bobbie Gentry, too, to pull a name out of the musical past. She had a kind of sultry thing going on.”
He was reminding them that they were in the presence of someone who had been in the presence of Christie Brinkley. And possibly Charlotte Rampling, whoever that was.
“Very flattering,” Glory said graciously. She was pretty sure Franco was the only one at the table who knew who those first two women were. “You know, I’m a musician, Mr.Francone, and I actually play a Bobbie Gentry song in my set. You should come by open mic here at the Misty Cat tonight. It’s about the only thing to do in town at night, unless you like bingo.”
