“Twenty-five percent of the tips I get. Eighteen if there’s two artists, fourteen if there’s three.”
“And what were your tips yesterday?” he questions.
“Call it six-hundred.”
Carey’s brow creases as he does the math in his head. “So one-fifty? Forninehours?”
“Yeah.” I nod.
“But that’s not guaranteed. It could be less.”
I nod again. “And it could be more.”
“But it’s only thelessI care about.” He pulls his phone out. “That’s less than Washington minimum wage. And that hundred bucks you gave me for Thursday was only twelve-fifty an hour.”
“Then don’t take the tips,” I tell him.
“So twenty-five an hour, then?”
“Carey—”
“I know you didn’t pay Shawn minimum wage.”
“She has a diploma in admin,” I argue.
“And how much was she paid?” He’s leaning over now, his wild waves have fallen forward and he’s looking down at me like I’m the one being unreasonable.
“She ran the shop. Front and back.”
“Tek.”
“Twenty-five an hour.”Why the hell did I just tell him that?
Carey‘s lips twist into a cocky, shit-eating grin. “Doesn’t seem enough for such an important job.” I want to smack the look right off his face. None of this is any of his fucking business, but the quick, taunting raise of his brows has my tongue moving before I can stop it.
“That’s because your brother gave her a cut of his tips, as well.”
He swipes his hand through his hair, clearing his forehead, then repositions so his elbows are on the counter and his hands are clasped together and resting right on top of the timesheets. “So why can’t I get that deal?”
“Cause you’re not sucking my cock, too.”
Carey’s eyes widen and my stomach jumps into my throat.
What the actual fuck is wrong with me?
Why did I word it like that?
Why did I say anything at all?
“So no sexual favors isn’t a strict shop policy then?”
“Cut the bullshit, Carey.”
“I think I might go.” He pushes up off the desk.
“You can have twenty.”
“Make it twenty-two. No tips. Cause you’re not into that deal.”
