Tara exited. “All good.”
“Enjoy your evening,” he said to the guest.
Greystone knocked on the family restroom door. No response. He tried the handle. Locked. He banged on the door. “Management. Open up.”
“I’ll be right out,” said a woman.
“Don’t say that,” said a man. “Tell him you’re gonna be a few.”
Greystone glanced at Tara. She rolled her eyes. “I hate when this happens. It’s super gross.”
Greystone pounded on the door. “You got three seconds to detach.”
He pulled out the master keyring, started counting. On three, he slid the key into the lock, turned the handle, pushed open the door.
A man and a woman were screwing against the wall, though it looked like the dude was having a hard time getting it in.
“Playtime’s over,” Greystone said.
“Don’t touch me,” said the woman, “or I’ll press charges for assault.”
“I’m calling the police,” Tara said, as she pulled out her phone and snapped their pictures.
“Oh, fuck, don’t do that.” The guy shoved his dick into his pants and zipped up. “You can’t even go out for dinner and have a decent meal without some dickwad interrupting your evening.”
“Don’tcha hate that?” Greystone asked.
Tara bit back a laugh.
In silence, Greystone escorted them out. The woman returned to her table where she was dining with a man and another couple. The man eyed her, then flicked his attention to Greystone.
“Everything okay, honey?”
“Yeah, no problem,” replied the woman.
Greystone hitched an eyebrow at her before escorting the man back to the bar.
At the hostess stand, Greystone addressed the waiting crowd. “Thanks for your patience. Tara, who can I seat?”
“I got this, boss.”
“I’ll help you.”
She shot him a grateful smile. After checking-in the first group, she handed him four menus. “Number seventeen.”
He escorted the four women to their table, handed them their menus. “Enjoy your evening.”
Next, he seated a couple, then returned to front of house. Slowly, the crowd thinned until all guests had been taken care of. Just as he was about to check on his bartenders, the door to the restaurant opened and an older gentleman sauntered in.
Greystone glanced over, then did a double take.
No fuckin’ way.
His worst goddamn nightmare had returned. Greystone’s fingers itched for his weapon. His Glock sat tucked in the back of his pants, beneath his suit jacket. Despite being in a crowded restaurant, he’d use it, if provoked.
I’d shoot to kill… and I would not miss.
Instead of showing emotion, he kept his expression flat and stayed silent.
