Page 53 of Twisted Knight

I force the smile on my face and look over to where the three of them sit. Their smiles are smug and there’s an air about them—entitlement meets douchebag—that has me gritting my teeth.

“Yeah. Can I help you?” I say, and then look back down to the dirty dishes I’m placing in my bin.

“Ah, where are your manners?” the one—the Williams kid—asks. “Didn’t your daddy teach you to speak properly and meet someone’s eyes when they’re talking to you?”

“Like anyone from that side of town has a daddy. Jesus, Williams. We all know that,” the Rothschild asshole says. He grips the silver lighter he carries constantly and jerks his hand so the top opens. Clank. He pulls his thumb down on the igniter. Click. Then snaps his wrist so the lid drops back down and extinguishes the flame. Clank.

Clank. Click. Clank.

It’s my alarm bell. The three sounds that tell me the assholes are on the prowl and looking for trouble. Trouble they often find but are never held responsible for.

“Right, Simpson? Do you have a daddy?” Rothschild asks. Clank. Click. Clank.

“Can I get you anything?” I repeat, meeting Williams’s eyes this time.

“How about some weed? Or maybe something a little stronger?” the prick Porter asks. “No doubt your momma is on the corner selling that nasty pussy of hers for a hit.”

My hands fist and jaw clenches.

“Bring us her stash and we’ll make sure you get to keep your job,” Rothschild says. Clank. Click. Clank.

You need this job, Holden.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see my boss walk by the banquet room—where the assholes have helped themselves to a table set for an event later—and assess the situation from afar. “Everything okay, boys?” he calls out.

Their chuckles rumble around the room.

“Yep,” Williams says and smirks at me. “We were just asking Simpson here why he was refusing to serve us.”

You need this job.

Clank. Click. Clank.

“We know he needs this job so we were just telling him how he should be a little more responsive and respectful to the members here if he wants to keep it,” Rothschild says with a bat of his eyes like he’s completely innocent.

My boss eyes me, his brows narrowed and chin sharp when he nods. “They’re right, Simpson. We’ve got a wait list a mile long of people waiting to work here. You’re replaceable.”

Clank. Click. Clank.

Bite your tongue. “Yes, sir,” I say and swallow over the bitterness and shame these fuckers are gloating in.

“Good.” He walks away and the three assholes burst out laughing.

“See how easy that was?” Porter says, rising from the table and purposefully knocking over the ashtray full of cigar ashes. “Oops. What a mess. Uh, Simpson, it doesn’t look like you’re doing your job very well.”

“Another strike against you,” Williams says.

Clank. Click. Clank.

“It’s almost tee time,” a female voice says that has me looking over to the doorway. She’s tall with long legs and blond hair. She’s a walking wet dream is what she is. Too bad she’s—

“Rowan,” Porter says and the four of them laugh at whatever inside joke I’m not catching. She mock curtsies. “Why’d you have to go and spoil our fun?”

“Fun’s over,” Rhett says as he stands and makes a show of knocking over his iced tea. The brown liquid and ice cubes scatter over the white tablecloth and onto the floor. More laughter rings out. “Would you look at that. You’re so clumsy, Simpson. Better get on that.”

My hands fist in the tablecloth covering the table I’m clearing. Too many emotions—fury, resentment, bitterness—rage through me. You. Need. This. Job.

“Did I hear a ‘yes, sir’?” Williams asks. “I don’t think I did. Did you, Rhett?”