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“Good tips?”

“What?” She rounded on him with an incredulous look. “Tips are not the point of my job,” she stated, quickly looking around to see if anyone had heard their conversation. One thing about the job of a server in America: the base pay was appalling, and tips meant to fill out the server’s pay were based on the customer’s subjective judgment of quality. While you expected tips, you didn’t make it public knowledge unless you wanted to get stiffed, a bad review, or both.

Caleb shrugged and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Well, I expect a deposit, or the money left on the counter when you get home. I need to pay my cell phone bill.”

“What? I barely get anything, and your salary is huge.” She set down the tray holding the customer’s drinks and posted her hands on her hips. Frustration twisted her face into a scowl she quickly schooled, biting the inside of her cheek. Caleb made so much money as a mouthpiece and legs for his grandfather he could afford a simple phone bill. He just needed an excuse to take her money.

Caleb narrowed his eyes; this topic was clearly not up for discussion. She’d have to pay at home for her little outburst. “Blaire, baby, we must work together toward our future. I’m saving for our kids.”

A passing elderly couple smiled and made an “awing” sound.

Blaire muttered under her breath, “Great. That’s just fucking great.” Thankfully, that slip-up completely missed Caleb’s notice while he hammed it up for the couple, smiling at them like a proud fiancé.

She hated him so much. “Fine, whatever. I’ve gotta get back to work.”

Caleb frowned. “I hate when you speak like that.”

Blaire shook her head. When irritated, not only did her Southern accent get thicker, but also her vocabulary became looser. She’d spent only one year at Magnolia Heights, not her entire childhood; she hadn’t had etiquette and comportment drilled into her as deeply as had the other well-to-do children of the area. She chose not to contradict him; arguing or apologizing wouldn’t make a difference.

“I’ll either hit the bank or have it on the counter for you by tonight,” she said without emotion.

Another day of no savings to put toward running away.

Another day Caleb marked his territory.

“Good. I won’t be home for dinner, so feel free to grab takeout from your tips first at least, sweetheart,” Caleb said, as if he did her a favor by allowing her to use her own money. She rolled her eyes as she turned away from him.

As Blaire rounded the counter with the tray of drinks, he kissed her cheek and went for the door.

After he left and she finished serving her table, she went to the back and checked her bank account on the staff computer to see what her pay for the previous week came to, when Ricky had cut her hours in half. She sighed. Only fifty dollars in checking. Caleb must have pulled more money out of her account he still had access to. He had been placed as trustee when their parents died, and when she tried to get it changed after she turned eighteen in October, the bank refused, making up excuses Blaire didn’t understand. She wasn’t even sure of the legality of it.

Seeking independence, she had opened a separate savings account that he didn’t know about at a bank located in Savannah. While the account had been open for nearly five months already, the balance remained meager, as she could only funnel a portion of her tips into it, so she still had something to show at home. She could access the account online and deposit funds using a random ATM in Rosebrook to credit the account. No paper trails. No invested bodies to run to her family.

The influence the Wilcox family held in Rosebrook truly unnerved her.

Upset, and with her migraine threatening to make a repeat appearance, she retreated to the kitchen.

“Hey, Ricky, I need to talk to you about something.”

The balding owner looked up from the grill and wiped his hands on the white apron covering his large belly, turning his attention to her. “You gotta make it quick. Soon as these sausages are finished, I gotta start preppin’ the kitchen for lunch service.”

Blaire nodded. “It’ll be a second. I need to ask if it’s possible to give me extra hours next week.”

He pulled a face and scratched at the salt and pepper scruff on his jaw, shaking his head. “Now, Blaire…” He gave her a reproachful look.

“No, it’s because last week you needed me to work half the hours normally scheduled, and I wanted to make up my lost time,” she said quickly before he had any opportunity to shoot her down.

Ricky sighed. “Listen… You’re a hard worker and all, but I’m gonna have to be cuttin’ your hours again.”

He turned back to the grill to transfer the sausages onto a platter and walked them over to the window, ringing the bell and yelling out Charlotte’s name before turning back to Blaire.

“Again? I need the money, Ricky…”

“I’m sorry, Blaire, but this cut’s gonna be a permanent thing, to tell you the truth.” He walked back to the grill and scraped the grease and remnants of sausage from the surface to clean it for lunch service.

Upset, she pushed her hand through her bangs, causing loose hairs to fall. Her migraine came back with a vengeance. “Can you tell me why you’re doing this? I’ve worked here for the last two years, never once late or anything. I only missed one week a few months ago.”

Ricky shrugged. “It’s how it has to be, girlie.” He pushed past her to enter the staff room.