The Billionaire And The Waitress (gxg)

03 - a disaster

THE PANTS WERE too big. But that was the least of Muse's problems. When she got back to the kitchen, red-faced and eyes lowered, Julie was waiting for her at the sink.

She's going to give me a lecture for an unpaid break. Muse didn't have any hope left anyway. As soon as Adrien complained, with her name and a detailed description of her face, she'd be out of here. In the corner of her eye, she noted Fernando and Ashleigh watching her.

Ashleigh had it in for her, because Ashleigh hated women. It was just a fact. Muse had experienced and observed a lot of internalized misogyny, but Ashleigh took the cake. She liked male validation more than anything else, including basic human kindness.

Fernando, on the other hand, hated Muse because three weeks ago, she'd rejected him. It had been Friday, her first five days on the job done, and Fernando had walked her to her croaky, half-dead Chevrolet. He'd nervously twisted his fingers together. He'd even bitten his lip as he'd asked her: "Do you want to go on a date with me?"

There had been nothing but warmth, earnestness, in his eyes. The question had hung in the air between them. The parking lot was empty, but in the heart of New York City, they were far from alone. Muse felt safe enough to say, "I'm so sorry, Fernando, but . . ."

That tone of voice alone had been enough to shake him out of the reverie. Immediately, with blindsiding swiftness, he'd hardened. "Stuck-up bitch." He'd spat over his shoulder. "I should've listened when they called you a prude."

A prude. Muse laughed at that later, the irony of it. She'd spent two years in the prostitution industry, but now she was being called a prude by an invisible them. Her coworkers, who she'd known for less than a week. But Muse had expected it. No matter how high-end, or expensive, or classy a job was, the people were always the same. They just happened to hide it better the more they got paid.

Still. Muse's desire for the job outweighed all else. Living in an apartment in New York City was running her bank account dry, but she still wanted it.

This was home.

No matter how much everyone hated her. And it was really only Fernando and Ashleigh who did. Nobody else knew her well enough. Muse didn't let people in―she smiled, and she was friendly, and she could charm anyone she wanted. But she didn't tell them anything about herself, and the rules of friendship required that. Required being vulnerable.

Maybe, she thought to herself, I should quit now. Before they fire me.

But she still needed today's paycheck.

Julie, in front of Muse, crossed her arms. As the manager, she was dressed in a fancy white suit, with a pretty white bowtie. The contrast against her auburn hair and pale, freckled face was startling. She was beautiful in a delicate way. With the uniform, she looked like a fourteenth-century virgin in a painting, preparing for her wedding day.

"Gardner," Julie said.

Here it comes.

"Follow me."

It was already too late. How fast had Adrien Vitale managed to lodge a complaint? Muse tried to picture the woman in her mind, but she came up with nothing. All she remembered of her was the sharp black tuxedo and the silver rings on her each of her fingers, glinting in the bathroom's fluorescent lights.

Muse followed Julie, just to the edge of the kitchen. From here, almost the entire restaurant―in all its velvety, dimly-lit glory―was visible.

Julie nodded once to a corner. "See that?"

It was a booth, shadowed in black curtains, reserved for only the most important of customers. Muse had never seen it used, but she'd heard rumours that only the President was allowed to sit there. They called it the Elizabeth table. Two silhouettes had been seated within: nameless, faceless, but powerful all the same.