The Note by Natalie Wrye (urban books to read .TXT) 📗

meeting his veiny eyes with mine. “I don’t know… Maybe when you stop marketing to the sleaziest clientele you can find? We never used to have these problems. Now every time you look up, we’re dealing with these…these ‘suits’ who are living, breathing warts with wallets. I can’t take any more.”

“Those guys are paying customers. It’s not our fault that we just so happen to be in spitting distance of Wall Street.”

“Yeah,” I counter. “And every entitled prick in a suit thinks they can treat the staff however they like because they have money. You should have heard the way this guy talked to Sarah.” I round the bartop, heading towards the open floor of the restaurant-pub. “I’ve met poison ivy bushes that were nicer.”

The atmosphere inside the bar practically whirs, alive with talk and the intoxicating smell of Chef Raphael’s homegrown southern cooking as I speed-walk through my customers’ tables, balancing a tray larger than my whole body.

The honey-colored glow of the overhead lights lead the way, and with our brand new late-night hours, the taste of bacon and frustration linger on my tongue, souring with each passing minute.

Even the caffeine turns to poison in my mouth.

Goddammit, the espresso I inhaled earlier isn’t working fast enough.

There's tension at my temples as I swipe strands of my dark hair behind my ears, and honestly? If one more drunken pissant tugs on my apron, I’m going to lose my shit, not to mention my tips.

I’ve barely made enough money to cover my apartment’s power bill, let alone keep the water running.

Late on rent for the fourth month since my roommate Kayla moved out, I’d actually felt lucky when I saw how packed The Alchemist was tonight.

I no longer feel that way.

I’m still waiting for the dark elixir I drank just an hour ago to work its magic when, to no one’s surprise, douchey patron number fifty-four snatches the edge of my black apron, his fingers finding the fabric and tugging hard.

I nearly spill over.

With drunken haze in his red eyes, he flashes me the sort of smile that only works on Wall Street, and I manage a tightened one of my own, counting to ten.

“Uh, hi…there. Do you need help or something?”

“I sure do, sweet lips,” he slurs, his blue eyes sparking underneath sandy hair, an expensive dark suit on his slumped shoulders. “How’s about helping me to your number? I’ve been watching you all night.” He tilts his head, sizing me up from head to toe. “And I think you are very pretty. You could be a model.”

My voice is gravel when I respond, my feet shifting inside my black flats. I reposition the tray. “Well, gee…thanks for the, um, the assault. But no thanks. I’m afraid I don’t do that.”

“Why?” He presses, his hand still at my hip. “Is there a company policy against giving out your phone number?”

“Nope.” I shrug, trying to step out of his hold. “It’s my phone. It has a ‘No dickhead’ policy, actually.” I glance over the rest of the table, at the other pairs of greedy eyes still stuck in my direction. My skin grows cold. “But can I get you anything else?”

Lucky me. Douche number fifty-four has a friend just as vocal. And he chimes in from a nearby seat, his deep voice bitter as he leans forward beside him. “Wow. You’re funny. I like funny in a girl. But ‘funny’ won’t get you any extra tips.” He fishes a hundred out of his slacks pocket. “What will, uh, this baby get us that’s not on the menu?”

He winks in my direction, and the breath I take is so strained I think I might choke on it.

Reason number thirty-two why working at The Alchemist isn’t enough anymore?

The drunken bankers.

Every Harvard slime ball with an American Express card wanders in after-hours, half of their money still stuck in some stripper’s crotch.

Ivy League grads or not, these guys sure don’t know the difference between servers and strippers. But I need the money.

God, do I need the money.

My longtime love of fairytales tells me, in the back of my mind, that these guys are nothing but minions destined to die in the third Act, but it’s far too early in my evening to guess how the ending of this story will be.

I never had the knack my Aunt Roberta had for predicting the next scenes.

Dirtied dollar bills and messy dishes perch on the edge of my newly painted nails, and I re-balance my tray again, secretly imagining myself chucking it at potential kill-off character number fifty-five when I hear an unknown voice over my shoulder, low and deadly. The timbre of the stranger’s voice is deep enough to run a chill along my spine, but the sound of his words are so soothing I find myself calming in seconds.

I release the tight breath choking me.

“A hundred dollars? Wow. Big spender.” The sarcasm slides off each word—words that are accented and deep. “Hmm, well, let’s see…” he muses. “It sounds like enough money to prevent me from shoving that fried chicken down your throat for talking to your server like that.” His full lips spread into a smile when I look over. “But I can’t make any promises.”

With a nod of his head, the stranger is off, back to wherever he came from, and the inebriated bankers—instantly sober—glance at me, their ruddy eyes expectedly wide.

And just like that, there’s a twist at the end of Act I.

And I didn’t even get a good look at my temporary hero. My Mr. Cloak and Dagger.

It’s a fact that hits me hard when Prick Number Fifty-Five starts to speak again, the tip of his red nose as cherry-colored as his red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes. He swallows. “Was he serious?”

“No. Of course not.” I shake my head, grabbing his plate of half-eaten chicken. I sniff it, smiling. “By the way, if you do place another order, just ignore the scorching feeling you might feel in your throat. I’m sure that’s just