Rush

Chapter 9

"Waiter! Waiter!?" I call out, my voice sharp and commanding, but they all ignore me, absorbed in their tasks. It's infuriating. How can they accept so many orders if they're clearly understaffed? It's grossly inefficient. I even catch one of them looking my way and laughing, as if he finds this amusing. I really wish I had a Gatling gun right now. I'd take out every single waiter at Sweet Fern without hesitation.

“Hey Johnny! Bring five tequilas ASAP!” Bethany shouts, and instantly, one of them responds, smiling and giving her a thumbs up. Incredible. I've been yelling for five minutes and get nothing, but the moment Miss Big Rich Titties opens her mouth, she gets immediate service. It’s revolting. Must one be a billionaire to receive basic hospitality these days?

“Bethany, I want some scotch! Not tequila! Scotch! Scotch! Scotch!”

“Okay, Timmy, scotch for you,” Bethany says with a smile, indulging the little pompous brat. This was the same kid with the mohawk haircut I saw on the street a few days ago, the one who vanished just as the bus appeared. He’s part of her group, The Dawn, or whatever they call themselves.

“Hey, Beth, are you sure Kilman can be trusted? He seems like an entitled jerk to me, just like most programmers,” says a Norwegian-looking man, glaring at me with obvious disdain. Another member of The Dawn. Finally, someone new to hate. I was getting bored.

I flash a smile and say, “Fuck off, Ulfric.”

Ulfric responds with a middle finger.

Beth said, “I trust him. I think he will do great. Come on, Ulfric, you are always suspicious about new people who join our group. Chill.”

Ulfric, who looked like he was rejected by a Viking clan, was the only other adult in this motley crew. There was also a teenager. Her name was—

“Beatrice, what about the girl’s body?” Bethany asked, eyes glinting with curiosity. Beatrice barely glanced up from her phone.

“I told you, it's taken care of. The cops won't find it,” she replied, still engrossed in her screen.

I leaned closer to Bethany and whispered, “What body are you talking about?”

“Beatrice killed her college classmate for flaunting a diamond bracelet. She couldn’t control her emotions and snapped. This time, she didn’t let me dispose of the corpse. She wanted to handle everything herself—from killing to disposal. Silly kid.” Bethany pouted, looking ridiculous, almost like that absurd penguin from the children’s show Pingu. Revolting.

I forced a sympathetic expression and said, “Aww, poor girl. She needs your tender care, Bethany. Why don’t you breastfeed her? Maybe then she’ll gain some focus and skill from you. After all, your enormous fucking tits have plenty of milk, don’t they?”

Bethany was utterly taken aback by my response. The stunned look on her face was almost entertaining. Before she could utter a word, a waiter—who resembled a white, malnourished version of Snoop Dogg—appeared out of nowhere and delivered our drinks. Timmy, the insufferable little brat, practically lunged at his scotch, grabbing it with the fervor of a beggar who hadn’t seen food in a week. Pathetic.

But then, my jaw dropped in astonishment. It was as if I’d been struck, my senses still reeling. Someone had just entered the restaurant. It was Jake Gyllenhaal.

—————

The man is a living legend, and to see him in person was nothing short of exhilarating. His attire, as expected, was impeccable. He wore a midnight blue, tailored suit that fit him perfectly, accentuating his lean build. The suit jacket had a sharp, notched lapel and a single-breasted design with sleek, minimalist buttons. His white dress shirt was crisp and clean, with the top two buttons casually undone, adding a touch of relaxed elegance.