Night Burn

Chapter 8

I spend the better part of the remainder of my day questioning my decision to invite Noah to dinner. Mamma Rosa has always maintained that there is a standing open invitation for my +1 if I ever have one, and she always makes enough food to go around and then some.

The real issue is that I had just met the man a few hours ago. We barely know each other, and if I didn't stand a chance before, I sure as shit wasn't going to have a chance after he met the insanity that is my family. Maybe this is my subconscious attempting to sabotage me because the logical part of my brain has no idea how I ended up in this situation.

I'd questioned if it had all been some sort of hallucination attributable to my delayed caffeination this morning. That small glimmer of hope faded when I received a text message from Noah during my Econ class, asking if he could pick me up. I'd worked my way into another brilliant plan when I told him to meet me at the restaurant after my shift so he could ride with Lucas and me.

I still need to text Lucas to let him know, but my mind has been swirling too much for that type of practical follow-through. Luke's truck is a crew cab, so I'm confident all six + feet of Noah will find a way to squeeze in somehow.

Walking out of my final class, I make a beeline for the parking lot with hopes of making my shift on time. It only takes about 15 minutes before I'm pulling out of the parking lot with the A/C blasting.

I don't work the opening shift very often, as it's too close to my last class to be practical on a regular basis. Given I have less time than the speed limit will permit for me to make it right at 4:00, I bolster the steering wheel with my knees and hastily pull my t-shirt over my head, swapping it for my requisite bright blue button-up uniform shirt. At some point, I'd need to swap my joggers for the final part of the ensemble, an unfortunate black skort.

Finishing up the last of the buttons with one hand, I continue to make my way across town as efficiently as I can manage. I have about two minutes until I'm supposed to start my opening work, and with good fortune and a touch of illegal maneuvering, I see the restaurant's parking lot directly up ahead.

I race through the late-stage yellow traffic light and pull up a few spaces away from the back entrance to the restaurant. Given the time of day, I know that all the other staff are already well into their normal start times for dinner service, leaving me alone in the parking lot. I glance around quickly to affirm that assumption before pulling my joggers down and shimmying the awkward skort up over my hips.

I probably have less than 30 seconds to run my card through the time clock before I'm officially considered late. With a final deep breath, I heave myself out of my seat and race through the kitchen just as the clock switches to 4:01.

"Hey, Larke! I haven't seen you here this early in a while. Are you covering for Jayda?"

I turn to see Rhonda, one of the two regular hot-side chefs, smiling at me as she spreads diced vegetables over multiple sheet pans. I return her smile easily; I love serving with Rhonda as the lead. She always makes a point of ensuring the servers get something to eat that's more than the bland chicken sandwich we can "earn" if we use a greener method of transportation to get to work. Tonight, however, her kindness will be wasted on me with my angst-ridden dinner plans.

"Hi, Rhonda!! And nope, Ricky just put me as the opener this week. I'm not hating it as I'll actually get home at a more reasonable hour for once."

"That man has no method to his madness, I swear," Rhonda replies with a shake of her head.

We continue to chat over the next hour while I prep the kitchen for the start of dinner service. Two other servers have already shown up, and the hostess, Kayla, comes in to give us our section details. I've got two four tops and a large booth that can seat six to eight people. The front-of-house key lets us know that we don't have a food runner tonight, and I hear the other servers, Alexa and Dee, moan.

I don't mind, as the additional work makes the time go by faster. Alexa and Dee help me wrap up the final opening tasks while Rhonda regales us with her most recent misadventure, read 'date,' with a man-boy by the name of Lorenzo.

I'm bent double, wheezing with laughter when our conversation is cut short by Kayla calling through the kitchen.

"Larke, you've got a three top at Table 7," Kayla calls through the kitchen.

"Guh, who eats dinner this early?" Alexa moans as she continues to stage bread baskets. I grab one of them and bump her lightly with my hip.

"At least it's me and not you."

"Truth," she sighs, nudging me back.

I walk the bread out into the main dining area and spot three women sitting at the aforementioned table in my section. They're laughing with each other as I set the bread between them and grab the water pitcher from the sideboard to fill their staged glasses.

All three of them quickly grab a slice of the pre-cut loaf, and I smile, making a mental note to bring another basket out immediately after I put in their drink order.

They decide to each get a glass of house Cabernet and already have their full dinner order ready. Two of the three have their husbands at home 'watching' their kids, and I see the familiar mix of humor, horror, and general frustration flash through their eyes as they attempt to 'enjoy' themselves with some level of expediency. The third woman looks at her friends with a subtle pitying look and adds an appetizer to the mix. I make another mental note to comp the dessert order that I know will be coming before their entrees even hit the table.

I make quick work of entering their order, collecting their wine, and bringing them back a doubled-up basket of bread. By the time they've received their gratuitous pours and are knuckle-deep in their breadbasket, I have my next table.

Over the next hour, I efficiently work my way through my first few tables, mostly older couples or small families that are low-key and average to above-average tippers. It's now just past six, and my large booth is finally sat. I eye the clock in despair. There is no way in Hell I'm getting this lot; it appears to be a cluster of jocks out of here in under an hour. With a sigh, I set my shoulders, tighten my ponytail, and make my way over to the impressive collection of spirit-wear-clad men.

"Good evening, gentleman. What can I get you started with?"

Six heads turn towards me in unison, and I have to stop myself from shrinking in on myself. It's a lot of focused male attention, and although I haven't completely processed each face, I can tell they aren't unpleasant looking. A curly blonde immediately to my right responds first.

"I'll have a beer."

His voice cracks slightly, and I arch an eyebrow at him.

"Wanna tell me what kind?" I ask, and before he can respond, I add, "And show me that I.D?"

The other five men respond to my question by laughing, and the blonde subsequently ducks his head, the tips of his ears turning red.

"Come on, Teddy, she's a trained professional. You had to know that wasn't going to work."

This response comes from a well-built brunette tucked in the middle of the group. As he says this, he pulls his I.D. out of his wallet and tosses it into the middle of the table.

"He'll have a Coke," he says with a tip of his head toward Teddy. "I'll have a Fat Tire."

Defeated, Teddy folds his arms across his chest, and I glance down at... Adam's I.D. to confirm his age.

"Wow, twenty-one and three whole months, impressive," I say.

Teddy could fuck right off for trying to get one over on me, but I don't suffer assholes. I lock eyes with Adam, writing his and Teddy's drink order down on my pad. The table once again bubbles with laughter; this time, Teddy joins in.

Adam rolls his eyes but sits back with a forced nonchalance. I purse my lips to fight off a victorious smirk.

A deep voice to my left asks for a Shirley Temple, and I'm momentarily seized by more than just the absurdity of the drink order from a vocal range that clearly does not belong to a nine-year-old girl. I've heard that voice before. Turning, I feel my eyes widen, and my cheeks bloom with heat. My hand is frozen over my pad as I stare into a set of familiar warm brown eyes.

"Hey," Noah says with an easy smile.