Wayward



  WAYWARD

  by

  Ashley Girardi

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  PUBLISHED BY:

  Wayward

  Copyright © 2011 by Ashley Girardi

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  Chapter One

  I despised the smell of hotdogs. Unfortunate, considering the fact that I served at least a hundred greasy plates of them to tourists on a daily basis. The odor clung to my hair, skin and clothes like rank perfume. There was no way to avoid it.

  Two showers a day and I still had nightmares of being served with mustard and relish on a sesame seed bun at a feast laid out in Hell.

  "Order up."

  Big Larry wasn't the devil. Still, his eyes—barely visible as he glowered at me through the grill window—might be described as faintly demonic.

  I sniffed faintly. No hint of sulfur, just the pungent stench of pork fat and french fries. Gross, but my soul was probably as safe as it had ever been.

  "Get moving, girl," he barked, before disappearing behind a cloud of frying oil vapor.

  "You got it." Pissing off Big Larry was no way to start the night. Getting food to my tables as quickly as possible was my only shot at decent tips.

  I slid the plastic baskets out of the window, one for each hand and a third tucked into the crook of my arm. Buns rolled in their paper lining and I righted them with the ease of long practice. The food went to table six and I slid behind the counter to pull some beers from the cold case.

  "You're not supposed to serve those." A voice spoke from above me.

  Jenny, a college student home for winter break and legally allowed to serve booze, stood on the other side of the counter. She was the only other waitress on and the current bane of my existence. A piece of gum snapped between lips coated in gloss the color of cotton candy.

  I took my time counting out four Bud Lights before standing and slamming the case door shut with the side of my hip. My fingers wrapped tight around the necks of the bottles and I resisted the urge to reach out and smack her across the face with them.

  She blocked my way out from behind the bar and I sighed heavily. "If a customer orders alcohol, am I supposed to say no?"

  "You're supposed to give the table to me. Those customers could be undercover police officers."

  Jenny reached for the beers and I instinctively pulled them away. Drinks meant a higher check total for the table and thus a higher tip for me. No way was I giving that up without a fight.

  I shoved past her, forcing her to move or be squashed against the counter. "That one guy has like eight chins. They aren't cops."

  "Larry," Jenny called loudly. I winced at the strident sound. She strode to the grill window and I hurried after her.

  "What?" Larry's faceless grumble came from the far end of the grill.

  "Hess is trying to get us fined by the city."

  "It's Hex," I said through clenched teeth. She knew my name, but reveled in deliberately mangling it.

  The business end of a spatula shot through the window and came to a stop less than an inch from my nose. "Minors don't serve in my restaurant. Give the table to Jenny."

  "Sucks for you." Jenny pulled the beers out my hands with a smirk of smarmy satisfaction. I was really regretting not decking her when I had the chance. She turned on her heel, blonde ponytail whipping me in the face, and sauntered to what should have been my table with a switch in her hips.

  I watched as she served the beers, leaning over so all four men seated at the table got a good look down the v-neck of her shirt. It was disgusting but she'd probably net at least an extra five bucks.

  My only other table paid and left, leaving an okay tip and a pile of balled up napkins and half-empty glasses for me to clear up. The sound of Jenny's high-pitched giggle coming from a few feet away set my teeth on edge.

  I leaned over the counter, my arms resting against the cool glass. I stared at the clock on the wall, willing the hands to move a little faster. It was a slow shift, achingly so, and all I wanted was to get off work and try to salvage the night.

  Larry insisted on keeping the diner open twenty-four hours. It was getting painfully obvious to everyone but him that we didn't have the customer base to support that. Evenings were our busiest time and I normally ran out of things to do by eight.

  Leno's on 56th served Chicago-style hotdogs before the dish was famous. A grimy picture of Al Capone, butt planted firmly in one of the same stools with red, cracked vinyl seats that still lined the bar, sat under the glass counter next to the cash register.

  These days, Leno's wasn't much more than a run-down greasy spoon, sandwiched in between a dry cleaners and a Korean grocery store, serving the same crappy food as a hundred other places in the city.

  Nobody considered waitressing an ideal way to make a living but the job did have its advantages. I got paid in cash, for one. More importantly, Big Larry overlooked the fact that he'd never seen my social security card or birth certificate. After the first few weeks of me "forgetting" them at home, he stopped asking. I think we were both content to keep me off the payroll.

  It's hard to get paperwork when you use a fake name.

  Jenny swept haughtily past me. "You have a table."

  I followed her gaze to a booth in the back corner of the restaurant that I could have sworn only moments before was empty. A lone man sat with his back to me, dark hair curling in unruly licks around his head.

  "Okay." I grabbed a menu from the rack next to the register. My fingers fumbled for the notepad tucked into the pocket of my apron as I wove between the tables.

  I had only just come to a stop at the booth when I started my greeting. "Welcome to Leno's on 56th. My name is Hex and I'll be your waitress—" The man raised his head and the words died on my tongue.

  "What are you doing here?" I asked coldly.

  West Mustela leaned back against the cracked vinyl of the booth and rested his booted feet on the seat opposite him. "You don't seem happy to see me." Dip peeked out of the corner of his smile, black tar that soured his breath and stained his teeth.

  I had never been happy to see West. He was dirty—black fingernails, greasy hair and a pockmarked face—one of the least attractive people I knew. Even so, I viewed him with a mixture repulsion and longing. West, for all that I found him totally repulsive, was my link to the life I left behind. One of the few reminders left of who I really was.

  "You're not supposed to bother me at work."

  "Sorry." His voice was slick as the oil running through the engines of the cars he worked on all day. He gazed pointedly around the empty restaurant. "I hate to keep you, if you're busy."

  West shifted his feet and caked mud trapped in the tread of his boots fell on the seat. Eyeing them with distaste, I reminded myself to wipe down the seats of the booth after he left.

  "You have to order something if you're taking up a table," I said finally. I had little hope of convincing him to leave,m but it was still worth the attempt.

  West dug in his pocket and pulled out a handful of spare change. He dropped it in front of me, coins making a dull sound as they struck the table.

  "What can I get for that?"

  I slid the coins across the table one at a time with the tip of my finger, counting them. "Small coffee, not including tip."

  "Coffee it is, then."

  I swept the change into the palm of my hand and stuck it into the pocket of my apron. "Great."

  The coffee pot was almost empty, any remaining liquid turning to sludge at the bottom. I shrugged and poured what was left into a mug, barely filling it three-quarters of the way full. West would have to deal. The $1.19 in change jangling around in the pocket of my apron wasn't worth making a whole new pot.

  Jenny sat at the bar, eating salad out of a tupperware container tha
t she'd brought for dinner. She raised an eyebrow as I passed.

  "He ordering food?" She asked, nodding in West's direction.

  I held up the lukewarm cup of coffee. "Just this."

  "You can't catch a break tonight."

  "Tell me about it."

  "Sucks." She speared a cherry tomato with her fork and popped it into her mouth, seeming unconcerned with my bad luck.

  "Maybe he'll want a beer," I said sarcastically, turning away.

  West straightened when I set the coffee mug down in front of him. He gestured to the bench across from him.

  "Sit."

  I eyed the seat warily, now liberally decorated with bits of mud and grass from the bottom of West's boots. I dragged over a chair from one of the nearby tables and turned it backwards, straddling the seat.

  West took a sip of his coffee, regarding me steadily over the porcelain. Every few seconds, his focus in his close-set eyes would jump to the entrance of the restaurant as if he expected someone to suddenly burst through it. A nervous tic.

  I finally had to break the silence.

  "What do you want?"

  He rubbed his hands vigorously together and pushed them both through his hair. The bell of the door clanged as a new customer walked in. West jumped like he'd been shocked.

  "You good?" I asked quietly.

  Jenny sat the customer at a table near the door. West watched their progress, beady eyes trained on their movements. He twitched and seemed to pull himself together, turning back to face me.

  "I got some action for you."

  "Tonight?"

  He nodded, picking at his fingernails. "Good action. Just for you."

  His movements reminded me of an addict coming down from the high, shaky and nervous, senses overloaded by even the slightest stimuli. He'd worked all day. It was starting to catch up with him. The last thing I needed was for West to lose control in the middle of the restaurant.

  "How much?"

  "Two-forty with my cut."

  I glanced at the clock. My shift didn't end for another hour.

  "When?" I asked West.

  "Soon." He shivered. His entire body shook with a tremor that took several moments to subside. "Now."

  "Hold on a minute."

  I jogged back to the grill and peered through the window. "It's totally dead out here, Larry. Can I cut out early?"

  Big Larry stuck his head out and surveyed the nearly empty restaurant. His gaze stopped on West, who sat huddled in the corner of his booth. "You got a hot date, or something?"

  "Sure," I said, dryly. "Can I go now?"

  Larry shook his spatula at me. "Don't say I never did you any favors."

  "Whatever you say, boss." I untied my apron and tucked it under the bar. I pulled my backpack and jacket out from behind the register, slinging the former over my shoulder. Helping West to his feet, I braced as he fell against me and nearly stumbled to the floor.

  With one of his arms slung around my neck, I half lifted and half carried him to the door.

  "Looks like your boyfriend got started a little early," Jenny said snidely as we passed her.

  I glared, fed up with her attitude. It wasn't enough that she took my only decent table of the night, she had to be nasty about it. I watched her lips as they curved into a sarcastic smile. I just wanted to shut her up. Snuff out her voice like pinching out a candle flame.

  Jenny choked and hacked. She doubled over, gasping for air as her body seized in an intense coughing fit.

  I watched for a long moment as the fit faded. When Jenny finally straightened, her face was red and her eyes teared.

  "Are you feeling okay?" I asked her sweetly.

  Her voice came in a harsh croak. "Fine."

  "Have a good night," I called over my shoulder as I helped West limp to the door.

  He spoke softly once we were outside and I helped him sit down on the curb. "That was risky."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "The girl back there."

  I fished a set of keys out of my jacket pocket and my fingers trembled. "She just got something stuck in her throat."

  "If you say so."

  I exhaled sharply and my breath formed a misty cloud. "My bike's parked down the street. You need a ride?"

  "Yeah." He leaned forward, dropping his head between his legs. "Just give me a minute."

  The cold bit at my skin. Wind whipped in every direction, rustling through my hair and stinging my face. Dirty streetlamps dimly lit the street but I could just barely make out the dull gleam of a chrome fender. I parked my bike in the alley behind Leno's.

  I ran my fingers over the smooth lines of bike's body. My baby was a patch job—all spit and spare parts, mostly junk or stolen. She wasn't as pretty as a factory machine whipped off an assembly line like a Xerox copy but I built her myself from the ground up. A little bit of open road and my bike could fly. Nothing else even came close.

  West waited patiently on the sidewalk as I wheeled the bike up. He climbed up behind me with little difficulty. Being outside already made him feel better. He wrapped his arms lightly around my waist and shouted directions in my ear.

  I was ready for some action.