Dirty (Dive Bar #1)(60)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“Do I look like someone who wants to spend the rest of tonight crapping myself?” The cranky man shoved the antipasto platter into my hands. “I told the waiter I needed gluten free. I was very clear about it.”

“I apologize for the mistake, sir,” I said. “Let me get that fixed right away for you.”

“Thank you,” he ground out, his expression far from appreciative.

Whatever.

I hauled ass to the kitchen, where Boyd raised an eyebrow at me. “I need a new antipasto gluten free, please.”

He nodded and got busy. Or rather, as the only chef in the kitchen tonight, stayed busy. Nell had called in sick after vomiting all day, the poor thing. Luckily the Dive Bar was only half full tonight.

God, I hoped I didn’t come down with her virus. The morning-after pill had messed with me enough.

An almighty clatter came from the front counter. I spun around to find Masa standing there, a tray full of glasses shattered at his feet. Ice cubes, lemon slices, and straws, all spread out across the floor.

“Crap,” I muttered.

Masa just made a small sound of despair and dropped to his knees, to clean up.

I grabbed the dustpan and brush, then joined him down there.

“I’m sorry,” he said, hands moving frantically. “This won’t take a minute.”

“Slow down. You cutting yourself on broken glass won’t help anyone.”

He didn’t say anything, but he did calm down. A start.

“What’s going on with you?” I asked, carefully scooping up the remains of a beer bottle.

“What? Nothing,” said the young man.

“Try again.”

He just sniffed.

“Masa, you served mint to the woman with mint allergies, got the gluten-intolerant guy’s order wrong, and told Boyd that the vegetarians at table eight wanted the chicken satay pizza instead of the margherita. And the list goes on.”

He looked at me, dark eyes swollen and red.

“You’re clearly upset and distracted,” I said. “Talk to me.”

He hung his head. “My girlfriend dumped me.”

“Oh no. I’m so sorry.”

“She’s been f*cking her tutor for months behind my back.” Masa’s chin wrinkled, his jaw rigid. “They’re in love, apparently. She texted me just before work, told me all about it.”

“What a bitch.”

From over behind the bar, Eric watched us as he poured another beer. He made no move to come over, and communicated nothing with his gaze. So be it. Broken hearts were serious shit. Someone had to act before Masa accidentally set the place on fire while serving Baked Alaska, or something.

“Clean this up, then head home,” I said, handing Masa the dustpan and brush. “I’ll make sure Eric’s okay with it.”

“Are you sure?” He looked worried. As he probably should be.

“Yeah. The dinner rush is almost over. I can finish up here.”

“Thank you.”

“No problem.” I smiled and got back to work.

Gluten-intolerant dude didn’t leave a tip and cleanup took a little longer than normal, but there were no more complaints or catastrophes. I’m pretty sure I spotted the reporter who’d wanted the scoop on my botched wedding lurking out on the sidewalk at one stage during the night. So long as he didn’t actively get in my face, however, I was willing to ignore him. For now.

The Dive Bar felt different after closing, all shadows and quiet. A change from all the bright light and music of business hours. It was nice.

Vaughan was missing in action when I woke this morning. When it came time for me to head in to work, Boyd drove up in a late-model Jeep and honked the horn. I guess Vaughan organized the ride for me. It’s not like Boyd was talking. Ever. I was about to start walking since I didn’t have a phone to call a cab—an issue I’d dared raise with my driver. Boyd kindly stopped at a phone store, allowing me to race in and purchase a cell.

Ah, technology. I didn’t actually miss it, but in this modern world of constant communication, it was a necessity. The first thing I’d done was leave a message for my folks. Not that I really expected a reply before the annual Christmas card. Communication wasn’t their strong-suit. As parents, they fundamentally sucked. It was just a fact of life. People were who they were, yada yada. Hormones and social expectations had a lot to answer for when it came to population growth.

I could still hear Boyd banging pots and pans around in the kitchen. Assuming he was my ride home, I’d be waiting for a while. Which was fine. I’m sure I could find something to do here. Maybe I’d go ghost hunting for Andre Senior Scare the crap out of myself down in the dark basement. To my knowledge, I’d never been in a haunted building before. It could be fun. A once-in-a-lifetime experience.

“Lydia, think it’s time we talked,” said Eric from the bar.

Ruh roh.

“All right.” I wandered on over, untying my apron as I walked. If I was about to be fired for telling Masa to go home, at least it would be in comfort. I climbed onto one of the stools, giving my poor whiny aching feet a break. Actually, they weren’t so bad today. Guess I was getting used to being on them all the time.

Eric set a drink on the bar, served in one of the chunky pretend-cut-crystal, vintage-style glasses. I loved them. He clinked his matching drink against mine, then took a sip. It was an amber liquid. Scotch, judging by the smell. A spiral of orange rind and cubes of ice swam around inside.