Page 2 of Spiced!

Jacks shrugged. “He knew when they walked in. He went to the office approximately forty-five seconds later. Fucking coward.” He grinned with his last words.

I craned my neck to glance at the office door. It was closed and probably locked.

“He abandoned us, didn’t he?” I asked.

“He absolutely abandoned us,” Benji agreed. “Mark’s here, though.”

Mark sat in his corner booth with his laptop open and a glass of iced tea in one hand. He was staring at his screen while occasionally sneaking a peek at the assembled ladies. The grin that crawled across his lips spoke of profit margins and revenue models on a sports-less Saturday that was usually more of a break-even affair.

I set my pastry boxes on the bar and called through the kitchen pass-through, “Hey, Rod.”

Our resident chef’s head appeared, careful not to poke far enough through the pass-through to be seen by our boisterous guests. He homed in on the pastry boxes, squinted cautiously at the bachelorette party occupying the center of the bar, then looked back at me and released the longest sigh in the history of breathing.

“Guava’s yours.” I shrugged and nodded toward the boxes. “Rest is for everyone else.”

Rod did his best Inspector Gadget stretchy-arm maneuver through the pass, snatched the guava box, and vanished faster than the Road Runner being chased by poor ole Wile E.

Ms. Clipboard found me before I could escape to the back.

“Excuse me,” she said. “Are you the performer?”

I looked down at my flour-dusted shirt, then looked back at her. “Yes, ma’am. That’s me.”

“Wonderful.” She scanned me head to toe, then made notes on her clipboard, grunting like a mechanic assessing a ticking noise. I got a good look at what was attached to the board while she wrote.

There were printed sheets and laminated tabs.

For a bachelorette party.

I was suddenly terrified of the evening to come.

“We have you scheduled for nine, nine-forty-five, and eleven, with the option for an additional set at midnight if the bride’s energy warrants.”

I sucked in a breath. “Who made this schedule?”

“I did. I’m Courtney, the maid of honor.” She said it the way policemen flashed badges. “I’ve been planning this for eight months. Barbacks was a last-minute addition and appears to have captured the bride’s heart even more than her groom.”

“Courtney,” I said. “I work here, but I’m not booked for any event specifically. My sets are already scheduled and are for the whole bar.”

Her eyes narrowed as she began clicking the button on the end of her pen.

I held her gaze.

She clicked faster.

“All right, fine. The whole bar will be watching,” she said pleasantly, then clicked her pen three more times. She made a note on her clipboard, spun on a heel, and returned to her group.

I went to find Benji, who’d deserted me somewhere between clicks. He was making drinks for four of the sash contingent with the delight of a man who was exactly where he wanted to be. Jacks had still not returned from the back, the little chicken shit.

I waited until there was a gap, leaned in, and whispered, “Courtney has a schedule.”

“I know.” Benji nodded without looking back. “She showed it to me. It’s typed and laminated.”

“She has me down for four sets.”

“That’s what I saw.” He added something to a shaker. “On the bright side, they’re ordering consistently and tipping well. The bride told me this is the third bar they’ve hit, which means they have a timeline and will eventually leave.”

“When?”