Page 45 of Nocturnes & Nightmares

“Did you specifically ask for his special sauce in that exchange? Because I’m thinking you got shafted.”

“No, I—” Her eyes narrow on me as the pun dawns on her. Slowly. “Very funny.”

“Couldn’t resist. You’ve worked there a while now?”

“A few years.”

“How is it?” The conversation feels as normal as any, except it’s not. This is the boring shit I have to weed through to get to the information I need. Who the hell would love a waitressing job? Woman probably busts her ass all day, for a bunch of ungrateful bastards who don’t even tip the standard.

“How is it? As opposed to what? The hustle and bustle of Wall Street?” Her brows wing up while she pours more of the wine. “Exciting, let me tell you.”

“Tell me.”

“Oh, let’s see. There’s Dale, my boss, who you so grossly assumed was some kind of booty call. He’s not, by the way. I’m pretty sure his favorite phrases are ‘Order up!’ and ‘Can you work this weekend?’”

I bury a smile behind my own glass of wine.

“Then there are the customers. Always entertaining, especially when they’re bitching about the food.” Another long swill of her drink, and she tips the bottle for more.

I want to shake my head, knowing what’s coming, and save her the embarrassment of another drunken night, but that won’t get me the details I’m desiring more so than the preservation of her dignity.

“Shitty food, then?” I tease, surprised at how much I enjoy these kinds of interactions with her, and the way her face scrunches to a scowl every time, just before she’s about to slap a retort.

“Seriously? You just raved about dinner, man. No, the food is great. The customers are just picky as hell. And how can I forget my coworkers? Particularly Bethany, who’s always a trip.”

“Bethany,” I echo.

Ding ding ding.

“Yeah. She’s married to Harv, who is another story, but regardless, she’d have a guy like you unwrapped, like a kid on Christmas morning.”

I snort at that and lean back into my chair, watching the wine commandeer this woman’s usually tight-lipped confessions like truth serum. “Unwrapped?”

“She’s a narco. No, wait. That’s not the word I’m looking for. I mean nympho! She’s a nympho and hits on any guy with a nice body.”

“Like mine?”

“Yes. I mean, no! Yes, she’d hit on you, but don’t trick me into saying you have a nice body, okay? That’s rude.”

There are four stages to drunkenness: the attempt to fake sobriety, quickly smothered by the string of truths that tend to fly out a drunk’s mouth, until we arrive at slurring, and she’s one step away from that, from what I can see. The final stage is passing out.

Rubbing my hand across my jaw is a poor attempt to hide my amusement.

“And Harv is the physical embodiment of every woman’s nightmare, wrapped up in a beer gut. They’re like … perfect together.”

“He sounds like quite a catch for her.”

“Doesn’t matter. They’re swingers. Even if he doesn’t get her hot to trot, someone else surely will.” Her words have begun to slur a bit, as she prattles on about her friend. Feeding me random minutiae that hasn’t yet clicked into place.

“I take it you don’t care for the husband.”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

The glass tips back again, and she’s already polished off her third glass of wine in less than thirty minutes. My guess is, she’ll be nursing another hangover at this rate.

“What bugs you about him?”

The way she holds her breath, brows pinched together, I know she’s thinking. Of what, I can’t be certain, but as the pinch grows tighter, so does the urge to sweep her up out of that chair and pin her to the wall behind her, while I fuck the truth out of her.