Dark Queen - Ker Dukey Page 0,22

I’m her competition—and she’s right to worry.

“Ignore her, Jewel. She’s just jealous he’s noticed you and not her,” Jessica sneers.

Noticed her for being sloppy?

“Don’t you have a thrift store to be rummaging in?” Jewel jibes, raising a brow.

She thinks her taunts are insults. With a gentle nudge as I pass her, her lipstick swipes across her cheek. I can be juvenile too.

“See you later, Janet,” I call over my shoulder.

“Alyssa, drinks are ready for table eight,” Joelle calls from the bar to get my attention.

Table eight is Milly’s, but I don’t see her anywhere.

She only works one shift a week that syncs with mine, but the others have talked about how lazy and stingy she is with the sharing of tips—and that immediately made me dislike her.

I run the drinks to her table and place them down, grateful the customers take their chosen drinks without me having to ask who ordered what.

“Let me know if there’s anything else you need,” I offer with a smile, then make my way back to the bar to get a fresh order pad.

Tonight had been crazy long. In fact, it’s been a long week, and once again, the same as every night this week, Mr. Leto hasn’t made an appearance.

I check the clock and sigh. Nearly home time.

“Are you ready to order food?” I ask in my most polite tone, holding in the yawn desperate to break free. This is my last table.

“Can we have a few more minutes?” One of the women ask not looking up at me as she scans the menu.

“Of course.” I smile, despite wanting to yell at them.

They’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes, and fifteen of that was them deciding what they want to drink. We close in an hour, and it will take half of that for the chef to cook their order.

“You look wiped.” Simon runs his gaze eyes up and down my body, his brow raised.

A group of women who spent most of the night in a private booth reserved for special occasions giggle and stumble as they leave for the night.

One breaks away from the group and slides a folded-up bill and a napkin with a number written on it across the bar toward Simon.

Smirking, he pockets the napkin in front of her, making her blush.

I take a moment to really look at him.

His dark hair is neatly styled to one side. Amber eyes are rimmed with thick, dark lashes that would make any female jealous. Prominent cheekbones and a slight crook at the bridge of his nose make him handsome in an unconventional way.

“It’s been a long week,” I groan, looking over at another of Milly’s tables. It hasn’t been cleared of the dirty plates despite her customers being finished. “Where’s Milly?” I ask.

“She’s in the bathroom for the hundredth time tonight. I think her boyfriend dumped her again.” Joelle sticks a finger in her mouth in a gagging motion, overhearing our conversation.

“If Hannah comes out here and sees the tables this way, she’ll fire Milly—and that would mean more work for the rest of us in covering her shifts next week,” she adds, pushing the receipt booklet for their table over to me.

Great.

I go and place it on their table and begin clearing the plates. “Thank you so much for dining with us,” I beam.

One of the men slips a twenty into the pocket of my apron, his hand brushing over my lower stomach as he does.

Gritting my teeth, I clear the rest of their plates just as Milly makes her appearance. Narrowing her eyes at me, she follows me through to the back kitchen.

“Are you trying to steal my tips?” she asks, her lips twisted in a snarl.

“What?” I whirl around, astonished she has the balls to accuse me of that. I’ve been picking up her slack all night.

“I can clear my own tables, Vanessa,” she sneers, folding her arms and jutting out her curvy hip.

“It’s Alyssa, and the customers were leaving. You still hadn’t cleared their tables or even offered a dessert menu.”

“I was getting to it,” she growls before turning on her heel and storming toward the front of the house.

I follow, scooping the shitty twenty-dollar tip from my apron and scrunching it in my fist.

“Milly,” I call just as she steps through the door to the dining floor. I ping the crumpled note off her forehead. “Your tip.”

Her screech is over the top and loud—too freaking loud.

Shit.

“Alyssa, in my office,” Hannah warns from behind me, startling me. I