She wondered if right this second she was gossip material for the waitstaff.
Ugh. Could the day get any worse?
Why yes, Summer, her inner antagonist chortled. Yes, it can. Wait for it, gurl.
Draining the last of the potent cocktail and snagging an olive off a pick with her teeth, she grabbed her phone with the intention of leaving a message by giving him a piece of her mind for leaving her stranded.
Her butt wobbled on the stool, and she had to squint for focus, but goddammit, she had something to say.
Opening her contacts list, she saw his name right away. A for Arnie.
A righteous fit of pique stiffened her posture. How dare he forget about her?
Stabbing her finger to connect a call, she cleared her throat, ready to leave a message.
“Thanks, you asshole. Thanks for ditching me when I don’t have my car. Now I have to blow all the tips I made today for an Uber.”
The cell phone didn’t allow her to slam the receiver down to drive home her displeasure, so tapping the red end call button felt a little anticlimactic.
Cursing the male species, Summer gathered her belongings and slid off the stool. The alcohol in her system didn’t help her darkening mood. She gripped the back of the stool until the floor stabilized and then launched her body in the direction of the front lobby. Getting out the door took effort as she made her way through the dinner crowd.
On the sidewalk, she scurried away from all the people and leaned against the building. She pulled up her Uber app and ordered a car.
How the hell had the day gone belly up? She was a happy, smiling idiot eight hours ago. The tips she got for the brunch shift was worth the effort. The lunch shift was a bitch—it always was—but she’d made good money so complaining was futile. Things went downhill super fast, though, when she couldn’t reach Arnie.
It only took five minutes for her car to pull up. She scrambled into the back seat of a sedan, mumbled to the driver, and then promptly shut down. Her emotions careened wildly. Should she be mad or worried?
Neither scenario gave her any comfort.
Her dour mood brightened somewhat after walking through her door. Surely, being home would help.
Dropping her overnight bag and purse onto the floor right inside the front door, she tossed her keys into their bowl and did a double take on the framed photograph of Merlin’s cave. Something about the picture had intrigued Arnie.
Anxiety ricocheted inside Summer. Something wasn’t right, but the alcohol confused the situation.
She made it to the bedroom in a less than straight line and tore off her waitress clothes. Her shoes were next, followed with a loud sigh as she freed the girls from their bra bondage. After the strangling confinement was gone, she massaged her boobs and felt some relief.
The art of the sloppy hair bun was made sloppier by fumbling fingers. When she bent forward to allow gravity to help the process, she stumbled and banged her knee on the edge of a chair.
Getting something in her stomach to soak up the martinis she consumed led her into the kitchen. She whipped open the refrigerator door and grimaced when the first thing her eyes lit on was a can of aerosol whipped cream.
Pushing it aside, she rummaged through the rest of the contents. A takeout carton of beans and rice from the restaurant had been on the top shelf too long, so she tossed it in the bin.
There wasn’t a lot in the way of actual food. A jar of pickles wasn’t going to do it. Same for the little containers of goat and feta cheese she brought home from Trader Joe’s.
In the end, she took the mindless way out and made a peanut butter sandwich drizzled with honey instead of jelly.
Cross-legged and half-naked on her Brady Bunch sofa, Summer tore into the sandwich and tried really hard not to feel sorry for herself.
When a glob of honey escaped the sandwich and landed squarely on one of her breasts, she wiped it off with a finger that she then licked.
The combination of boobs and licking was all it took for her to fall apart.
Body shuddering waves of fear tore through her until she shook all over. It wasn’t just that he didn’t answer his phone. It was that each call went straight to voicemail—a sure sign the phone was turned off.
Why would he turn it off after making a production