The Trouble With Quarterbacks - R.S. Grey Page 0,6
their eyes being half-closed in the first, no doubt—and then I pass back the mobile. They all lean in to get a good look at the screen.
“It’s perfect!” one declares.
I smile and promise to be back to check on them soon before making my way to my next table. It’s a group of lads here to celebrate a bachelor party, and they’ve been quite rowdy since they arrived. Very macho, very reminiscent of a herd of male peacocks.
They’re the closest you can be to VIP without actually being in it, and when I wander over, they’re talking extremely loudly about a guest sitting up on level two behind the red rope.
“That’s definitely him! I think I know a Super-Bowl-winning quarterback when I see one.”
“All you could see was the back of his head when he walked by, dipshit. It could be anyone!”
“Lads! Oy!” I interrupt them. “Can I get drink orders?”
I’m small, but my accented voice carries, and they all turn at once to lock their eyes on me. I stand at the base of their round booth, waving around the little notepad I use to jot down lengthy orders.
“Are you on the menu?” one of them asks, a bit under his breath, but they all hear it and so do I. A few of them snicker.
I take no offense. My main goal tonight is to earn tips, and I’ll bet they’re mostly harmless. All-talk sort of guys.
“That depends,” I reply saucily, propping my hands on my hips.
They all lean in, interested.
“Shall I bring the bachelor boy a round of shots and we’ll all have one?”
“Yes!” one of them shouts before the others have a chance. “Top-shelf tequila. Whatever you have that’s best.” He reaches into the back pocket of his suit pants and tugs out his wallet.
I hold up my hand; I already have their cards at the bar for their tab. He’s forgotten, but I remind him.
“Right,” he says, continuing to tug a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill from his wallet. “This is just for you then—if you take that shot with us.”
For some, his offer might creep a bit too close to selling your soul. Putting up with these guys, joking and laughing with them…yes, they’re leering at me like I’m a glossy rack of prime rib, but that hundred-dollar bill is too good to pass up. Besides, Roger knows the drill.
A few minutes later, we all take a tequila shot like pros, sucking it down and chasing it with a tart lime wedge. I use the back of my hand to wipe a bit of the juice from my chin and then unfurl a proud smile. They all watched me take mine, unsure of my abilities to hold my liquor. Of course, they don’t know that Roger watered mine down enough that it barely had any bite to it at all. It’s the only way to make it through a shift, especially with guys like these.
“She’s my dream woman,” one of them says, leaning in to take my hand. “Marry me?”
I laugh and play along, though his hand is a little clammy with sweat and he reeks of alcohol. It’s barely masked by his expensive cologne, and though he’s got a handsome enough face and a fat enough wallet, he’s absolutely not my type.
“I appreciate it, really, but—”
“Candace?”
The sharp voice carries over the noise of the bar, drawing my attention toward the VIP section. Up on the second-floor landing, I spot Logan right away. It’s not as if he’s hard to find, standing up and facing me, as impossible to ignore as the sun. God, what a bloke. All tall and tanned in his black shirt and jeans. He’s dressed way more casually than most of our patrons here, but he looks more like he belongs than anyone. His hair is just as perfect as I remember—short enough that it barely gets to do any of its marvelous curl, but long enough that my fingers could get tangled in it. Easily.
He curves around the tables to get to the entrance of the VIP section, and I watch him move, amazed by how fluid his steps are, how he commands his body and the people around him. They move and shift for him before he even has to ask. Noah parting the Red Sea, this one. Sheesh, quite convenient little trick that is. I’d never have to fight my way through packed subways again.
It’s only been a week since I met him at The Day School, but I’d forgotten