So here it is with some added corrections.
I still don't have the name of my editor, so I'm yet to give her credit.
Get popcorn and background music.
Hope you enjoy.
***
'...' = thoughts.
"...." = spoken sentences.
***
"Connor, table thirty-four. Hop to it!"
'Should've seen that coming.'
A young man with hazel eyes looked up from the empty tray he held. Despite his obvious irritation, he held his tongue.
He was raven haired, had a slim but fit physique, and was currently dressed in black and white work formal with a maroon waistcoat in place of a jacket. The humble beginnings of a beard sprouted from an otherwise smooth chin.
"Connor!"
"I heard," he sighed, shelving the kitchen ware back where he took it from. "Just clarify for me a little. Do you want me to serve forty-one, sixteen or thirty-four? I'm a bit at odds of what to do here."
That last line came out with a little more spite than intended. It couldn't be helped. Janice was a slave driver in every sense of the word. And when she had a bad day, the witch went out of her way to make sure everyone else did too.
The woman in question stopped flipping through the register and narrowed her eyes dangerously at him. "We gettin' cute now, Connor?"
"I can't help it sometimes," he countered with a casual shrug of the shoulders. The entire kitchen went dead silent. It was populated by fifteen other people, all wearing their own uniforms and occupied with their own designations. Some on clean up, some on meal preparations, others like him were waiters. They got the brunt of it. From both their supervisors and their customers.
Janice gently placed the book down, rounded the chopping counter and walked over to him, heels clicking with every step. "Careful princess. Or I'll make sure the next thing you'll be carrying with those pretty fingers of yours, is a cleaning kit with the uniform and job title to match."
She dusted invisible dirt off his shoulder with a smile. "I want your ass at table thirty-four Connor. Now." Her head nudged at the tables through the walls. "Clear enough?"
The question hung in the air for a moment before he returned the wry smile. "Transparently."
It was official a long time ago that he loathed her. Considerably more than any other person here did. Whatever feeling that had morphed into since, was beyond the english dictionary's capability to adequately describe it.
'Human relations is clearly not your thing so what genius decided to put you in charge anyway?'
Oh, that's right. The joys of having family in high places meant one didn't necessarily have to worry about being qualified for a job. That bit was understandable. What really ticked them all off however, was how the leech insisted on taking all the credit for their efforts, in public or amongst themselves.
In all fairness, he'd technically be within his rights to state he was running an hour overtime already. And if the witch wanted any more mileage out of him, she'd need to clock it.
Just as well, she'd be without alternatives, with the way the restaurant was already running understaffed. But then the people she answered to would want an explanation as to why the payroll was heavier without prior approval.
Connor shook his head to himself. It was almost ten at night but he was already antagonised enough as it was. Riling Janice up any further would not be in his best interests. Stepping around her, he gave the devil incarnate two taps on the shoulder before making for the handleless doors.
Panorlite was a full fivestar restaurant, only found in hotel franchises with the same rating or higher. No doubt, it deserved no less by the simple look of it.
A pearl white themed dining room set the stage for a memorable evening. No two tables looked alike, each sporting rounded edges and were lit up by tea light candles. Those reflected brilliantly off the translucent surface they sat on.
Curved chairs were encased in hand sewn polyester and the floor they rested looked like polished ice without a single tile in sight. The ideal sports bar sat by the far wall exhibiting the finest of liquor. Hell, even the dimly lit chandeliers alone must have each cost double his entire student loan.
But for him, all this class translated to was that he'd be constantly serving wealthy stiffs with quite the variety of silver spoons shoved so far up their rears, it's a wonder how they even managed to sit down at all.
'Hey, at least it pays well... Relatively speaking anyways.'
The waiter casually pulled out his disposable note pad and branded pencil as he made his way over to his assignment. The clatter of cutlery against plates cascaded throughout the room. So did the murmur of conversation, laughs and the clink of wine glasses as friends honoured each other.
A man anxiously crushed a ring box behind his chair while his date droned on about something forgettable. It all served to drown out the repetitive classic music that played in the background.
A hand fell on his shoulder, catching him off guard. "You just won the lottery."
"What?"
"Thirty-four, equals lottery," His co-worker elaborated. "Or pigeons depending on your point of view."
Aleck was the youngest of them all. A fresh greenhorn with a slick sense of cunning. He could literally - for lack of a more accurate word - bullshit his way out of anything.
In most instances, that alone was all one needed to know about the fellow. But in this line of work, that skill came in pretty useful when it came to collecting... incentive.
"Be nice to them, you hear me? Ask them how their day was, laugh at their jokes," he advised, pausing to pick up a dropped fork. Did he know he was wearing his clip-on bow tie upside down? "Make a little small talk, see if they can get lotsa free stuff like complimentary wine. Then give them lots of it."
"Gee... Am I going to take an order or going on a date?"
"Depends on how versatile you are."
Connor arched a brow at the implication. "Should I be worried?"
