"And then I move my tongue in little circles, all across your nipples. Your hard, trembling nipples. And then? Then I bite."
"Fuck." It came out as a low grunt into Gen's phone. "You're going to make me come."
"I know I am." Erica's voice came back with that faint undertone of mockery she always seemed to have. "I like making you come at work. With my teeth on your tits and my fingernails scraping over your clit..."
"Nghh," Gen managed. She realized with a shocked sense of awareness that her girlfriend was about to make her come over the phone. Here, tucked into a bathroom stall with her hands down her pants when she was supposed to be getting appetizers set up for the Felgman wedding. "I can't..."
"You can." Erica sounded so smug. "You can."
"Hey!" It was a harsh yammer from the real world, the world outside her phone. "Genevieve! Get the fuck out of the bathroom and get back to work!" The stall door rattled. "Get off the goddamn phone. Jason needs you."
Jason needed her. So, of course, he'd sent that little bitch Aimee into the bathroom to find her. "Fuck. I'm on a break," Gen hissed.
"You've been in that stall for like five minutes," Aimee snickered, which was true. Erica could usually make Gen come in three. "Come on. Jason's, like, manic."
"Goddamn it! I'll be out in a sec."
Erica giggled over the phone. "Duty calls, sugartwat?"
"Yes. Goddamn, I want to eat you," Gen sighed. "I'll call back later." The last came out as a resigned grunt, but Aimee was leaning up against the counter with a smug smirk when Gen emerged, straightening her pants.
"Naw, you're not going to call back later," Aimee drawled. "You're going to be busy pulling your weight out there, like the rest of us."
"Who the fuck died and made you manager?" Gen snapped. She washed pussy off her hands while the younger woman watched. "Did you need to piss? Or did you just come in here to spy on me, you pervert?"
"I told you, Jason asked for you." She squinted critically at her nails, buffing them against her white button-down. "He really wants you."
"Fuck." Gen traded a vicious glare with Aimee. God help them all, she thought, if Jason ever
did
make her a manager. Gen would quit before the announcement was even over. "Whatever." She stomped down the service corridor, feeling that deep itch Erica had been trying to scratch. No, the itch Erica had
caused
. They'd been dating just three months and everything was still exciting. All around her the hotel bustled, waitstaff like her in tight black pants and white shirts swirling around with trays and bins. Jason was conducting it all from the top of the stairs.
"Genevieve!" he called as soon as he saw her. "Where have you been? We've got a situation." Standing next to Jason was a fastidious-looking old guy, vaguely familiar, who Gen thought was probably the wedding planner. "You can sew, right?"
"Jesus!" Gen exploded when she'd marched up the stairs. "What, just because I'm a woman, I can sew?"
"No," Jason shot back, "just because I know your mom runs a dress shop, you can sew. So spare me your self-righteous wrath and tell me: can you sew, or can't you?"
Gen crossed her arms under her little tits. "I can sew," she admitted grudgingly.
"Great. Mr Gerber here has a problem," Jason went on, "and if you can help him fix it up, I'll give you twenty bucks."
"What's the problem?" Gen asked the old guy, managing that fake customer-service smile she could sometimes find.
"One of the bridesmaids tore the lining of her dress," he explained, visibly trembling. Gen thought off the top of her head that nobody so bad at stress should ever go into business as a wedding planner, but it wasn't her call. "She needs it stitched back up."
"What, like, while she's wearing it?"
"If possible." The little guy glanced at his watch. "Whatever's fastest."
Gen nodded and turned back to Jason. "Thirty bucks," she countered.
"And a positive Yelp review," Gerber added, and that's what did it for Jason. Reviews were all he cared about.
"Perfect," he nodded. "Genevieve, thanks. I'm sure there's a sewing kit in the bridesmaids' room."
"There is," Gerber smiled. "We put together a gift basket."
"With a sewing kit?" Gen scowled. "And you can't even sew?"
"Well, you can," Gerber winked. "So everything's fine." He'd led her down a different hallway, all high wainscoting and thick carpet, to a door tucked into the corner. "I'll leave you to it, then. The maid of honor is named Miranda; I'm sure she's waiting impatiently!" He nearly threw that last bit over his shoulder in his haste to get away, and as Gen knocked on the door she wondered what she'd find on the far side.
The door flew open. "Jesus. It's about fucking time." Miranda was tall and angry, not exactly big, but solid, like a rugby player. "You're the waitress who can sew?"
Gen forced herself to take a deep breath. She ran a hand through her hair, tugging at the ponytail. Thirty bucks to slam a few stitches in, she reminded herself, forcing another smile. "Yes, ma'am. How can I help you?"
"Callie's dress is ripped. Like, underneath. The, you know, the white part."
"The lining," Gen nodded. The dresses were an unimpressive shade of lilac, though most of the girls now staring wide-eyed at Gen looked okay in them. The bride had picked strapless, which was a wise choice; Gen saw a lot of bridesmaid's gowns working this job. She scanned the room. "Mr Gerber told me there's sewing stuff?"
"Here." Another hand, nervous, with a big diamond tennis bracelet, pushed a little sewing kit into her hand. Everything was a bustling commotion of lilac and perfume and hair whipped carefully into fairy-twirls of perfection. Cast-off clothes, flip-flops for later, and other random flotsam lay scattered around the room, and Gen plunged into the scrum until she saw a girl sitting against the wall with her lip between her teeth and her hands in her lap.
