It was the Fourth of July.
Everyone expected the restaurant to be bursting to capacity. Brady had taken
the weekend off to go camping with his family, so the assistant chef was fully
prepared to handle the onslaught of customers that never came.
Ryan paced the bar area, nervously running his fingers
through his hair. Every once in a while, he’d step outside, his eyes sweeping
left to right. Then he’d sigh and come back inside to pace some more.
When Ginny said, “I have an unhappy guest who’s complaining
about her spaghetti swimming in oil,” Ryan pulled out a roll of antacids from
his pocket and popped two of them before dealing with the disgruntled customer.
Ginny turned to Oz. “I need a ring-up for a cheesecake.”
“Do
you—” he started to say.
Ginny held up her hand to stop him. “Save it, loverboy, I
got a screaming baby at Table 9 and one of my customers just asked me how much
a soda costs, which gives me a glimpse of the tip I’ll be getting. I’m not in a
good mood.”
Oz switched his attention over to Cara. “Do you have a
library card? Because I’m checking you out.”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” Cara said to Ginny.
“Did you expect it to?”
Oz was summoned by a group of three giggling girls at the
end of the bar.
“I think Oz might have a crush on you, Ginny,” Cara told
her.
“Lucky me, I already have a boyfriend,” she said.
Ryan returned with a fake smile plastered on his face.
“Give her the Filet Mignon and bill her the same price as the spaghetti. Oh,
and she wants the steak cremated,” he said through gritted teeth.
Ginny shook her head and went to put the order into the
kitchen.
Oz said, “The girls sitting over there are asking for a
drink called ‘What the Hell.’” He gave Ryan an exasperated look. “Apparently, there’s
an Avril Lavigne song with the same title, because they keep singing it to me.”
“I’ve never heard of that drink before,” Ryan said.
“Unless they can tell you what goes in it—”
“Gin, dry vermouth, apricot brandy, and a dash of lemon
juice and grenadine,” Cara said.
Ryan and Oz stared at her. Finally, Oz said, “You’re
good,” and went off to make the drinks.
“Make an extra one for me,” Ryan called to Oz. “How in
the world did you know that?” Ryan asked Cara.
“It’s a gift.”
Johnny-boy came shuffling over. “My last table just left.
Mind if I take off since it’s slow?”
“How’s it going?” Cara asked him.
“Can’t complain,” Johnny answered.
Cara waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. He just
stood there, rocking back and forth on his feet.
Ryan checked his watch. “I suppose so. Go watch the
fireworks.”
Johnny went up to an older woman who was sitting on one
of the bar stools and kissed her on the cheek. They left the restaurant
together arm-in-arm.
How sweet. That
must be his mom.
“Johnny
never says much, does he?”
“One less headache for me.” Oz handed Ryan the drink and
he took a sip. “It’s not half bad for an ‘Estro’ drink.”
“An ‘Estro’ drink?” Cara said.
“There’s ‘Estro’ drinks and ‘Testo’ drinks—you know,
estrogen and testosterone drinks—frou-frou drinks and manly-men drinks,” Oz
said.
“Oh brother. Let me guess, examples of ‘Estro’ drinks
would be Sex on the Beach and a Screaming Orgasm, whereas ‘Testo’ drinks would
be a Kamikaze or anything involving Jägermeister?”
“Brains and
beauty. You’re killing me here,” Oz said.
Cara bit her tongue to refrain from calling them both
chauvinistic idiots. “I think I’ll go check on my last table.”
She returned in time to see Ryan ushering a couple into
the restaurant. “It’s only 9:59 and we don’t close until 10,” he told them in
an overly enthusiastic voice. “You are more than welcome to have dinner.” He
pulled Cara aside. “Let the kitchen know there’s one more order and tell Ginny
she can leave if she wants. I’ll take care of this.”
When she poked her head inside the kitchen and said, “Hey
guys, one more damn order and then you’re done for the night,” they all groaned
and spat out curses. One of the line cooks threw a dish towel at her. “I’m just
the messenger!” she shrieked, making a hasty retreat.
And when she let Ginny know she could take off if she
wanted, Ginny practically left skid marks in her wake.
Everyone has a life but me, Cara
thought miserably. Here it is,
Independence Day and I’m finding independence to be way overrated. Even Oz
had plans for the night with friends.
“You’re
invited to come along,” he said.
“I
think I’ll hang around to see what Ryan’s doing.”
Oz grinned.
“Knowing Ryan, I’m sure he has someone lined up for tonight.”
What
was Cara thinking? Ryan was a horny man like the rest of them. Of course he
would have plans for later. She waited around until the last couple had
finished dinner and dessert. When she was sure they were done drinking for the
night, Cara slid out without saying goodbye. She went down by the pier in
search of fireworks, but the show had been over for a while. Smoke lingered in
the salty air. The crowds had thinned. The only people left were obnoxious
drunk guys egging each other on to see who could burp the loudest, so Cara made
her way back to the restaurant.
She had
just reached the side alley to the kitchen when she noticed a man with a
bicycle standing at the back door. He looked to be about in his seventies and
had a fierce resemblance to Abraham Lincoln. He rapped on the door three times.
Cara stepped back into the darkness and waited.
Ryan
stuck his head out. “Hi, Edward. How are you this fourth of July?”
“Very
good, Sir. How’s business treating you?”
“Could
be better, my man. Give me a minute and I’ll wrap some things up for you.”
Cara
watched Ryan disappear into the kitchen. When he returned, he handed Edward a
plastic bag filled with two large take-out containers.
“We had
lots of leftovers tonight.”
“Thank
you, Sir. You’re a good man, Mr. Garridy.”
“Let’s
keep that between you and me.” Ryan took out his wallet and handed Edward a
twenty.
Edward
bowed, and then rode off into the night with the bag of food swinging from his
handlebars.
So, Mr. Ryan Garridy, you’re a man who
tries to pass himself off as an emotionally unavailable, womanizing jerk, yet you
take damsels in distress into your life and feed the homeless.
She
wasn’t sure what to make of this revelation, but it certainly made her see Ryan
in a kinder, softer light.
Cara
saw the half-empty bottle of scotch on the counter right away. Ryan was
sweeping the kitchen floor with a push broom in one hand, an empty glass in the
other.
“Did
the kitchen staff leave a mess?” she asked.
He
looked up at her with eyes that were tired and bloodshot. “Brady may be a drunken
nut, but at least he’s a neat freak.” He leaned the broom against the wall and went
to pour himself another drink.
Cara
took the bottle away from him. “Speaking of drunk, don’t you think you’ve had
enough?”
He
leaned in so close to her she could smell the scotch on his breath. “You sound
like my mother, Cara.” He grinned. “Do you think I need another mother?”
“No,
but I don’t think you need another drink.” She held the bottle behind her back.
“What
do you think I need?” His voice was low and seductive.
She
inched back slowly until her tailbone hit the counter. “I think you need to
stop this self-destructive path you’re on.”
He
narrowed his gaze. His eyes had turned a fierce dark green. “That’s not the
right answer.” Ryan moved toward her slowly, like a jungle cat about to pounce.
His arms trapped her in place. “Try again.”
She
gave him a small nudge. “Alcoholics Anonymous?”
Ryan
pressed his body against hers. “I don’t like that answer, either,” he
whispered, his hot mouth pressed up against her ear. “You have one more
chance.”
He was
hard against her. Cara’s mouth went dry as other parts of her became wet. “I
think…”
He ran
his lips down her neck, then his tongue. “Tell me.”
She
felt chilly and feverish at the same time. “…you need…” to kiss me just once so I can see if that makes Robbie disappear.
He took
her hand and placed it on his crotch. “Can you feel how much I want you right
now?”
“Ryan?”
a female voice called from the doorway.
Ryan
spun around. “Barbara? What are you doing here?”
The
woman ventured further inside. She was thin and blonde, with excellent bone
structure. “I hated the way we left things…” She caught sight of Cara. “I’m
sorry. I didn’t realize you weren’t alone.”
Cara
placed the bottle of scotch back on the counter where she had found it. “I was
just leaving.” She rushed up the stairs to the apartment in the blink of an eye
before Ryan was able to get a word out.
Tiffany N. York prefers warmer weather to cold, which is why she pays over four dollars for a gallon of gas in southern CA. You can visit her website at tiffanynyorkauthor.com
