Chapter 32 Episode 32

The tight-fitted black skirt hits me mid-thigh. And the black shirt and vest, also tight-fitted, cuts in a ridiculously low V across my chest. I also have to swap out my comfy kitchen clogs for a pair of worn-looking black pumps that just so happen to be in my size. “f*****g bastard,” I mutter every few seconds. I’ve just finished changing when Eloise walks into the dressing room. She nods with satisfaction and gives me the once-over. She ignores me. “I think you should let down your hair.” “Jesse, you realize that I have to write performance reviews at the end of each and every job we do, right? So far, I’ve never had to write anything other than praise where you’re concerned. Don’t let this night be any different.” “I’m a chef, not a waiter,” I say, sticking my chin out. “This is not my job.” “Unfortunately, your job is whatever the client says it is,” she says sternly. “Now, let down your hair and add a little makeup. You’re on in five minutes.” “Five? But service doesn’t start—” “You have to get out there to start pouring drinks.” I shake my head as humiliation rushes through me. It’s not that I think of waitressing as a demeaning job. It’s just that it’s not my job. I’ve worked my ass off to work in a kitchen. I’m supposed to make the food, not deliver someone else’s. And now, in a matter of seconds, Anton the Asshole has relegated me to waiting on him hand and foot. Despite Eloise’s request, I refuse to add more makeup. But I let my hair down and head into The Gilded Room where the event is supposed to take place. The moment the head waiter spots me, he beelines straight in my direction. I suppress a sigh when I see the annoyed expression on his face. His name tag reads “Douglas Henning.” He doesn’t bother with a hello. “I don’t need to tell you this is highly irregular.” I shake my head. “No, you don’t.” “But since neither one of us has a choice in the matter, let’s make the most of it, shall we?” “Fantastic. Sounds like a plan.” He narrows his eyes at me. They’re the color of burnt umber. He’s handsome for an older man, distinguished, with an air of class. I bet clients love him. “You’ll have to show a little more enthusiasm than that when the guests arrive,” he reprimands. “Is that clear?” “Do you have experience waitressing?” “Two years in a café when I was a teenager. And a year during college.” “Not ideal, but it’ll have to do. Be polite, be efficient, and don’t f**k up.” “Easy for you to say,” I mutter under my breath. “I can handle this,” I say quickly. “Good. Now, go grab a tray. The guests will be arriving any second.” As I move to grab a tray, I survey the rest of the waitstaff and the room. All the men and women are in a neat line, expressions serious. This gig is a big deal for all of us. And it makes sense. The venue is insane. With the gleam reflecting off the walls, every single one of us in here looks like the gold-painted girl from that one James Bond movie. The doors open. Guests begin to pour in and the whole staff leaps into action. I stay rooted in place, scanning the crowd for him. “What are you waiting for, new blood?” one of the waitresses asks me with an annoyed glance over her shoulder. “Go serve.” Gulping, I wade into the thick of the crowd. All of them are dripping with wealth. Literally. The men are in ten thousand dollar suits with priceless watches clasped around their wrists. The women are in designer dresses with the biggest jewels I’ve ever seen hanging around their necks, wrists, and ears. Plastic surgery is the rule, not the exception. Fake t**s and nose jobs as far as the eye can see. I happen to make eye contact with one of the women. She’s probably in her fifties, but she has the store-bought glow of someone fighting Father Time with a fair amount of success. She’s wearing a champagne-colored power suit with strappy black stilettos. Her coat is cut low to reveal the embellished bra she’s wearing underneath and highlight the pink diamond pendant hanging between her breasts. “Is that champagne?” she asks me. “Yes ma’am,” I say, offering her the tray. “Dom Perignon.” She laughs prettily. “I’d expect no less from Anton.” Her hair is platinum blonde, but her roots are a deep, rich brown. There’s no question that she’s beautiful, but it’s a sharp kind of beauty. The kind you want to run from, not to. I wonder how she knows Anton. Is she a friend? An acquaintance? A lover? The last thought leaves me with a niggling feeling at the back of my mind that I don’t like one bit. Who cares if she was or is anything to him? “You’re not wearing a name tag.” I blink and snap back to reality. “Uh… what?” I cringe internally. I should have said something posh or dignified. “Excuse me” or “Pardon.” I should also pull myself together and stop babbling like an i***t. The woman raises an eyebrow and gives me a pitying smile. “You’re not wearing a name tag. All the other waitstaff are.” “Oh,” I say, looking down at my vest. “Right. I, uh, forgot it. But if you need anything, my name is—” Anton emerges out of nowhere. For a moment, I think he’s reaching for me. But then his hand curls around the woman’s waist. He doesn’t pull her close or anything. It’s more like a greeting. Albeit a very intimate one. “Jasmine,” he murmurs, turning to the woman. “You look ravishing this evening, as usual.” She gives him a faint smile. “Such a flirt.” Both of them turn to me at the exact same time. They glitter together. It actually hurts my eyes. “The uniform suits you, Jessa,” Anton says to me. My cheeks color. For a moment, I actually contemplate grabbing one of the champagne flutes just so I can fling the contents in his face. “I don’t agree. But thank you.” Jasmine looks between us, her expression twisting into amusement. “Jessa is your name?” Her smile gets a little wider. “I didn’t realize you were bringing your playthings to work, Anton.” “I am not his plaything,” I snap. She looks at me with raised eyebrows. “Hm, I can see that.” I feel like a bug under a microscope. Before either of them can say anything that might get me fired, I march away from them. I spend the next hour circulating around the room, offering drinks and canapes to every person in the room except for two. Most of the men in attendance are older. Anton is one of the youngest by a good margin. I spot Lev and Yulian swimming in the crowd, too. Neither of them seem to notice me. Most of the female guests ignore me and the other waitstaff entirely. Except for Queen Jasmine, as I’ve started calling her in my head. I can feel her watching me from time to time, though she makes no attempt to speak to me again. The men, on the other hand, try to make conversation every chance they get. “Conversation” being a pretty loose term for repulsive attempts to pick me up. “What’s your name, pretty girl?” one man asks me. He’s mid-sixties if he’s a day, and he has an actual gold tooth. He looks me up and down like I’m the next hors d’oeuvre on the menu. “It was my grandmother’s,” I say, talking fast and angrily. “You would have liked her. She was about your age when she died.” The confident smirk on his face withers and dies. He looks at me as though I’m a rat he would love to step on. Then he turns his back on me abruptly. The two other men standing beside him do the same. I smirk, satisfied with my work there. But when I walk back to the drinks table to refresh my tray, Douglas appears right in front of me. “What the f**k do you think you’re doing?” he demands. “Refilling. What does it look like?” “You’re pissing off the guests.” “I’m just serving drinks,” I say innocently. “Not to my satisfaction,” he growls. “I get it—they’re a bunch of pervy older men who you have no interest in. You don’t have to f**k them, just flirt.” I narrow my eyes at him. “My integrity is not for sale.” “You’re confusing integrity and pride,” he says scornfully. “Stop acting like you’re better than this. Some of us feed our families with this job. I already told you once: don’t f**k this up.” He succeeds in making me feel guilty before he stomps off as elegantly as possible. I refill my tray and step back into the fray. Without even realizing it, I end up close to Anton. He doesn’t see me, though. He’s deep in conversation with Lev and Yulian. It’s the first time all night that the three of them have converged. They’ve been on opposite ends of the room, working the crowd. Now, their heads are bent together and they’re whispering rapid-fire to each other. I catch sporadic snippets of their conversation. “Where the f**k is he?” Lev growls. “He should be here by now.”