“Aww.” Bobbi shot him a hangdog look. “You’re gonna make us share?”
“Not at all. The check will go to only one of you.”
“Which one?” coaxed Dawna.
“I want to be fair, so I’m not going to rely on partiality or guesswork. The four of you have the highest sales of our entire workforce, but only one of you is at the top of the sales ladder. I’ll be presenting the check to that individual.”
“C’mon, Victor,” Krystal whined in a singsong voice. “Which one of us is it?”
“Frankly, my dears, I don’t know. I’ll need to make a call to the home office to find out the specific figures, and then I’ll be able to make my presentation.”
“You’re gonna make us wait?” pouted Dawna.
“Waiting a few days for the results will help the four of you build anticipation. You can start a buzz. It should be quite exciting.”
Or utterly disastrous. The three blondes and Jackie locked in competition for a generous cash prize? Oh, sure. Like that was going to happen without sticks, stones, and at least one major hair-pulling event.
Patrice waved his order pad. “I have no wish to rush you, but if I fail to place your orders soon, the kitchen may run out of your chosen entrée. So”— he loomed over Victor’s chair—“may I take your order, monsieur?”
“Twenty-five-thousand dollars,” mused Krystal in a dreamy voice. “Y’all know what I could do with twenty-five grand? I could remodel my guest bathroom into an automatic weapons room!”
“Or you could buy yourself a pair of jeans that aren’t made of snakeskin,” cracked Dawna with a honeyed smile on her face. The notion of impending personal wealth had obviously emboldened Dawna into replacing the “All for one and one for all” routine with the ever more popular “Every man for himself.”
Krystal’s beautiful face shifted slightly out of kilter. “In case you hadn’t noticed, hon, I rock my jeans.”
Dawna shrugged. “If you say so.”
“Snakeskin jeans are my signature.”
“They wouldn’t be if you could see what you look like from the back.”
Krystal’s eyes and mouth rounded like bubbles about to burst. “Well, idn’t that rich. The person paradin’ around in alligator boots is criticizin’ my snakeskin jeans.”
Dawna sneered prettily. “In my corner of Texas, alligator boots are a bigger status symbol than three-tier, window-mounted gun racks.”
“Sure they are,” retaliated Krystal. “If you’re six years old.”
“Will the two of you hush up before someone mistakes you for Yankees?” chided Bobbi.
“Blow it out your ear,” Krystal sniped at her.
“Yeah,” Dawna agreed. “Stop actin’ like you’re runnin’ the show, because you’re not. I am so sick of you givin’ orders like you’re God or something.”
Bobbi gasped in shock. “If you think I’m going to sit here calmly while you take the name of the Lord in vain, Miss Dawna, you have another thing comin’ to you.”
“You don’t like it?” asked Dawna. “Leave.”
“You’re both bein’ so snotty,” accused Krystal. “Don’t you think they’re bein’ snotty, Victor?”