Mixed Up(33)

It was always fun to watch her torture someone other than me. 

I topped the Slick Lovestick-named after a dare-with lemonade and handed my dad the glass. "Do you need anything?"

"A ride home." He took the glass and disappeared.

I laughed. I knew he was going to say that.

The next two hours passed in a blur of drinks, food, and orders on top of orders. There wasn't much to do except run back and forth constantly, including fulfilling my family's orders for what I was starting to think of as my inappropriately named cocktails.

Nobody wanted their slightly tipsy, fifty-something aunt asking for a pounding for her pussy. No matter how many times my uncle told her it was a Pussy Pounder and she had one, she insisted it was a pounding for her pussy.

She wasn't wrong. She just rearranged the words.

Aunt Alexa came to the bar, her arm through my mom's. "Thank you for pussy pounding," she slurred, grinning wildly. "You must share recipe."

"You got it, Aunt Alexa. I'll write it down for you."

"Now!" She threw her arm in the air, almost punching the guy next to her in the face. "Oh!" She turned and cupped his face and apologized in Greek.

My mom managed to pull her away in a flurry of apologies and a high-pitched scream that she planned to call me.

Oh, joy.

I, meanwhile, turned to the guy my aunt almost punched. "I'm so sorry. My aunt just got in from Greece yesterday, and I don't think jet lag and cocktails mix," I said, leaning forward slightly.

He laughed. "Don't worry about it. Can I get a Slutwhisperer for my friend's girlfriend?"

"Sure. Normal or sexy?"

"I'm sorry?"

I bit the inside of my cheek. "A Sexy Slutwhisperer has vodka as well."

"Oh." He looked over his shoulder but apparently not finding his friend, shrugged. "Make it a sexy one. I'm sure my friend won't complain."

"Sure." I grabbed a shaker.

"Are you still serving food?"

"Sorry, the kitchen closed an hour ago. There are some great little places around here, though." I talked through mixing.

"It's all good. I heard you were looking for kitchen staff. Is the owner around?"

"You're speaking to her." I flashed a small over my shoulder.

He laughed. "Well, that was easier than I thought. Are you still hiring?"

I held up two fingers as I blended the raspberries and threw in the other ingredients. I grabbed a tall glass and scooped ice into it before answering. "I think we're actually good right now, but I know the two guys my chef hired are on a trial, so there's always a chance. Twelve-fifty, please."

He handed over fifteen dollars. "Keep the rest. Can I leave my name and number with you in case a position opens up? I'm staying in Key West with family, so I'll be around all summer."

"You can leave it with me." Parker stepped up beside me and held his hand out to the guy. "Parker Hamilton, executive chef. Raven, do you have a pen and paper?"

I hit the button on the register for some plain receipt paper and handed it to him with a pen. "There you go."

"Thanks." He winked at me and put the stuff down in front of the unnamed-yet cute-guy. "Write down your details and I'll get in touch."

I side-eyed him. Why would he be in touch? Was there a problem with one of the guys in the kitchen?

Parker and the guy exchanged a few more words before the guy grabbed the drink he'd ordered and held a hand up to me in goodbye. I smiled and returned the gesture, then immediately gave Parker my attention.



       
         
       
        

"Don't go anywhere," I told him. I walked down the bar and grabbed Sienna. "Are you good for five minutes?"

She nodded, a shaker in each hand. "It's quieter. Everything all right?"

"Fine and fucking dandy," I answered, leaving her staring after me with her eyebrows shooting up. "You," I said to Parker. "With me." I didn't wait before I stormed into the kitchen and caught a shocked Wes's eye. "You're good to go, Wes, thanks."

He nodded and headed out to the bar. He'd changed and had his stuff nearby, so he met Parker on the way through.

"What," I said the moment the door shut, "Was that?"

He folded his arms across his chest. "That was me taking details for a section I hire."

"And he couldn't give me his details because?"

"Because he was making an obvious play to give you his number."

My eyebrows shot up. "And you know this how?"

"Because it's the oldest trick in the fucking book. Give your number to the hot girl behind the bar and hope she calls it and invites you for a job interview," he said, his tone flat. "Pretty sure I made that up before I'd even fucking graduated."