Overlooked(115)

Skye returns to our table and asks, "Have you decided yet?" Her big brown eyes shine as she says it.

"Where are the salads? I don't see any on the menu," Freya says.   





 

"There's chicken Caesar in the chicken section," Skye says, pointing to the menu.

"That's it? Where are the healthy ones?"

"I can do it without the chicken if you prefer."

"Do you have any idea how many calories are in Caesar dressing?" Freya's lip curls into a snarl as she says it, implying Skye is the dumbest person alive.

"Would you like the dressing on the side?"

"No, I would not. I'm not about to eat plain romaine lettuce."

Skye glances at me, a look of exasperation on her face. I can't help but smile; it's all I can do not to laugh out loud at Freya.

"How about a burger?"

"No! I haven't eaten a burger in years, and I'm not about to change that now."

"I can do it without the bun." Skye looks at me and winks.

"Don't be absurd."

"Okay, chicken strips in a basket?"

"What is wrong with this place?"

"Bread, then. How about some bread?" I'm liking Skye more by the second.

"I do not eat carbs."

"How's the Caesar with dressing on the side sounding now?"

"Fine. I saw fruit salad on the dessert menu, I'll just fill up on that after my lettuce." Freya says, huffing.

"And for you, sir, what would you like? Another salad?" My dick twitches at the way she calls me sir. That's something I'd like more of.

"Fuck no, I want a burger."

"How about I add bacon and cheese to that?"

"Perfect, Skye." She goes to take my menu but I hold onto it tight, not quite ready for her to leave the table. And leave me alone to forced conversation with boring Freya again. What was my sister thinking, setting me up with her? Why couldn't she have found someone like Skye?

"Did you want to keep your menu?" She holds my eye contact as she speaks, something most people can't do.

"Nope, it's all yours," I say, releasing the menu.

Skye turns and walks away from the table, and once again I'm enjoying watching the sway of her ass.

"Why did you bring me here?" Freya's voice is halfway between disgust and tears.

"I wanted a burger."

"I thought we were going to a yacht party." And that's what she's all about. I bet if they served burgers on the yacht, she'd eat one. She strikes me as the kind of person who would do whatever it takes to get to play with the moneyed folk.

Ten long minutes later, Skye returns with our food. Freya's nose turns up as Skye puts the plain lettuce on the table in front of her. My mouth waters when she sets the burger in front of me, as much for the glimpse I got of her cleavage as for the smell of the bacon.

"Can I get you anything else?" She asks. Yeah, your lips around my dick.

"That's great, Skye. I think we're good."

Freya's saying something, no doubt complaining about her lettuce, but I tune her out as I bite into my burger. I don't feel the least bit guilty for ignoring her, she can fuck off while I enjoy this juicy meat in my mouth.

While I chew, the thought of taking out Skye crosses my mind. But she's a waitress. What are the chances she wouldn't turn into a gold digger when she found out about my money?

When I finish my burger, I lick the last bit of grease off my fingers. Freya is sitting, staring at me, her arms folded across her chest. I'd bet anything she'd spring back into fawning-all-over-me mode if I showed her the least bit of attention.

"I'll be right back, I need the shitter." That should shock her to her gold-digging core.

I walk in the direction I've been watching Skye's ass move all night. The place is a maze of wooden booths, but I turn a corner and spot her as she moves behind a partition.

It's a waitress station, and Skye busies herself by wrapping forks and knives in red paper napkins. She starts when I appear in her cramped station.

"Hey, Skye," I say, propping one hand on the partition.

"Can I help you?" Her voice is sultry, and for a moment I wonder if it's a proposition. I bet she wants to get on her knees in front of me right here.

"I just wanted a favor."

"What's that?" She stops her cutlery wrapping and turns to me. My eyes rake over her tight T-shirt and the swell of her tits underneath. I figure she's early twenties, and they're nice and perky with a good dose of cleavage on show. She probably gets the most tips in this place.

Her eyes are fixed on my arms, examining my tattoo sleeves. I wonder what she's noticed.

"As you may have seen, my date for the night is a real piece of work. When you come back, tell her you're sold out of fruit salad. I need to get out of here."

She laughs, a wicked, sharp sound that bounces around our little cubby hole and lands straight on my cock. If she can make a sound like that so easily, what would she sound like when I made her come?

"She's something else, that's for sure. I can't say we get people like her in here every day, or ever. This is a good, honest place for regular people to eat. We don't get many rich bitches like her. Wealthy people have no place in here."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, those rich fuckers have too much as it is, there's no need for them to set foot in our territory."

"I see." She's so young and idealistic. It's cute.

"This is what I think of her," Skye says. She hands me a small piece of paper.

It's an empty sheet from her orders notepad. I turn it over. On the back is a drawing of Freya. It's so lifelike it looks like a photograph, except this Freya has dragon fire coming out of her mouth and pointy horns on her head.

"You just drew this picture of Freya?"

"Yeah, I was bored while waiting for another table."

"This is amazing. Can I keep it?"

She shrugs. "Sure. And don't worry, I'll tell the dragon lady we're out of fruit salad."

"You're a star," I say and kiss her cheek. Her eyes widen and her hand flies to where my lips have just been. Before she has a chance to say anything, I turn and walk back to my table.

Skye appears at our table a few minutes later and, as promised, tells Freya there's no fruit salad. Instead she lays the check on the table, halfway between me and Freya.

Of course, Freya makes no move to look at the check. She doesn't even glance at it. I pull my wallet out of my jeans pocket. As I open it, the drawing Skye did falls onto the table.

Freya stares at it, her eyes wide and body rigid. "What's that?"

"Just a little picture Skye drew me."

"Who's Skye?"

"Our waitress."

"She should be fired! I'm going to complain to the manager!"

"Relax, no one is getting fired. Now, if I'm calculating this right, your half of the check is fourteen bucks with tip."





Back Again

(Skye)



That night in bed, I slide my hand between my legs and remember the hot guy at table six. After he left, I kept messing up orders, kept taking the wrong drinks to the wrong table. I even undercharged one table by twenty bucks, which got me in deep shit with Kevin.

It's a good thing I've never made a single mistake before tonight. Even my first day went by without a mistake. In the end Kevin just chalked it up to a bad day. I wasn't about to tell him that the real reason was a bad boy who wouldn't leave my head.

My lungs heave at the memory of him. I wish I'd been able to look closer at the art on his arms. It tells so much about a person. From what I saw, the art on one arm was all clever geometric play; shapes that morphed into one another. The other sleeve was a mix of so many styles and subjects, I didn't have time to even begin to appreciate it.

I'd bet any money they all have deeper meanings. I tremble at the idea of him wrapping those inked-up arms around me.

My fingers continue to work around my entrance.

When he'd kissed me, my cheek burned in heat. That same spot is burning now, a feeling now radiating through the rest of my body.

The memory of him saying my name pops into my head, as real as if he were standing in the room saying it now. It sends me crashing over the edge. My body pulses with the first orgasm I've been able to reach in months.

All the tension, all the worries about money and my parents and my career vanished that night, and I had the best sleep I've had since leaving Michigan.

In the morning, feeling fresh, both physically and mentally, I head straight to my studio and start on a brand new canvas. I try to explore the themes I thought I saw on the arm I had a better look at.

"Oooh, are you moving in a new direction?" Ava asks, bringing me a cup of tea.

"I thought I'd explore basic linear shapes today."

"It's fascinating. I can't wait to see where you go with it."

"Thanks," I say and take a sip of the tea, inhaling the peppermint smell.

"I'll leave you, I don't want to disturb creative genius at work. I just wanted to bring you something to drink."

I stand back from the canvas, sipping my tea and examining it. I can't go down this little self-indulgent path any further; it'd never sell. Not that my other stuff is flying off the shelves, but at least it has potential.

I whitewash over the canvas and put it aside. In my sketchbook, I draw out a few ideas about the woman the man was with, and all the places she would be out of place in. I run with the idea, jotting and sketching everything that comes into my mind.

Soon I've come up with a concept for a series of paintings on out-of-place wealth, and how money detaches a person from the rest of the world. An evening gown on the beach. Dangly diamond earrings on a tree in the woods. A tiara on top of a scarecrow's head.