P.S. You're the Worst, page 2
All I can say is Lord help Dylan, 23 if I ever cross paths with him again.
Chapter two
Darla
The wrought-iron gates of the Red Drum Country Club loom over the hood of my rusted truck. I made it here by the skin of my teeth, no thanks to the hangover still burning behind my eyes.
Member parking slopes off to the left where valet attendants wait to take their BMWs and Mercedes to the tree-lined lot. Staff parking veers to the right, a small square of sun-soaked concrete with dumpsters dotting the parameter. It’s a living metaphor. The dividing line between two very different towns that started as one.
With less than roughly a thousand combined population, Hell’s Bend and Red Drum are both small communities in Nowhere, East Texas. Dots on a map. Everyone knows the large cities. Say the name Texas, and thoughts immediately jump to huge metropolitans like Houston, San Antonio, Dallas, or Austin, but what people fail to see are the tiny territories shoved between. Towns like ours. Secrets hidden in small corners of the Lone Star State. We’re the dirty socks under the bed in an otherwise clean room.
But our similarities end there. When the towns were established in the late eighteen hundreds, Red Drum and Hell’s Bend were a single city. A railroad stop en route to the first post office in the area. Back then, the main source of income was farming. With the addition of the railroad, they could ship crops across the countryside, but they only grew in a small section of town. An imaginary line cut straight down the middle, one side rich with flourishing greens, the other nothing but barren dirt. Fast-forward to 1925, and the land was cut in half. Two mini towns were left — one that thrived and one that didn’t.
It’s feast versus famine. We are the children of the hungry, forced to watch our wayward half get fat on our losses. Someday, I will cut the wheel and park in the shade, but for now, I lift my face to the sun and soak its heat, for the day’s light is one of the few things in life we’re given for free.
I pull into an empty space near the recycling bin and scurry in through the back entrance like a dirty little secret. Light pixies dance before my eyes as my vision adjusts from the brightness outside to the dimness of the employee lounge. I search for the card marked Darla Burke, then slide it into the time clock, but the sound of my name steals my attention before I get the chance to slide it back into the rack on the wall.
“Hey, Shy,” I reply.
A flush grows under her freckles. “There you are. You’re almost late.”
“Almost late? Isn’t that the same as on time?”
She rolls her eyes. I love Shyanne, but she’s as stressed as a hound dog during a fireworks show at all times. Girl needs to relax before she piddles on the shitty linoleum. “Try to be a little more on time tomorrow.” She reaches into the small closet and pulls out an apron. “Today, you are my shadow, got it?” She steps closer, wrapping the ties around my waist, then twists the knot in the front. “Just follow me around, and I’ll show you what to do.”
“Okay.”
She steps back with a sweet grin. “You’re gonna do great.”
I pull a breath into my lungs and let it out slowly. “Thanks again for gettin’ me this job.”
“Of course! You’re gonna love it here. Everyone is real cool.” She pauses to secure her hair around a scrunchie. “Except for those damn customers.”
I laugh, but my chest tightens. It’s never something I would admit aloud, but I’m a little scared. Keeping my mouth shut was never something I excelled at. It’s one of my less attractive qualities, but I know Shyanne went out on a limb to get me this job, and I don’t want to do anything to screw with her credibility. She needs this job every bit as badly as I do, if not more. Her folks ain’t worth a shit, and she has a kid at home to feed.
“So the first thing you’ll do when you come in is check the side work chart. Eddie, the manager, assigns the chores on a rotating schedule.” She gestures to a whiteboard tacked to the wall. Names of the staff are scrawled in blue ink down the side with the list of duties at the top. She makes a sound in the back of her throat. “We’re setting today.”
“They don’t have people to do that for us?”
A snort-like chortle pops in her nose. “Wouldn’t that be nice? They don’t wanna pay extra salaries, so the waitstaff is also the cleaning staff during the day. Bussers work the dinner shift. Fun times.”
The doors that separate the workers from the guests are propped open. Bright sunlight floods in from the floor-to-ceiling windows, highlighting yellow arches over the hardwood floor. Beyond the glass, miles of green as far as the eye can see. Golf courses are such a waste of land. Four miles of terrain wasted on old men with too much money trying to get a ball in a hole.
“Mornin’, Rex.” She pokes her head behind the wall of stainless steel, the wisps of her ponytail falling to the side. “This here’s Darla. She’s the new server startin’ today.” She pulls me in closer to make introductions. “Dar, this is Rex, the head cook. Stay on his good side, or he’ll burn your toast.”
A deep rumble of laughter rattles Rex’s wide chest. “I burnt her bread once, and she’s never gonna let me live it down.” He reaches out his hand. Warm and thick, it encases mine like a blanket. “Welcome to Hell’s Kitchen.”
I lift a brow, but he goes back to stocking his station while Shy and I get to work. She runs through the first shift routine of making coffee and setting tables. “The club restaurant is open for lunch and dinner, and each shift requires different settings. They both start with a plate in the center with the napkin fanned over the top, salad and entrée forks on the left, spoons and knife on the right.” She sets all the silverware as explained, making sure to set the knife beside the plate with its blade facing in, “for safety” she says, although if you’re enough of a dumbass to cut yourself on a butter knife, I’m gonna go ahead and say you probably deserve it.
“They really need all this shit to eat?”
A humorless laugh blows from her nose. “Girl, we ain’t even got to the glasses yet.”
My jaw drops. “I’m never gonna remember this.”
The edge of her lips lifts in a lazy smirk. “I thought the same thing at first, but it’s second nature now. You get used to it.”
We meticulously set each table in time for the main doors to open. Shyanne offers a raised arm wave to the hostess on the other end of the room. A girl who graduated from Hell’s Bend High a couple of years before I did—I think her name is Jess—waves back.
In the back, Shy points out other waitstaff members, but no introductions are needed. Rex’s joke finally makes sense. Everyone who works back here comes from Hell’s Bend. We’re the folks slingin’ the hash and pourin’ the drinks. It’s literally Hell’s Kitchen.
Little by little, the customers arrive. Slow at first, then all at once. I tail Shyanne around the place and back again as fast as my legs can carry me. Take the order, drop the order, bring the order. Smile, smile, smile.
The hostess peeks around the corner. “Shy, just sat Governor Masters at table twelve.”
Arms full of dishes, she whips her head toward the table. “Shit. Darla, take their drink order while I drop these off.”
Without waiting for a reply, she scurries into the dining room while I stand there like a dope. Where the fuck is table twelve? “Over there.” As if reading my mind, another server—a Mexican guy named Angel who graduated in my class—points at the table where a handsome older man sits.
I pull a breath into my lungs and saunter out. “Hi, I’m Darla. Can I get y’all somethin’ to dr—”
The wind leaves my body before I can get the final word out. I lift my gaze and lock on a set of blue-gray eyes that I haven’t stopped thinking about for the past twelve hours. Sitting at the table with his hair pulled into a tidy knot at the nape of his neck and his broad shoulders cloaked in a crisp button-down shirt is Dylan, 23.
“Drink?” I force the question from my dry throat, staring into him hard, but he averts his gaze as if last night never happened. If we were anywhere else, I would sock the son of a bitch right in the nose, but I bite my tongue and control the feminine urge to scratch his eyes out right here at the table. He’s not worth getting fired over, especially not on my first day.
“Darla. You must be new.” The governor’s statement steals my attention. I paste on a smile and nod, afraid of what will come out if I open my mouth. If I bite my tongue any harder, I’ll end up drawing blood. “My wife and I will have sweet tea. Son?”
“Arnold Palmer.”
The same voice that tickled my spine last night now sounds like nails on a chalkboard. He’s the governor's son? That tidbit of information may have been more useful to me yesterday. Then again, yesterday he was someone else entirely. A delectable rock god, dripping with sex. Today, he looks like all the other buttoned-up, stuffed-shirt Chads who have marched in and out of this joint all afternoon. Talk about a one-eighty.
With a tight-lipped grin, I turn on my heel and march off to the kitchen to fetch their drinks. If I were a vengeful woman, the bastard would be getting more than lemonade in his sweet tea. Good thing for him I’m a fuckin’ lady.
“How’d it go?” Shyanne’s voice drifts in from behind.
I glance over my shoulder as I reach for the pitcher. “What do you know about the governor’s son?”
She slides a drink tray on the counter in front of me. “Not much. I know his family is powerful, and he’s being groomed to follow in his father’s footsteps. They come in here a lot. Mrs. Masters is one of those ladies who never speaks. The husband always orders for her. It’s weird.”
A hmpt sound dies on my tongue.
“Why?” she asks.
I fill three tall glasses with tea to keep my hands from shaking as I tell her the quick version of last night’s events.
Her eyes widen. “Dylan Masters? No way.”
“I’m telling you. It’s him.” He can wear anything he wants, but I will never forget those eyes as long as I live. The way they smoldered down at me from his towering height as I took him in my mouth; the explosion inside those blue-gray orbs when he came. A girl doesn’t forget something like that.
Or the fact that he left me with the bill.
Shyanne starts toward the tray, but I stop her. “Can I bring these to them?”
“Sure, go ahead. I’ll be right down to take their order.”
I slide the tray onto my upturned palm and hold it steady with my free hand as I turn toward the dining room. Pulling a deep breath through my nose, I move toward the table at a brisk pace. A fake smile stretches my lips. Dylan’s gaze rises to meet mine as I lift the first glass from the tray. The loss of its weight knocks the whole thing off balance, and it wobbles on my open palm. I lean to my right as if I’m trying to catch it, but in reality, I’m aiming it where it needs to go.
Directly onto Dylan’s lap.
I fake a gasp for effect. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry.”
Ice scatters at my feet as he jumps to his. I pull my lips between my teeth to keep from grinning like a fool as he stares at his Dockers in shock.
“Let me go get you a towel.”
His fist wraps around my bicep as I turn to scurry away. “This is going to take more than a towel, you clumsy idiot.”
His mother interjects. “The girl is new, Dylan, bless her heart. Couldn't we give her some grace?” But the old man’s scowl matches his son’s. Family dynamic at first glance: men are assholes; women are ignored. Perhaps I dodged a bullet after all.
My chest rises. “Do you need me to show you to the bathroom?” Disdain drips off my voice like the tea from his shirt.
He captures me in his heated gaze, its crystal blue darkening to a stormy shade of gray. “I can find it on my own.”
He drops his hold and steps around me as I stand there feeling victorious. “I’ll get someone to clean this up,” I say, turning back toward the kitchen.
Shyanne stands with her arms crossed over her chest.
“What?” I ask with a flair of innocence. “It was an accident.”
Another lazy grin tugs on the corner of her mouth. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Please, a lap full of sweet tea is a small price to pay for my dignity.”
“Fair enough. Mop’s in the back room.” She waves her arm in the direction as if ushering me off.
I quickly clean up the mess, and by the time he returns, it’s almost as if it didn’t happen, save for the light-brown stain soaked into his fancy clothes.
True to her word, Shyanne handles the table without me while I check on her other guests. It isn’t long before the lunch rush begins to dwindle. Keeping busy is good like that. Time flies when you aren’t looking.
With a moment to breathe, I duck into the alcove near the ladies’ room, but a strong hand takes my arm. “I should get you fired for that little stunt you pulled.”
Goose bumps prickle my skin. I wrench from Dylan’s grip. “You threatening me?” I poke my finger into his hard chest. “You should be kissin’ my boots for not announcing to the whole damn dining room what a real piece of shit you are.”
The set of his jaw tightens, making it appear razor sharp. “Do you have any idea who I am?”
“Yeah. You’re a dipshit stalking in dark corners like some creepy-ass villain. Last I checked, plying girls with booze, then eliciting sex borders on rape.”
He juts his chin out, the breath blowing from his nose like a heavy wind. “And you’re a low-rent bar whore from nowhere. No one in their right mind is going to believe you over me, so you better think long and hard before you open your mouth about what did or didn’t happen last night. As far as I’m concerned, you’re just another poor server spreading lies in hopes of a handout.”
I even my voice to a controlled tone. “Well, as far as I’m concerned, you’re nothin’ but a bad memory. So don’t worry, your precious reputation is safe. But believe me when I say your actions will come back to bite you in the ass someday, Dylan, 23. What happens in the dark always comes to light. Remember that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get ready for another shift. I suggest you march your ass out of my restaurant before I do somethin’ I regret.” Spinning on my heel, I slam the butt of my palm into the ladies’ room door and leave Dylan in the past where he belongs.
Chapter three
Darla
“Darla, darlin’, I’ll do another Bud and a shot of Jack when you get a chance.”
I turn toward the sound of Garvin’s gravelly baritone with a bemused smirk. “Sure thing, hun. Comin’ right up.” Reaching under the bar, I grab a fresh bottle and set it in front of him, then fill the shot.
The neon light behind the bottles shines on Garvin’s bald head, illuminating the rogue strands of silver hair struggling to stay attached. He knocks back the shot and slams it on the counter. With a twinkling gaze, he pushes a wad of bills to the edge of the bar. “When you gonna make an honest man of me?”
I shake my head, biting back a smile. “Don’t you already have a wife at home?”
He waves an arthritic hand with a scowl. “Ack. She doesn’t get me the way you do.”
“Brew’s on me, Garv,” I say with a laugh.
“You’re an angel.”
“Uh-huh.” I take a five from the pile to pay for the shot and bring it to the register.
“Garvin proposin’ marriage again?” Cindy slides a tray of clean glasses under the bar, then flings the fishtail braid off her shoulder.
“You know it.”
“You’d prolly give the old coot a heart attack if you actually said yes.”
I giggle. The Great Notch Inn is one of the oldest establishments in Hell’s Bend. A framed article from its inception still hangs on the wall, a faded newspaper clipping with the newly built bar in the center of town.
Before the interstate routed drivers from one end of Texas to the other, they used to come through here to get to bigger cities. The Great Notch was a stop on their path. A place to rest and stretch your legs, sit on the covered porch away from the sun, and have a drink before continuing on your way.
Now it’s a dilapidated structure held together with duct tape and a prayer from the family of termites that likely live in the log cabin walls. Yet it still stands, and it’s the only bar in the town. When Cindy Wilder took over management a few months back, I offered to help her out. It’s an easy job. Mostly old locals getting loaded on beer and whiskey, but after working at the restaurant all afternoon, my dogs are barking. I lean against the back wall with a yawn.
“Tough day?”
“Tough life,” I reply.
“I dunno why you waste your weekends here. You should be out havin’ fun, bein’ young with other young people ’stead of here with these grody old-timers.”
I click the tongue on the roof of my mouth. “You’re not that old.”
She snaps a bar towel in my direction. “I didn’t mean me, smart-ass.”
I let out another laugh. The sad truth is, I like it here. Cindy is more of a mother to me than my own mom ever was. When my mom was too drunk to get me from school, Cindy would take me back to her house and feed me dinner before dropping me home. The Wilder family never had much, but they always extended whatever they could. Giving back this small amount is the least I could do. Besides, most of my friends scattered after graduation. I have no boyfriend, no prospects of a boyfriend—other than Garvin. It’s nice to know I have someplace to be where folks are happy to see me. The Great Notch Inn is my home away from home.
“You hear from Jace lately?”
Cindy softens at the mention of her son. “Yep, he called this mornin’ while Ellie was in school. He’s doin’ good. Workin’, savin’ to get their own place. He’s tired of livin’ with roommates.”
“I bet.”
It’s hard to picture Jace Wilder shacked up in a minuscule New York apartment with a bunch of design students. I still can’t believe he ran off with that East Coast elitist. Sure, she’s pretty and all that, but I never would have guessed she’d be the one to domesticate The Wild One.
