“That was fun.” Terry dabbed at the blood on his split lip, a broad, satisfied grin on his face.
“It was,” I agreed as we made our way back to the car and headed back to Midnight Mass. “Now I need a fucking drink.”
“Amen, brother.” Terry barked out a laugh. “You’ll need it to go with that haggis you’re having for lunch.”
I groaned and shook my head. “I hit that last fucker first.”
“You did, but I’m pretty sure my head shot did him in.”
“Cocky fucker,” I grumbled, which made Terry laugh.
“Thanks. Kat thinks so too.”
Fuck, I didn’t need to know that.
Chapter Fourteen
Mo
What was it about prenatal vitamins that made them sound like maracas? Being pregnant was certainly no party, not with the morning sickness that lasted morning, noon, and night.
Not with the sensitivity to smells, which was pretty much an ongoing thing when you worked in a pub and sometimes—too much lately—moonlighted at a titty bar. And not with such specific fucking cravings that the chefs at the three different restaurants inside Emerald Isle either thought I was losing my mind or pregnant.
I’d rather they believe the former instead of the latter because gossip traveled fast in casinos, restaurants, and bars, and Emerald Isle was all three.
Without another thought or a frown at the oversized pills, I washed them down with ginger ale. Maybe the combined effect would stave off another round of nausea, at least until it was time for my lunch break.
It took several giant swigs to get the pills down my throat and another two swigs just to avoid that impending sense of puke.
“Okay. All right.” I straightened my work clothes, let out a sigh, then grabbed my tablet and painted a smile on my face as I walked out of the locker room.
It was time to make some money, so I shoved aside all the physical bullshit down deep, including the mental bullshit, and stuck my tits out and settled into my shift.
“Waitress, two more pitchers, please? One dark and one amber?”
I clenched my jaw at the way some customers just shouted their orders over the noise of the crowd. It didn’t bother me that these guys could stare at my tits for hours on end without ever seeing the two little letters that made up my name tag.
It did bother me that they assumed we all knew their voices well enough to identify the table as ours. It was late afternoon, and two other waitresses were on shift, whirling around the pub, dropping off and picking up plates, mugs, and silverware.
As was our custom, no one jumped to do the customer’s bidding because if we did, they would never learn the error of their ways.
“Hey, boys, what can I getcha?” I smiled at the table full of males, two men who were probably the fathers of the two pre-teen boys and an elderly guy who was probably a grandfather to the clan.
“Hey, waitress,” the bald man at the table to their right slurred. “Where the fuck are my pitchers?”
And we have a winner. With one hand on my hip, I turned to face the mouthy jackass.
“First of all, my name isn’t waitress, and there are two more servers on duty right now. Second, who took your order?”
“I called out to you.” He pointed a finger in my direction. “With a body like that, you’re forgiven. Just get our fuckin’ drinks.” He laughed, but his friends seemed less amused.
“Right.” I turned back to the family table with my smile in place. “So, drinks to start?”
“Two beers,” the pre-teens said in unison.
“Root beers,” their fathers added at the same time while the elderly gentleman crowed with laughter.
“Two beers. Two root beers, and one of those Velvet Fires for me. Thanks, honey.”
I rattled off the specials and went to get their drinks as another bout of nausea hit. As always, it came on suddenly and fiercely. Luckily, I was at the drinks station, which gave me time to squeeze four lime wedges into a tall glass of sparkling water and chug it down while the bartender grabbed the booze.
“All right, gentleman, here are your drinks? Are we ready to order yet?”
“Not yet,” the grandfather smiled. “The boys need a quick lesson in Irish cuisine before they decide.” He winked, and I flashed another smile before moving on to the table with the bald drunk customer.
“All right, fellas. You want two pitchers of beer?” Baldy’s two friends nodded as their gazes raked over my body.
But Baldy wasn’t so easily distracted. “It’s about goddamn time you made your way over here. We’ve been waiting forever.”
“Then I’ll bet you’re really thirsty, so what will you have?”
He smacked his hand on the table, smiling when I didn’t even flinch. “A pitcher of dark beer and one of amber ale. Three shots of whiskey and your phone number.”