Sick Bastard (3 page)

I’m not entirely certain why I’m sitting here like an angry sixteen-year-old over a woman with striking green eyes, a beautiful body, and more complications than I need, but I’m not fucking sorry about it.

Leaning tensely back in his seat, he makes no further remarks. Keeping his eyes, hands, and remarks to himself, he knows he’s lost. Smart man. I’d hate to make trouble for him, but if he tries to fuck around again with London, I can’t make promises to his welfare.

London

I put in the order for their drinks with Lena. Leaning my hip against the bar, I prop a tray on my other hip. “Holy shit, London, who’s Mr. Sexy Pants?” She says as soon as I touch the bar. She works on my drink order, staring longingly over the bar at the scary man at Mr. Williams’ table. Mr. Sexy Pants would be one way to describe him, but I think something like ‘Mr. Scary Fuck,’ or ‘Mr. Rude Motherfucker’ are more befitting names. She’s right though, he’s hot as hell.

“Don’t get too hung up, Lena. I'm sure he's just like the rest of those ass hats.”

She thinks on my observation and asks, “How do you know?”

How do I know? Well let’s see. He's here with a group of self-entitled fucks, wearing an expensive designer suit that’s made and designed with the finest materials that are hand stitched and tailored to perfection. He's humiliated me in front of my customers with his condescending tone, like I’m no more than an irritant that he has to deal with, getting what he needs as he basks in his own glow of absolute entitlement. Yeah, just like all the other ass hats, but with a little more attitude.

“I’ve been around enough to know the type,” I answer, and she seems to believe me without further explanation.

“Yeah, you're probably right. I'd bang him though,” she laughs. She would too. She loves herself a hot, rich guy.

“You go right ahead.” I tell her as she giggles like a schoolgirl.

Finishing up with the drinks, she puts them on my tray and sends me on my way. “Thanks, babe. I'll see you at break.” I tell her with a smile. Picking up my tray, I head back over to Mr. Williams’ table, working to keep my composure in check.

I ignore the annoying, yet pleasurable tingle my body gets under his stare. Yapping on his phone when I return, he gives me the most seductive look, but doesn’t say a word to me. I place the remaining bottle of bourbon on the table and begin walking around the table, setting full glasses in front of each person.

I’ve made my way around the table and now have one single glass left on my tray. Setting his glass on the table in front of him, I try to make a hasty retreat, only to be stopped by a hand wrapped around my wrist. Oh shit.

He leans in close to me, too damn close for my body to handle. I try to calm myself but it’s pointless. He smells so damn good. He needs to get the fuck out of my personal space before I self-combust and lose all control. Talk about being humiliated.

“Are you alright?” he asks in a strong whisper. Am I alright? Aside from having to deal with him and how he’s making my body react, I think I’m hanging in there, just barely.

“Why wouldn't I be?” I fire back.

He sighs tiredly, “I’m asking because of Mr. Williams’ tasteless fucking behavior towards you.” His voice is harsh as he says this.

I get it. He's one of those types that thinks he needs to rescue me. I almost laugh out loud. He hasn’t got a clue. I don’t need to be rescued and I sure as hell don’t need him to ride in on his white horse and shiny armor, flinging around his sword to protect little ol’ me. I’ve got my shit handled, which includes handling Mr. Williams. In fact, he's one of my easier costumers.

“I'm great, so don’t worry. I can deal with him.” I assure him, “But you’re a problem,” I mutter to myself. I'm a little annoyed at his assumption, but it’s also kind of sweet he cares, I guess. I keep my voice sweet and polite, “He's nothing I can't handle.” He lets go of my arm and doesn't say anything more. That was easy …maybe a little too easy.

Walking back over to the end of their table, I look at Mr. Marx. His body is radiating anger and he doesn’t even try to hide it. Man, what’s his deal? He's wound up tighter than a cheap ass watch.

“So, are you all ready to order?” I ask with my pen and pad ready.

“Yes. Bring out a few of the sample appetizer dishes, please.” Something’s going on here, and I’m getting a bad feeling that I won’t be receiving my usual tip. It’s as if Mr. Marx has changed the whole dynamic of the group, which may cause me to suffer financially.

Nevertheless, I go to close my pad when I hear, “Excuse me, again. London, is it? Mr. Williams doesn’t speak for me,” Mr. Marx says as he gives Mr. Williams a look, “and I would like to place my order, if you don’t mind.”

There’s that fucking patronizing voice again. It must be in the rich asshole’s handbook to strive and achieve to be the best asshole you can be;
Chapter One: Being the Perfect Asshole in a Public Setting.
The writer would be so proud of Mr. Marx because he has to be exceeding his expectations. “Yes, of course. What would you like?”

He looks surprised that I’m ready to take his order. Is he fucking serious? What did he think I would do, give him attitude for being hungry? I swear, people never cease to amaze me with their stupidity.

“Surprise me,” he says in return. I’m over his shit. Now I’m just ready to see him get the fuck out of here.

“I can do that. I'll be back shortly with your orders.”

I scurry over to my other table and get their orders too. I hand one slip over to the kitchen, but I don't know what to write for Mr. Marx yet. I’m thinking something mixed with a little spit. I give it some thought and don't come up with anything exciting, so I order him a French Dip. It's one of my favorites so he’ll either love it or hate it. I don’t give a shit at this point.

As I put in his order, I see another one of my tables waiting to be seated so I go to greet them, seat them, and take their drink orders while I wait for my food orders to come up.

As I’m exchanging pleasantries with the group of regulars, I look up to find Kim, another waitress, making rounds at my table, shoving her big plastic tits in Mr. Marx’s face. I almost laugh, except the look on his face keeps me from doing so. He’s not looking or even paying any attention to her. His eyes are only on me.

As usual, the guys are overly sweet and a little grabby. They try holding my hand, putting their hand on my lower back as they speak to me, things like that. It goes with the job, but I never said I like it. It’s a means to an end for me, that’s it.

I start to walk away when I bump into a hard chest, “Excuse me, Mr. Marx. Can I help you?” I ask him, failing to sound as cordial as I should.

“Come with me,” he whispers harshly. His face is just below my ear and right at my neck, making my body feel things I don’t want it to, at least not with him.

“I'm busy working, if you hadn’t noticed. I'll be with you in a moment.” But he doesn't go.

“Now,” he growls. What the fuck is wrong with him? I don’t know who this man is or what his problem is with me, but to keep from causing a scene, I agree to go with him.

I look at the men at my table …hell, at all the tables. We’ve become the center of attention. The back area of the restaurant is dark and dingy with old rusty lights keeping the hallway poorly lit and shrouded in darkness. Being back here alone with Mr. Marx gives me the creeps. Taking a few more steps down the hall I stop, but he doesn’t. He takes my hand and begins dragging me to the back door, which leads into the alley. This can’t be good.

He doesn’t let me go even when I try to pull away. He just shoots me a warning look when I try to dig my heels in to stop. My heart’s in my throat and my stomach’s in knots as he shoves the door open, which obviously wasn’t even locked, and pulls me into the alley behind the restaurant. All kinds of crazy shit flies through my head. Is he going to rape me? Kill me? No, he can’t. Too many people saw us together so there’s no way he’d do such a thing, at least that’s what I’m hoping.

I begin to shiver, and it’s not from the temperature, but from the dark look on this man’s face. He makes no move to do or say anything. He just looks at me, breathing heavily and twists his watch around his wrist like it’s a calming exercise. He looks deranged and unhinged as he continues to do this repeatedly.

As freaked out as I am, I also have a big mouth that gets me into trouble quite often, and just when I’m ready to let loose, I reign myself in and breathe through my nose a few times before I speak. “Mr. Marx, what is it that you want from me?” I say in a defeated tone, “And please, would you stop with the watch? It’s unnerving.”

“Sure, if you’ll stop letting those fucking perverts touch you,” he fires back.

Where is this coming from? He doesn’t even know me so why is he making an issue out of this? Maybe it’s not so much to do with me, but something else. Maybe he just doesn’t like to watch women get groped, but who knows. “I appreciate your concern, I really do,” I say as he continues to glare at me, “but what I do and how I do it is none of your fucking business. I can handle them and I can most definitely handle myself. So, your concern is appreciated, but not needed.” I assure him.

“Watch your fucking mouth,” he barks at me.

“Watch
your
fucking mouth,” I counter, giving him as much attitude as possible. So he can curse, but I can’t? I hadn’t realized he was my father. He's pushed me too far at this point. “If that’s all,
Mr. Marx,
I've got customers to take care of.”

I start to walk away, but he's not finished with me yet. “I wish you'd have more respect for yourself. Those pricks only see you as a piece of ass. It's wrong. You should never give them the impression that you are.” I stop and whip around to see his face, but he’s not angry now. He looks… sad? And was that pity I detected in his tone? He thinks I don’t have respect for myself? I respect myself more than he'll ever know. He steps closer to me, bringing us face to face, although I have to look up. There’s no anger there because it’s been replaced with something else―lust.

Before I can process his intentions, his lips are on mine. I know I should stop him because really, he’s a perfect example of a man who would be cocky enough to kiss a lion, even if it would tear his face from his body. He’s dangerous. Normally, someone like him would have me running away as fast I can, but something about his brand of arrogance has me giving in, and grinding into him. I have no shame at this moment as he moves me up against the brick wall. He’s a sexy as fuck puzzle that I want to piece together, and I love a good puzzle.

I let him fuck my mouth with his until he slows it down, giving my lips one long, lingering lick. I want more. This man has me standing in a goddamn alley – a wet, needy mess – sagging against a dirty brick wall while my heart hammers away in my chest.

With him finally stepping away, the fog in my brain begins to clear and reality sets back in. I feel ridiculous. I was just arguing with this insane asshole, but I was so ready to fuck him right here in an alley. Shit!

I look to him but his face shows no emotion. The only effect I can see is the quick rise and fall of his chest as he tries to calm himself down, along with the twisting of his watch again. I suddenly feel dirty and as he said, “Like a piece of ass.”

“Don’t ever fucking do that again.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” I ask.

“A woman as beautiful as you shouldn’t feel the need to use that kind of language, unless it’s in the bedroom. That’s the only time it should be used coming from your lips. That’s the time it would be sexy as hell.” It’s official. He’s just proven that he was dropped as a small child.

“Whatever. I need to get back to work and I would appreciate it if you would just go.” My voice sounds shaky. I don’t wait for a response. I open the door and duck inside, letting it slam closed behind me with a heavy thud. Slumping against the door, I try to recover my frayed nerves and focus on getting some much needed air into my starving lungs.

He doesn't attempt to follow me and I'm so thankful for that. I swear if I see him again and he says one more thing to me, I'll throat punch him. If I ever again have to watch him twist that watch around, I’ll throat punch him with a knife. If he touches me again, well, I might rip my own clothes off and climb him like a tree. I’m such a hussy.

I've worked here for a long time, and nothing like this has ever happened to me, not even outside of work. For my own sanity, I’ll reason that I was bound to do something crazy at some point, and who better than a total crazy fuck to bring it out of me.

I pull my shit together and work to shake it off as I head back to work, that kiss never far from my mind. Well played, Mr. Marx. Well played.

~~~~~~

The rest of my night flies by in a blur. Customers, orders, seating’s, chitchat and drink orders consume me. It's a packed house and a busy evening. Mr. Marx didn’t leave as I asked. In fact, he came through the front door and resumed his spot at his table.
Asshole
.

I don't speak to him, but he watches me the rest of the night. I see lust, anger, and irritation―three signs of a multiple personality disorder. He can’t make up his mind what he is. I’m just ready for him to leave and never see him again.

I can’t help feeling slightly annoyed by all the flirtatious attention he's receiving from other women, though. I can’t blame them because he is beautiful. He’s all man and sexy, so I get it.

My shift is finally ending, but Mr. Williams and group are still here. They usually leave as soon as I do, so while I wait, I collect all my bills and tips, sorting my portion and what will be shared with other staff members. My last bill, which is included, is from Mr. Williams’ table. My usual five hundred dollar tip is in there along with something else―Mr. Marx’s business card.