Rush
“Anything to drink, sir?”
I scan the waitress with disinterest. She’s my waitress, technically, since this is my restaurant. I do enjoy banging the help from time to time, but this one’s particularly unimpressive—frizzy, sandy brown hair; forgettable, light brown eyes; a body like a stick. She must not know who I am, or she would have referred to me as Mr. Blake, not “sir.”
“Vodka martini, sweetheart,” I tell her. “Dirty.”
She blushes, nods, and scampers off.
I glance toward the door. I feel vaguely nervous—an irritating feeling that tends to come over me when I’m near Fallon. It happened with her mother, too, of course. All my life, I’ve had the upper hand over every woman I’ve interacted with… except them.
I smirk to myself as I recall the night in the back of my Escalad
