Tales from the Thirsty Meeple

Chapter 4

Wednesday was her night off.

The staff knew not to call her, unless the restaurant burned down, reduced to cinders and ash. Even then, the standing order was to send a text first, then wait for her to phone in and get the pertinent details.

Simple as that. She gave the other six days and nights to La Bistro Noir, arriving before the café opened and staying long after the last dish was washed and put away. But Wednesday, for twenty-four hours, was hers.

So, when the cell phone started to shake and vibrate with a familiar ring tone, the thin wafer dancing across the well-worn varnished wooden tabletop, she knew it had to be something big.

That, or there"d be hell to pay.

The other players around the table fell silent as she picked up the phone, studying the text message.

"I have to take this. Let"s break for ten minutes."

Before anyone could react, she rose from her chair and headed for the bar.

Jake raised an eyebrow as she settled on the stool, scowling at the small screen. "Dom? Something wrong?"

"Rum and coke, please." She brushed a stray bit of red hair out of her face, an escapee from the long ponytail. "I"m about to chew someone"s ass out."

"I"m assuming not in a good way. Coming right up." The bartender retreated to the far end of the counter to prepare the drink.

She glared at the phone one last time before tapping in the number.

"Boss?" It was Wes, the night chef.

There was an air of panic in the single word, mixed with fear.

Good.

Good."Yes. It’s me. What"s going on?" She kept her voice level and calm. It"d scare him more than yelling.

"I know you don"t like to be called on Wednesdays…"

"Yes." She drew the word out to three syllables.

"…"

Jake slid the glass over to her and retreated to a safe distance. He might be the half-owner of The Thirsty Meeple, her favorite gaming pub, but even he knew to step away from an angry woman.

More silence.

"Wes. Tell me why you called."

"There"s a bad review up on a foodie blog and Devon saw it and called here to see who served him and you were listed as working the grill so he"s really mad because he said you should have known better." The words spilled out in a single sentence with a wheeze at the end.

She almost dropped the phone, caught between anger and disbelief.

"Where the hell is Devon? It"s his night to be there."

"He left about an hour ago with Michelle—said things were slow; if we had any issues to call him. Then he phoned with the news, and told me to call you. I told him about your Wednesday rules, but he said he didn"t care."

Dom took a deep breath, tamping down her anger. "It"s okay, Wes—I know you wouldn"t have called if he hadn"t ordered you to. Why didn"t he phone me directly?"

"I don"t know. All he said was to get in touch with you, give you the details, and that he"d like to talk about it tomorrow."

She bit back a curse.

Last time she"d ever go into business with an ex-husband.

There was no use flogging Wes, even though the urge to scream was overwhelming. "Send me the blog address." She paused. "Don"t worry—this is on Devon, not you. A nasty review could easily have waited."

"That"s what I thought, but Devon said otherwise." Wes spoke quickly, the assurance that he"d still have a job in the morning sinking in. "Just sent you the link. See you tomorrow."

He hung up, but not before Dom heard a nervous sigh of relief.

She put the phone to one side before taking a deep swig from the glass.

"Everything okay?" Jake moved in, bracing his arms on the polished wood.

"Just great." She shook her head, the headache blossoming at the base of her neck. "Someone posted a nasty review, so my business partner thought it was worth digging into my personal time to let me know. Like I can do anything about it."

"He"s a prize, that"s for sure." Jake pulled the towel off his shoulder and wiped the counter.

"Yeah. If he wasn"t my ex, he would be after this stunt. No reason to call me tonight; nothing that couldn"t have waited." She glanced over to the table she"d left, noting the curious looks going around the group. "Not a good night all around. Max is leaving, and we were trying to finish off the campaign. Lot of tears all around, but we"re wrapping it up right."

"I heard." Jake braced his arms on the bar. "But he is moving to Ottawa, so I wouldn"t take it personally."

is"Smart ass." She took another swig of the glass before sliding off the stool. "If you hear about someone looking for group, send them my way. We’ll be starting a new campaign, so it’s a good time to hop on the Dom train."

Jake gave her a thumbs-up. "Will do. I"ll send the news to our weekly mailing list—Marty"s putting it together right now; should be out within the hour. Tuck it in under the drink specials."

"Thanks. I"ll have to meet potential players, do a session zero to make sure they"re compatible with the group. Anyone calls or emails, would you mind scheduling them for Sunday afternoon in half hour segments starting at noon; tell them to bring the character sheet for who, or what, they"re interested in playing? I"ve got the evening shift at the restaurant, so I can meet them here and then leave at five to go to work."

"You got it." Jake nodded. "I"ll send a note your way if anyone replies, and what times they"re coming in."

"Thanks. You"re a sweetheart. Now, I have to finish killing my players off—or helping them ascend into Godhood." Dominque picked up the drink and headed back into the far room, mentally pushing the news about the text into a different part of her mind.

The players looked up as she approached them, a mixture of emotions on their faces.

"Okay, let’s do this. So, you"re about to take on the Goblin King and his champions." She moved to the head of the table, allowing herself a smirk as she studied their faces. "As the first door opens, you hear what sounds like a dragon"s roar…"

Mike sat behind the security desk, trying hard not to zone out. It"d been a long and boring day, the majority of business at the front desk consisting of signing for parcels for the condominium"s residents and making sure workmen had the right paperwork. Not that he was looking for excitement—he’d had enough of that over the past few years.

A familiar figure approached the entrance, nodding to the footman as he opened one of the bronze-handled doors for her.

His replacement—a tall, lovely blond woman who thrilled the male residents as she welcomed them back from a hard day at work. And likely more than a few of the women, from the dazzling smile he"d seen her pass around like candy at Halloween.

He knew the head office hadn"t given her the shift or assignment just because she was beautiful, but it didn"t hurt. And she knew exactly how to use her femme fatale skills if, and when they were needed to defuse a possible situation.

"Jennifer." Mike nodded as he picked up his backpack. "Everything’s in the book. Quiet day. A few packages behind the desk for pick-up, a flower delivery for Mrs. Andrews up at 2013. It"s her birthday—still went to work today, so she"s coming home to a lovely bouquet."

"Sweet." The young woman nodded as she scanned the duty log. "She"s a darling. Anything else I should know?"

"Nope. Have a good evening." He threw her a sloppy salute.

She eyed him as he moved around the security desk. "So, where are you eating tonight? Wednesday night special—Chinese, Italian, Japanese…"

Mike laughed. "You angling for leftovers tomorrow?"

"If you’re offering, I’m taking. Always." Jenny flipped back her long hair. "Heard tell of a new ramen shop down on Queen Street. You go there, try it out, and let me know if it"s worth the trip." She paused. "Unless you"re going to go home and microwave a burrito."

The challenge was too tempting to ignore. "Give me the address."

A few hours later, he returned to his apartment—already composing the review in his mind. It"d take a day or so to put it together with the images from his phone, but it"d be a good, solid post. In the meantime, there was email to be checked, and websites to visit in his usual nightly routine.

Mike tugged off his uniform shirt as he waited for the laptop to finish starting up. Walking through to the bedroom, he threw it into the laundry basket before hanging up his dark pants and tucking his shoes into the closet, making sure everything lined up.

Old habits died hard. Leaving clothing around on the bed or worse, on the floor, would be like walking on invisible broken glass, due to his military training.

Tugging on an old gray shirt and sweatpants, he returned to the living room and began the job of sorting through his messages.

The emails were mostly spam, most advertising various health products he doubted were ever anywhere near a medical professional, and some offering enough life insurance to cover an entire family.

One jumped out at him—from the mailing list for The Thirsty Meeple, a local gaming pub. He knew it only by reputation, having never actually visited the place. He’d signed up on their website a few weeks ago on a whim, wanting to keep in the know about local gaming events—the pub had just hosted a big collectible card game tournament, making the news.

Aside from reminding readers that the game library was open, and listing the themes for their various game nights, a single line caught his attention.

A roleplaying group was looking for a new player.

He snatched up the phone, checking when the email had been sent out.

Hopefully he"d be in time…

"Thanks for calling The Thirsty Meeple, Jake Woodworth speaking. How can I help you?"

“I’m calling about your newsletter. Specifically, the open spot…”

A few minutes later, he had an appointment to meet the woman currently running the group for an interview—Sunday afternoon, during the pub"s open gaming sessions.

"Can"t I see her earlier?" he asked.

Jake grunted. "She doesn"t get a lot of time off. It"s either that or nothing—you got the last slot."

"I can wait a few days." Mike chuckled. "Should I bring my resume?"

"Bring your dice," the pub owner deadpanned. "And a new character sheet. She"ll want to see what and who you"re interested in playing."

“Great. See you then.” Mike hung up, his mind racing.

It was close to midnight by the time she got home, lugging the overstuffed backpack crammed full of game material. The session had gone well, despite the interruption. Max got a proper send-off, killing a dragon and retiring his character at the top of his game.

Time for reality to rear his ugly head, and screw up her little bit of happiness.

Despite the yammering voice in the back of her head to leave it until morning, she turned her laptop on. A few clicks brought her to the blog post, dated a week ago. Dom stared at the screen, trying to figure out what she hated most.

The review. The pictures. The fact that the author was, in fact, correct in his complaint about the steak. Which, in a way, made it worse. It was one thing to rant and rave about a review when the writer got something wrong, some tiny error that invalidated the entire post. But the complaint was valid, and Devon expected her to do something about it.

She closed her eyes and, for the hundredth time, cursed ever going into business with Devon McIntyre. The idea had been sound at first, coming off the blush of a whirlwind romance and marriage. The dream of a lifetime, with both of them putting in the money and sharing the work—with him handing the business side, and her putting her culinary skills to work.

Then… not so much.

The divorce had been amicable enough, their agreement to run the restaurant together a way to keep them both financially solvent, while going their own ways. But the dream now had dark edges around it, digging into her happiness.

Recently they"d had their fights over the restaurant. He wanted to rebrand, go for the popular trends—likely due to his current girlfriend who fancied herself a "social media influencer" and was supposedly on top of the latest food trends.

She"d also been, until recently, an employee.

Dominique wanted to stay on the path originally taken, pointing out that trends never lasted, and there was no guarantee they"d be able to recoup the cost of redoing the menu and retraining the staff—as well as losing their current clientele, which was substantial.

Still, a bad review was a bad review—especially if it was an honest one.

Slumped on the couch, she mentally ran back over the last few days, trying to remember this specific dish and who had ordered it. La Bistro Noir specialized in French-Canadian dishes, from tourtierre to poutine, and everything in between.

A sip of tea didn"t help refresh her memory. The date on the blog was from a week ago—she had been in the kitchen…

Something nipped at the back of her thoughts, digging in deep as she tried to work it free.

That night…

Shit.

Shit.Tapping on the keyboard brought up the details of who had worked that night, what had been ordered and what had gone out to the customers.

Double s**t.

Double shit.Dom laid her head back on the cushions and closed her eyes. It hadn"t been her fault.

But it totally had been.

She glanced at her watch. It was too late to call Wes—he"d be busy dealing with the last of the customers, and preparing to close. There was no use in upsetting the cafe"s routine.

She’d deal with it tomorrow.

Sighing, Dom turned off the laptop and headed for the bedroom. The only good thing to come out of the evening, aside from the party somehow surviving her well-laid traps, was a note Jake passed to her when she was packing up.

Names and appointments for Sunday. Five interested people so far.

Hopefully one of them would be a good match for the rest of the players—and for her.