I felt like an NBA player. Pivoting, spinning, dodging and jumping away from anyone who touched me for longer than a second.
Mila Scott, the professional athlete, was tired.
Sore and aching, on my feet for 10 hour stretches in flat bottomed converse had always been hard on my calves and back.
But now, the added agility, the constant awareness. I was exhausted. All for what? So that Jared didn't explode again. And again. As in the fourth time again. As in the fourth person that he would lay out, scream at and kick out.
Tensions were high and tips were at an all time low.
I literally couldn't afford for him to have another blowup. Even with my added athletic temper management. Jared was still cutting into my paychecks. I avoided tables of man. Kept away from the center of the room, the
