Initially she’d been flattered by Tony’s surprise appearances at the restaurant, particularly since the other waitresses thought he was so handsome—quite the hunk! Amber never let on that Tony couldn’t keep a job, mooched shamelessly off his parents, hadn’t finished a book since tenth grade and wasn’t all that great in the sack. And ever since he’d started the workout binge, he’d become moody and rough. One time he’d dragged her dripping wet from the shower to the bed, by her hair. She’d considered leaving him, but nothing better had presented itself. Tony did look good (at least in a sleeved shirt), and in Amber’s world that counted for something.
Yet she wished he’d stop dropping in at work. His presence was not only distracting, it was a drain on her income. Amber had been keeping track: Whenever Tony was there, her tips fell off by as much as a third. Therefore the sight of her hulked-out sweetheart swaggering through the door on this particular Wednesday evening—Wednesday already being a slow night, tipwise—failed to evoke in the alternate Miss September either gladness or affection. The frisky ambience of Hooters brought out Tony’s demonstrative side, and at every opportunity he intercepted his tray-laden princess with an indiscreet hug, smooch or pat on the ass.
Tony’s boisterous possessiveness was meant to discourage other patrons from flirting with Amber, and it did. Unfortunately, it also discouraged excessive gratuities.
Amber’s only hope on this night was the icky-looking pair of rednecks at table seven, the same two who yesterday had left her a hundred-dollar tip on a credit card. The shorter man had arrived in a fresh suit of camouflage, while his ponytailed companion—the one who’d tried to buy her shorts—appeared not to have changed clothes or even shaved. Affixed across the orbit of his left eye was a new rubber bicycle patch; Amber tried not to imagine what was behind it. The faces of both men still bore the scabs of savage cuts, as if they’d gone at each other with razors. Amber could not dismiss the possibility.
But for her purposes, the rednecks could not be crude and spooky and disgusting. They were handsome and sexy and sophisticated; Mel Gibson and Tom Cruise, sharing a plate of chicken wings. That’s how Amber treated them. It wasn’t easy, but a hundred bucks was a hundred bucks.
“Honey,” said the ponytailed one, “you’s right about the White Rebel Brotherhood. They’s a damn rock band.”
“You should see ’em live,” Amber said. She set two cold Coronas on the table.
The stumpy one in camouflage asked her if the name of the group was some kind of joke. “Considering all the Negroes they got,” he added.
Amber said, “I think it’s meant to be funny, yeah.”
The ponytailed one, lathering his palms with the condensation from the beer bottle: “Well, Bode don’t think it’s so funny. Can’t say I do, neither.”
Amber’s poster-quality smile didn’t flicker. “The music’s killer. That’s all I know.”
Then she glided away with their empties and an order for more onion rings. Her path to the kitchen took her directly past Tony’s table, and of course he snatched her by the elastic waistband of her shorts.
“Not now,” she told him.
“Who’re those dirtbags?”
“Just customers. Now let me get to work,” Amber said.
Tony grunted. “They hit on you? That’s what it looked like.”
“You’re going to get me in trouble with the boss. Let go, OK?”
“First a kiss.” With one arm he pulled her close.
“Tony!”
“A kiss for Tony, that’s right.”
And of course he had to slip her some tongue, right there in the middle of the restaurant. Out of the corner of an eye, Amber noticed the rednecks watching. Tony must have seen them, too, because he was beaming by the time Amber pulled free.
A few minutes later, when she delivered the onion rings to the table, the ponytailed one said: “People ever tell you you look zackly like Kim Basinger.”
“Really?” Amber acted flattered, though she’d always seen herself in the Daryl Hannah mold.
“Bode thinks so, too, don’tcha?”
“Dead ringer,” said the camouflaged man, “and I’m the better judge. I still got both good eyes.”