Oh, Keep Your Shirt On - Michelle Pennington

Chapter One

Nothing made a work shift feel eternal like being on your period. And despite my utter lack of anything else feminine, like curves of any kind, my uterus didn’t hold back on making me suffer every month.

Normally, I enjoyed being a hostess at one of Spring View’s most popular restaurants, The Loft. And I was good at it. But tonight, it took every ounce of energy I had to stand up straight and smile at customers while a clawed monster clenched and scraped my insides. For eight hours. Eight. Hours.

Luckily, no one on staff expected me to be cheerful or peppy. That was their job. Mine was to smile with just the right mix of welcome and snobbery my boss wanted while managing the flow of waitstaff, table assignments, and hungry customers.

Sure, tonight I felt more like murdering people than putting up with their crap, but I was four days late on my rent and had eight miles left in my gas tank. All too aware of how much I needed this job, I kept moving—putting the families with multiple kids at tables where they wouldn’t upset the high-maintenance couple celebrating their anniversary, pacifying the hulking man who’d drunk too much at the bar while waiting for a date that never showed up, and chasing after an eccentric old lady who’d ordered a sixty-dollar steak to take home to her dog and promptly forgot it at the table.

At least it was payday. Every cent I earned kept me safe from admitting I was a loser and moving back in with my mom and stepdad. I’d lived with them after graduating from college, since they wanted me to start working for their real estate company, but the whole situation was toxic for me. I needed to build my own life. Even if that life was poised on the edge of financial disaster.

When the last customers finally left, my car wasn’t the only thing running on fumes. I dredged up just enough energy to sanitize the menus so I could go home, fantasizing the whole time about getting into bed with a hot rice bag on my abdomen.

“Thanks for the table of cheapskates, Krista.” The male voice dripped with sarcasm.

I looked up and saw Bryce walking toward me. He was a smug piece of work with a hipster beard and hard eyes. Sure, he turned on the charm for the customers, but he didn’t hide his dislike for me. Which was fine. I didn’t like him either.

“You know I go by the rotation Patrick gives me.” And like I could tell if someone was a bad tipper or on a budget just by looking at them.

“Amazing how my tips have gone down since you started working here.”

I hated conflict, but I’d learned how to shut other people down when they wanted to fight with me. It was amazing what a hard, steady look could do to unnerve people. I finished wiping the last menu and dropped it onto the stack before looking at Bryce, my gaze straight and fierce. I didn’t say a word. I didn’t have to. He leaned away from me until his Adam’s apple looked ready to break through his skin.

Satisfied that I’d terrified him just shy of making him pee his pants, I picked up my purse and headed for the manager’s office.

When I walked in, Patrick looked up from his work. “Want your check?”

“Yes,” I said, trying to gauge his mood. Patrick was curt and grumpy on a good day. “And my tip share, if you have it ready.”

He handed me a white business envelope with a long-suffering expression. “I don’t have tonight’s figured yet, but I suppose I can give you everything else you’ve earned for the week.”

“That would be great. I need to get gas on the way home, and I have about twenty-four cents in my bank account.”

He counted out the cash and had me sign for it. “Not my problem. You can always work double shifts if you want to.”

I sighed. Maybe I should, even if it killed me and meant I would lose time working on my art. But things were getting desperate. “Thanks. I’ll let you know.”

Turning away, I put my money in my purse and dug around for a tampon. A quick trip to the bathroom, and I could be on my way home.

Tampon found, I took a shortcut through the kitchen, holding the small purple package in my fist since my pencil skirt didn’t have pockets and I wasn’t