Free Heart of Glass by Zoey Dean Page B

from Scoop boutique: a green silk tank top under a Versace black jacket just long enough to cover the widest part of her hips and ass.
    Sam whipped off the sunglasses, knowing exactly what would happen. The waitress-actress wanna-be would realize who Sam was and then suck up to her in an effort to gain access to Sam’s father and then, hopefully, a role in one of Jackson’s films.
    “Well, dang, why buck a trend?” the waitress asked with a sparkling smile. “Now, tell me what I can get you. Unless you want to wait.” She motioned to the empty chair across the table.
    Was it really possible that she didn’t know who Sam was?
    “The house salad with dressing on the side, the onion soup, no cheese, and an iced cappuccino, no whipped cream,” Sam ordered. She had planned on a cheeseburger and fries but had come down with a bad case of size-two-waitress envy. “And you’re right, I’m meeting someone. Put the whole thing on my dad’s tab.”
    The waitress’s eyebrows headed north as she finished jotting down the order. “Sorry?”
    “Tab. Bill. Balance sheet. Account. Signing privileges. My father. Do it.”
    “Oh, they haven’t told me about that yet. I’m new. First day here, in fact. Whose account would that be?”
    “Jackson Sharpe.”
    “Jackson Sharpe,” the girl repeated. “Okay, I’ll ask my manager. Anything else?” Sam shook her head. Very odd.
    The waitress was just leaving as Sam spotted Parker near the bar, heading for her table. He wore his usual jeans, a white T-shirt, and a red windbreaker, which only prompted more people to make the obvious comparison to James Dean. Sam saw her tarry long enough to flash him a dazzling smile as he slid into the empty seat at her table.
    “Damn, that waitress is a knockout.”
    “The operative term being
waitress,
Parker. Meaning she’s not your type.” Okay. That was sort of uncalled for, but it never hurt to remind Parker who had the power at this table. He was always on the lookout for girlfriends with money, which was fine. The thing was, Sam knew that Parker would never describe
her
as a knockout. No one would. Oh, she was no bowser, though she sometimes felt like one, compared to her friends. Pear-shaped. Size ten—and that was only when she was dieting. Thighs that screamed, “Cellulite as gross as cottage cheese!” across a room, even when artfully draped in thousand-dollar pants.
    “I saw Cammie at Faux,” Parker said, naming a club on Sunset where everything was made to look deliberately kitsch. “Late last night. She told me about getting arrested with Anna. What a hoot.” “Who was she there with?”
    “No one. Or everyone, depending on how you look at it. She danced with every guy in the place and half the girls, too.” “Hello?” The Barbie-doll-curves waitress was back at their table, pad at the ready, her eyes fixed on Parker. “Would you like to see a menu, or have you not had to look at it since you were six, too?” Sam looked at her closely. She had an actual small laugh line near her left eye. Forget Botox. Damn. Her tits were probably real as well.
    “I know just what I want,” he responded slowly, making serious eye contact.
    “Do you?” She smiled like a beauty pageant contestant who knew she’d just nailed the talent portion of the competition. “And what would that be?” “What’s your name?” Parker asked.
    “Citron. Yours?”
    “Parker.” He held out a hand. “It’s a pleasure, Citron.” The waitress took it and they started chatting like she didn’t have another table to look after, he was eating alone, and Sam was a department store mannequin. Citron turned out to be a recent arrival from Louisiana. She’d bummed around for a few years but would start at Loyola-Marymount in the fall and was waitressing to pay the rent.
    “Someone who looks like you has to be a performer,” Parker decided, his tone flirty. “Actress? Model?” Citron smiled. There was another laugh line. “Neither. Singer.