Free T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 03 - Southern Peril by T. Lynn Ocean

kid’s confused face. “By the way, thanks for the job you do here for us.”
    “Uh, sure. I mean, yes, sir. You’re welcome.”
     
    When Morgan reached the Green Table, Brent’s parents were finishing dessert.
    “Hello, I’m Morgan. I understand you’re celebrating twenty-five years together and wanted to stop by to wish you a happy anniversary.”
    “Oh, thank you,” the woman said. “Are you the manager?”
    “I’m the owner. But in the restaurant business it’s all one and the same.” Morgan produced a modest grin. “Manager, server, window washer, you name it.” He still didn’t enjoy doing it, but he had definitely gotten the hang of polite, meaningless chatter.
    “You’re Brent’s boss, then,” she stated.
    “Yes, and let me say how thrilled we are to have your son working for us while he’s finishing school. He’s such a reliable employee, and so smart, too.” Morgan lowered his voice for effect. “And how many kids ever treat their parents to a dinner at Argo’s? Even with the courtesy discount, the gift certificate cost half his paycheck. He really wanted to make this night special for you.”
    The woman’s already stretched face cinched up more, and her mouth puffed into an “O.” Morgan left the table feeling good and realized that he was hungry for the first time in days. Ravenous, in fact.

 
     
NINE
     
     
     
    Nestled in a vibrating chair and feet soaking in bubbling water, I studied up on the latest fashion trends in
Vogue
magazine—especially the undergarments and lingerie—and tried to ignore Spud and Fran. The day spa had a total of four pedicure chairs, but I had a feeling they were purposely leaving the last chair next to my father empty until Jersey and crew had left the building. It was my regular place for manis and pedis, and I hoped they wouldn’t blackball me. After all, I didn’t ask Fran to go. She’d invited herself and talked Spud into joining us. It was his first ever pedicure. And everyone within hearing distance knew it.
    “That feels like you’re trying to yank my toenail off, for crying out loud! What the hell are you doing down there? Using a pair of pliers?”
    “Nope,” the girl countered without missing a beat. “Somebody borrowed those and didn’t give ’em back. These are cuticle trimmers. Very
sharp
cuticle trimmers. One time, I sneezed and snippedoff the top of a little toe. Would’ve gotten fired, too, if I hadn’t found it floating in the water.”
    Good for her. I made a mental note to leave a big tip. If only somebody were around to tip me for putting up with Spud on a daily basis, I’d be a wealthy woman.
    I stretched my head from side to side to loosen up tight neck muscles. “Spud, a pedicure is supposed to be calming. Can’t you just relax and let her do her thing?”
    “Sitting naked on a blender would be more relaxing than this,” he muttered. My father has a knack for offering visuals that people immediately wish they hadn’t visualized. And he mutters in a way that is akin to shouting. A chuckle came from one of the massage rooms.
    Fran’s head appeared from behind an oversize fashion magazine. “Take a few five-count calming breaths, sweetie. You know, the kind we do in yoga class.”
    “That yoga crap landed me in the hospital, for crying out loud.” Spud squinted at the girl working on his feet. “Ouch, ouch, and ouch! Can’t you go ahead and paint them or whatever you do and let’s be done with this torture?”
    She smiled up at him. “What color would you like, Mr. Barnes?”
    Wearing a pair of headphones—the noise-blocking kind with a hard plastic muff over each ear—my nail tech, Jenna, arrived. “Since you’re reading, I figured I’d listen to a little R and B,” she said with a wink.
    “No problem,” I mouthed, wishing she had brought me a pair. I slid my holstered Ruger around the waistband of my jeans to a more comfortable position at the side of my hipbone, instead of toward the back