Free Last Call by M.S. Brannon Page A

and get a view of his amazing ass. Then I pull the receipt off the counter and look at the paper. In his masculine script, he’s written a note on the bottom saying, “ For the perfect afternoon” ~ Jason. Inwardly, I think how sweet for him to leave me a personal message, but then, I get a look at the dollar amount of his tip. That can’t be right. There’s no way this is right. The tip he left has two extra zeros.
    Paul comes to my side and looks down at the receipt, whistling through his teeth and looking astounded. “He’s never left me a thousand dollar tip, but I did get five hundred once. It was the holiday season. He told me Merry Christmas and walked from the bar.” Paul slaps the counter and starts to restock the cooler with beer, whistling a quiet tune.
    “It’s a mistake. He probably forgot what he was doing, or maybe he was distracted when he wrote this.” My stomach feels wretched. This has to be a mistake. Otherwise, I’m no better than a streetwalking prostitute. I guarantee he’s not tipping a thousand bucks for the fifty dollars he spent on whiskey.
    “It’s not a mistake. Look.” Paul points to the total amount. He’s right; it includes the price of his drinks and the tip. “See, no mistake at all.”
    I finish the remainder of my shift in brooding silence, only smiling when I need to, serving folks their drinks, overwhelmed with so much right now. I was just treated like a hooker. Don’t get me wrong; the extra thousand bucks would come in handy, especially now that I don’t have my data processing job anymore, but I will not take this.
    I knew the moment Mr. Weber called me back I was going to lose my job. It took him all of three seconds to get back to me, telling me I was fired and my desk would be cleared out. My personal belongings were going to be mailed to me; as a result, there was no need for me to come into the office. Later that day, I pulled out the newspaper and started looking for work. I couldn’t go too long without having a job. It was my plan to take the first job offered. That way, I would have money coming in while I continued to look for something better.
    Only a few days later, I happened to be driving by Smitty’s when I saw their ‘help wanted’ sign. I was hired immediately and started the very next day. Between Maggie, Giselle, and Shelby, they all decided to take turns watching Royce on the nights I work. I only work three nights a week: Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. I know the job won’t be permanent, but at least I’ve got money coming in, and when Royce is at school, I can look for something better. I was surprised by the amount of tips I brought in on my first night—about two hundred bucks. It’s the tip I received from Jason that is responsible for my current state, though.
    Midnight rolls around, and after my eleven-hour day, I’m beat. The late night bartender arrived an hour ago, thank God. Therefore, I finish cashing out my drawer then tuck my enormous tip in my wallet and exit, finding my way to my car, which still has a slight odor of puke. Once tucked inside, I pull on to the street, my mind still racing over this fucking tip, and the more I think about it, the more my blood boils.
    How dare he? How dare he treat me like a whore? This douche bag has a lot of nerve. I immediately want to slap him across the face. I sensed when we first met that he was an arrogant dick and this tip proves it. I hate him! In fact, I loathe him.
    I drive by Toxic on my way home, the very sight of the illuminated sign sending me into an outrage. I whip my car around, doing a U-turn on the busy four lane highway and pull into the parking lot. Like last Saturday, the line is long with people waiting to get in. I know I won’t, especially with my ten-dollar Smitty’s t-shirt and my disheveled state. So, I walk toward the end of the line and look around. There has to be another way into this fucking place.
    Completely uncertain of what I’m doing, I walk