Life Through a Lense

Chapter One

"And we have the rich frat boy and friends in the back," Michelle grumbled.

"Let me guess, they're drunk?"

" 'Drunk' was about a half hour ago, I think we're full onto shitfaced now," she informed me. "Oh, and not only is the pack leader drunk, he's entitled."

Oh the joys of running a pub right across the street of a party college. After violent drunks, entitled drunks and flirty drunks were a tie for second. Both of which could also turn into violent drunks very quickly.

I glanced at the schedule. Michelle was only supposed to be here until 10 PM and it was already 10:45. As much of a scrooge she could be in the back, none of the other servers were as hard working and detail-oriented as she was. "You should go home," I told her.

"Nah," she objected. "I've been flirting with the guys at table three all night and I think if I show a little bit more of the goods I'll get a very generous tip tonight."

That was another thing she was good at. It didn't hurt that she had the goods to show.

"I'll take care of Greek boys in the back then," I told her.

Grabbing a pitcher of water, I sauntered toward the back table. Most of them were recognizable, only one of them looked new. There were six of them, which made them audible to the rest of the room. Normally, the troublemakers were out of towners. People that liked this pub knew me and knew my three-strike policy; three complaints about you from other customers or waiters (on separate days) and you ain't getting through that door again.

"Hello boys," I greeted them. "Is there anything I can get you guys? Coffee? Water?"

"Another round of beer!" One with a crooked nose.

"Aww, we liked the blonde."

I knew boys like this. No wonder Michelle guessed he was a rich frat boy. Polo shirt with the collar popped up, cargo shorts, sunglasses hung on the front of his shirt, and expensive-looking leather shoes. In the back of my mind I could just picture him tying a sweater over his shoulders while playing golf at the country club with daddy. He had a million dollar smile, pretty blue eyes, but that pool was definitely at the far end of shallow.

"I'm so sorry, her shift was over," I apologized, knowing they were way too plastered to notice her serving the table next to us (pretending to drop something to show off her ass). "And we're actually out of beer for the night."

"What a shame," a British accent chimed in. "Whiskey for me, then."

I sighed. Cutting people off from their alcohol was hard. "I'm sorry guys, we're going to have to cut you guys off for the night."

Drunk people are like children, even though cutting them off is for their own good (as well as good for us), they're convinced that you're their worst enemy for standing between them and more of the fun juice.

Frat boy grabs me by the waist and pulls me onto his lap. "Sweetie, we're not even that drunk."

Annoyed, but not panicked, I caught the eye of our cook, Gunner (originally Gunther, which was probably the most inaccurate name ever) that also doubled as our unofficial security guard. With one fierce glance, he could scare off any guy that had crossed the line with the girls here. He was an ex-convict, jailed for nearly beating a guy to death after he found out said guy had been abusing his niece for months. Apparently, he discovered his cooking skills (his 'life's calling', as he put it) in prison. Once he caught my eye, Gunner immediately dropped whatever he was cooking and headed over. I'd already easily slipped out of his grasp and was on my feet by the time he'd arrived.