The Bad Boy And His Baby

I assess my reflection in the mirror, checking my prescribed dress code at my work – Golden Ray. Male staff are required to wear black dress pants and a white collared shirt, while female staff are required to secure their hair in a bun, apply a full face of makeup and utilize the establishment’s signature perfume or cologne for an enduring fragrance. Additionally, we’re provided with the traditional ‘maid uniform’, although mine seems to be a bit more provocative than the rest.

Unfortunately, my assigned dress is excessively short, barely reaching below my butt, rendering it impossible for me to bend over. As if that isn’t enough, the dress consistently rides up my thighs with each step I take, prompting a disheartened sigh from me each time. Despite the constant thoughts of resigning, this waitressing job is the only suitable option for me.

Putting aside the challenges with my uniform, the pay is much better at this place than any other as it just about covers my costly rent fee. Suddenly, a forceful knock on the door startles me, and the authoritative voice of my manager resonates, demanding my service promptly. “What’s takin’ you so long? You have customers to serve.” In the eyes of the public, he’s a well-known rich man with millions stored in his bank account as he took over this business from his father once he turned eighteen; but in my eyes, he’s a disgusting old pervert, and I suspect he gave me this short dress on purpose.

“I’ll be there in a second. Just touching up my makeup.” I cast a critical glance at the mirror, ensuring my hair is in place. A swift hand movement ensures no strands are sticking up like I’ve been electrocuted. I apply a rich, maroon shade of lipstick and smooth down my dress before exiting the impeccably clean staff bathroom. The restaurant, with its subdued ambiance, contrasts the bustle outside.

Soft conversations fill the air as patrons savour modest portions of their meals. Adjacent to the kitchen, a grand, black piano resonates with a Tchaikovsky composition, played skillfully by a musician. While I appreciate the modern and aesthetically pleasing atmosphere, I know I’ll never be able to sit down and enjoy a meal due to how expensive the food is.

Lanterns adorned with light bulbs illuminate each table, contributing to the chic ambiance. A central, opulent chandelier draws the attention of each patron whenever they enter. Reservations are mandatory for dining, and each round table is embellished with wine glasses, clean white tablecloths, and wooden placemats. Comfortable chairs compliment the setup. Beneath the chandelier, a designated area invites couples to engage in a leisurely dance as they await their food. Even I must admit that the old man did quite a good job maintaining this place.

Scanning the room, my attention is drawn to a newly arrived couple seated at one of my assigned tables. Swiftly, I retrieve two menus from the vicinity of the foyer and approach them with a welcoming smile. “Welcome to Golden Ray. I’m Quinn, and I’ll be your waitress.” The gentleman, attired in a refined tuxedo, reciprocates with a smile as he accepts the menus from my outstretched hand.

Sitting opposite him, the woman, attired in an enchanting light blue dress that glistens beneath the ambient light, remains engrossed in conversation with the man, barely acknowledging my presence before returning to their dialogue. “I’ll give you some time to look at the menu,” I mention before gracefully making my way back to the kitchen. As I walk, a subtle awareness of being watched overcomes me. Anticipating the woman’s scrutiny, I turn toward their table, only to find both of them engrossed in the menu.

Surveying the room once more, my gaze lands on an impeccably attractive young man. Undeniably, he stands out as the most captivating individual I’ve encountered before. In the bustling atmosphere of the restaurant, I remain entranced by him who seems to be seated alone at a table. He’s Asian, with dark eyes that hold my gaze. His hair gracefully reaches down to his shoulders in a wolf cut that’s either black or brown. His facial features are sharp and well-defined, including a jawline so sculpted, it could effortlessly slice through butter. Contrary to the diners donning elaborate attire, he sported a simple black tank top, revealing a physique with notable muscles accentuated by a few noticeable veins on his arms.

Caught in my prolonged stare, I suddenly realize I need to divert my attention from him, already feeling my cheeks heating up with a prominent blush. Seeking solace in the kitchen, I marvel at how fast my heart is beating from that one look of him, even though we have yet to interact. “Keep it together, Quinn,” I mumble, reminding myself to remain professional.

His piercing gaze lingers in my thoughts, rendering me almost breathless. Grateful he isn’t seated at any of my assigned tables, I find distraction in the tantalizing aroma of the food being cooked to perfection, eagerly anticipating the next three hours to go by swifty until my shift ends.

I soon return to table nine. “May I take your order?” I inquire, extracting my small notebook from the rather convenient pocket in my dress. The woman shoots me a sidelong glance as if I interrupted an important conversation, but I maintain a courteous smile. “We’ll have two glasses of red wine and a plate of Chicken Cordon Bleu to share,” the man responds, displaying a toothy smile and showing off pearly white teeth. I write the order down diligently. “Is that all?”

“Obviously. Can you be any more inappropriate flaunting yourself in that dress? You’ve got half the men drooling over your absurd figure.” The woman ridicules.

I feel a pang in my stomach at the remark. The man intervenes, placing his hand over hers. “Gloria, please,” he calmly requests, offering me an apologetic smile. I dismiss the comment and pivot away, wanting to retreat without further confrontation. This isn’t the first time I’ve gotten glances due to my attire, but it’s the first time one has spoken to me so brashly. I notice the attractive guy watching me once again. I avert my gaze, and head to the kitchen to submit the order.

~~~

The journey to my apartment is a short one, spanning approximately five minutes. Despite the current time being half past six, the cool air is palpable. It’s times like these where I wish they’d have included a jacket with the uniform. The lively streets swarm with passersby, each casting a gaze in my direction as I walk.

Upon reaching the designated street, characterized by modest and unassuming residences, my eyes fixate on the tall apartment building painted in a subdued shade of grey. Nestled on the third floor, my apartment is shared with a roommate. The thinness of the wall becomes evident, amplifying the cacophony of neighbouring disputes, an unsettling aspect of living in an apartment.

Once I enter, I find solace in the warmth generated by the feeble heater, which proves to be inadequate during the harsh winter chill. Making my way to the elevator, a compact space accommodating just about two occupants, I press the button for my floor. As the doors seal shut, the elevator ascends, before opening to the muffled sound of hip hop music emanating from my apartment, that prompts a sigh.

I’m already anticipating yet another round of neighbourly complaints. Retrieving my key, I insert it into the door, only to discover it’s already unlocked. I push the door ajar and swiftly make my way to the stereo in the living room before hitting the pause button.

“Bronwyn, I told you not to play the music so loud. And always lock the door when I’m not here. Anyone could come in.” Bronwyn emerges from her room, offering an apologetic expression.

Her beauty is undeniable – a canvas of caramel toned flawless skin, captivating brown eyes, and electric blue braids gathered in a casually tousled bun. Despite being indoors, she constantly wears a full face of makeup. “Shit, I didn’t know you’d be back so soon,” she admits, a hint of regret in her voice.

“I’m always home this time,” I remind her. Bronwyn is my only friend. We went to school together and no one spoke to either of us, because I was quiet and she was eccentric. She had a unique style and never bowed to societal expectations – a quality that drew me to her. While I went to college, she opted for a gap year, which appears to have extended beyond its initial intent. Three years later, and the gap persists.

I’m the one responsible for maintaining our residence, being the sole provider. I take a seat on the slightly withered couch as the weight of responsibility becomes palpable. I kick my heels off and massage my exhausted feet, finding a bit of relief. She goes back into her room.

I yearn for a well-deserved cup of coffee, already looking forward to sitting down with a book and savouring the warm liquid. Our apartment, despite my attempts to adorn it with framed pictures I got from thrift stores, remains bland. The living room consists of a modest TV on a coffee table and a three-seater couch against the wall. The kitchen has a rather malfunctioning microwave that chooses not to work when we need it most. Other than that, the counters have light scratch marks on it, the fridge has an annoying buzz that I can hear from my room, and the walls are a depressing shade of beige. Thankfully, Bronwyn and I have separate rooms, offering some personal space. If we didn’t have that, we would’ve ripped each other’s hair out by now.

Filling the kettle with water to boil, I ponder dinner options – which is quite limited. It seems like it’ll have to be cup noodles again tonight. My train of thought is momentarily interrupted by the shrill ring of my phone. Retrieving it from the couch, I answer the call with a warm, “Hello?” to be greeted by the thrilled voice of my mom, which seems to instantly brighten my mood.

“Hello, darling. How are you doing?” she inquires, prompting a genuine smile from me. “I’m alright, and you?”

“I’m doing good. I miss having you by my side; the sun here in Hawaii is truly rejuvenating.”

My mom, a renowned fashion designer currently showcasing her work at a fashion event, has persistently encouraged me to pursue a modelling career since my high school days. Despite her belief that my figure is ideal for her designs, I’m hesitant, questioning whether my curvy hips and ample bust align with the industry’s standards of thinness.

Engaged in my responsibilities at the restaurant, I decline her repeated invitations. A few more years at the restaurant wouldn’t hurt, and I’m certain I’ll have enough money by then to move out of this apartment and really jumpstart my career. “You know, you could come down to Hawaii. I could pay for your flight ticket.” And there it is.

“Well, I’m busy at the restaurant, and I don’t think they’ll let me go.” She clicks her tongue, a signal that she’s ready to tell me all the pros about what it would be like to watch her work. “Who cares what they think? If you worked for me- “

“I’ve heard this a million times from you, mom, and my answer is still no.” I hear her sigh on the other end of the line. “I just want the best for you, Quinn. You can’t be stuck working at that restaurant forever,” she says sincerely, and I know she means well. The kettle clicks, steam rising from the contraption, and I return to the kitchen, taking out my favourite mug that’s painted purple with the words: Best friend forever which was gifted to me from Bronwyn on a random Tuesday.

“I know, mom, but I’ll find a good job soon. You’ll see,” I reassure her as I put one teaspoon of coffee and sugar into the mug. “How’s Bronwyn?”

“She’s fine.” My mom has never met her, but she knows of her situation, and I’ve gotten lectured about it more than I can count. “Still not working?” I pour the boiling water into the mug and stir the contents together. “She’s also looking for a suitable job.” It’s a small lie, but I’m not in the mood for another lecture today. “My show ends in a few days. I was hoping I could visit you.” My throat constricts slightly, my heart rate quickening as a wave of tension washes over me. This is somewhat of a huge dilemma. My mom has no idea that I live in this small apartment. She’s under the impression that I live a swell life in a luxury apartment courtesy of the good pay I get. Unfortunately, she doesn’t know that that salary goes to this dump of an apartment and all the maintenance needed to fix the things that enjoy breaking 24/7.

I’ve always turned her down for a visit, but she might catch on soon. “Mom, you know I’m really busy and with the shifts I do. I’m hardly at home.” I wince as another lie seems to roll off my tongue so effortlessly. I despise lying to my mom; she’s like my other best friend.

“But I haven’t seen you in years, hon. I’d love to spend time with you again, like we used to when we lived together.” My gut wrenches at the heavy tone in her voice. “I know, mom. I’ll visit you, okay?”

“When? I don’t live in Cali anymore. I have the money to visit you, why won’t you let me?” I squeeze my eyes shut and abruptly stop stirring the coffee which I was doing mindlessly. I can’t bear to tell her another lie, but I can’t bear to have her see me living in this dump either. I can already feel a migraine beginning to form in the centre of my head. I move over to the fridge and take out a carton of milk. “I’ll make a plan, okay? Maybe we could go to a coffee shop in town for the day… like we used to.” She’s silent and I bite down on my lip, hoping she’ll take the bait.

“Mom?”

“Sure.” The weight on my shoulders is lifted slightly, though I know this feeling of tranquility will be short-lived. “Thanks, mom.”

“I love you, honey,” she tells me, and the warmth in her tone is back. “I love you, too.” We exchange farewells before ending the call. “You should stop stressing and just invite her over. I’ll even help clean the place.” Bronwyn’s sudden appearance startles me, causing the milk to spill onto the counter as I pour it into the mug. “You don’t understand,” I state as she grabs the dishcloth to wipe the spilled milk.

She pauses, a pensive expression materializing on her face. “I know what you need.” Her lips curl up into a smirk and my eyebrow raises, prompting her to explain. “There’s a party at my friend’s house. We’re going.” I immediately shake my head at her unhinged suggestion. “Absolutely not. I have work tomorrow, and-“

Bronwyn rolls her eyes, yet she shows no semblance of irritation. “Your work literally starts at 10, girl. Live a little. You need to experience going to a party at least once in your life.” A scoff escapes my lips. “I’ve been to parties before,” I argue, but she shakes her head. “Birthday parties don’t count.” This time, I roll my eyes. “Just this one party and then I won’t ask you again.” A glimmer of optimism appears in her eyes, which makes it hard to stand my ground. “If you come, I’ll make dinner for two weeks, and it will be actual cooked food, not cup noodles.”

My resolve crumbles. “Fine.”