It was her first night back at work since the surgery, and it was also two-dollar well drink night at Bozo’s on the Beach. As luck would have it, the first person she saw as she was clocking in was Rick, the assistant night manager.

Prick, as most of the servers called him behind his back, was all of twenty-five years old and the owner’s nephew, and roundly despised by the entire Bozo’s staff, right down to the youngest high school busboy. He was just over five feet two, with a weirdly long over-muscled torso, rounded shoulders and short legs, which gave him the appearance of an orangutan in cargo shorts.

“Hey,” he said, giving her a curt nod. “I see you’re back.”

“I am,” she said, smiling brightly. “Thanks for letting me take a shift. I was going stir crazy sitting at home on the sofa.”

He looked her up and down and frowned, noting the form-fitting orange tank top with the bar’s clown logo and the ripped and faded jeans she wore instead of the hated mandatory Bozo’s booty shorts. “You’re out of uniform.”

“Yeah,” she said. “The thing is, I have to wear this big ugly knee brace, and it looks super freaky with the shorts. I’m wearing the top and I swear, nobody will even notice.”

“That’s not the point,” he snapped. “It’s a uniform because I want all the girls to look alike—hot. Those jeans don’t look hot. They look ghetto.” He ducked into the closet-size office, came out with a pair of the microscopic white knit shorts and tossed them to her. “Here. You can change before you go on shift.”

Kaitlin, the lead bartender, came bustling into the kitchen. “Welcome back, girlfriend,” she said, giving Drue a high five. “Now get your ass out there. Courtney’s back in rehab and Shanelle called in pissed off, so we’re short two girls tonight and the natives are restless.”

Drue hustled out of the kitchen in her wake, turning to look over her shoulder at Rick. “Sorry. Duty calls.”

Old-school rap music blared from the wall-mounted speakers and the Thirsty Thursday crowd was, as Kaitlin had warned, loud and demanding. The sprawling room was packed, the noise level ear-splitting.

“What’s going on?” Drue asked, placing her lips beside Kaitlin’s ear.

“Do you have to ask? Look around.”

Drue estimated the average age in the room at 19.2 years. College kids, sunburned, buzzed and looking for fun in the Florida sun. She knew what that meant. Crappy tips and plenty of customers who thought dine and dash was an intramural sport. “Spring break? Already? It isn’t even Easter yet.”

“It comes earlier and earlier every year,” Kaitlin said. “Hey, how’d you manage to ditch the crotch cutters tonight? Every time I come to work wearing normal pants Prick orders me to go home and change.”