The girl half rose from her seat, until her face was inches away from Drue’s. “Look,” she said, her voice soft. Her breath stank of rum and fruit juice. Her face was flushed, her eyes were glazed. “Don’t be such a bitch. I need two of those strawberry thingies. Okay? Stanley’s gonna take good care of you, you understand?”

Drue moved two inches backward. “I understand perfectly. And you need to understand that I still can’t serve you alcohol. We both know you and your girlfriends here are underage.”

The girl’s face twisted in rage. “What the hell do you care? Are you a fucking cop?” Her high-pitched voice rose to a shriek. Heads turned, their eyes glued to the unfolding drama at table six. “Now go get my drink, bitch!”

Drue started to say something, but before she could respond, she felt a hand tighten on her upper arm.

It was Prick. “In my office. Now.”

He turned to the table. “Sorry for the misunderstanding. I’ll send somebody over with a round for the table. On the house.”

They didn’t make it all the way to the office. He turned to her just inside the doors to the kitchen. “What the hell?” he yelled. “You come in here tonight with a shitty attitude, out of uniform, but I cut you some slack because I feel sorry for you. Then you limp around out there like some kinda lame-ass zombie and spend half the night hiding out in the bathroom. Your job here is to smile and sling drinks, not get in a fight with the paying customers.”

“I had to pee. One time. I was off the floor for five minutes. And that blond chick threw a napkin at me!” Drue protested. “Called me a bitch. And she was totally underage.”

“I don’t give a shit,” Prick said, hands on his hips. “Go ahead and clock out. You’re gone.”

“You’re firing me?”

“Damn straight.”

“I’ll go,” she said, her voice steely. “But don’t even think about trying to stiff me for my share of the tip-out tonight. With this crowd it should be at least two hundred bucks. And I’m not leaving here until I get my money.”

“Fat chance,” he said, sneering.

She ripped off her apron and tossed it in his face. “Two hundred dollars,” she repeated. “In cash. Tonight.” On a whim she pulled her cell phone from the pocket of her jeans and held it up for him to see. “Or I call the state beverage control board and text them photos of all the shit-faced underage Barbies in here tonight. And tomorrow night your spring break bonanza comes to a screeching halt.”