The Waiter Bradleigh Collins (autobiographies to read TXT) 📖

got to work brainstorming two pages worth of article ideas and reviewing portfolios for two freelance writers I was hiring. By the time Eric from IT arrived at seven, I was fully caffeinated and frantically flipping through the February fashion magazines. That was another perk I loved about my job. Every month, the office would receive advanced copies of all the major fashion publications from around the world. Part of my job was to review all of them and write a monthly “round-up” of trends. I was actually getting paid to do what I loved. Read fashion magazines. How could I ever consider giving that up?

“I don’t get hockey,” Katie said, looking up at the television monitor in the suite. “I can’t keep up with the puck.”

“Yeah, it’s a low score game,” Lucy said. “But hockey players are the hottest.”

“Yes, they are,” I said, looking over at The Waiter.

“How come he never went pro?” Lucy asked.

“Well, he says he was good. But not that good. I’m kinda glad. He probably wouldn’t have that perfect face if he’d gone pro.”

“Or all his teeth,” Katie said. I think it was the first time I’d laughed all day. And I was feeling a bit more hopeful about being bi-coastal.

After the first period ended, the guys came back to the lounge area and joined us. Actually, I think they just came back to refill their booze.

“Your man knows everything there is to know about hockey,” Kyle said.

“He should,” I replied. “You guys should see the tapes of him playing in college.”

“When did you watch those?” The Waiter asked.

“Oh, I watch them sometimes when you’re not home.”

“What she’s trying to say is that she reserves them for the spank tank,” Lucy said matter-of-factly.

“I’m not even gonna deny that,” I said.

“Girls have spank tanks?” Josh asked.

“Big ones,” Lucy replied. Katie and I nodded in agreement.

The Waiter laughed. “We have to get you a Rangers jersey before we leave.”

“Why can’t I just have that one?” I asked, referring to the one he was wearing. The one with the name “Messier” emblazoned on the back.

“Because this, my love, is as valuable to me as that Chanel bag is to you. I got it six years ago when we won the Stanley Cup.” He grabbed a beer and sat down next to me.

“I’m going to get some more food,” Lucy said. “You want anything?”

I shook my head.

Katie got up and followed her. “I’ll go with you. I need more cheese.”

“How was your day, Red?” The Waiter asked. “You left really early this morning.”

“Yeah. I had a lot of work to do. How was yours? Did you find out when they want you in L.A.?”

“I did actually,” he replied.

“Well?”

“You’re not gonna be happy.”

“Just tell me,” I said. “I’m already miserable.”

“Monday,” he replied. I just looked at him.

“You’re moving to L.A. Monday? Like in five days, Monday?”

“No! Not moving yet. Just going out for a couple of weeks to see the space. They already have corporate apartments for us and everything.”

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Baby, why don’t you fly out next weekend and just check it out?”

“I can’t take any time off right now.”

“So fly out on Friday after work and come back on Sunday. Just a couple of days.”

“That’s a long ass flight for a couple of days.”

“You can write on the plane. And it’s really warm and sunny out there. Please?”

He was practically begging. I could see that the whole situation was just as hard for him as it was for me. And as much as I hated the idea of him moving to California - for any period of time - I wanted him to succeed. And I certainly could use some warm weather.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll go.”

“I love you, Red.”

“I love you,” I replied. “But I fucking hate L.A.”

I’d been to Los Angeles once, with Dalton. A friend of his was getting married in Vegas, and Dalton was a groomsman. The wedding was beautiful. The trip was ugly. I didn’t know anyone at the reception besides Dalton, and aside from the bride and groom, Dalton neglected to introduce me to anyone. I’d worn this beautiful scarlet red chiffon dress with a matching long, flowing scarf, but I may as well have worn a scarlet letter. I spent most of the evening sitting at a table by myself watching Dalton work the room, catching up with his friends while leaving me to fend for myself. At one point, the quite handsome brother-of-the-bride sat down next to me and began chatting me up. Like magic, Dalton suddenly appeared and wanted to dance with me. It was the last dance of the evening. The wedding photographer snapped a photo of us. I looked happy. Dalton looked annoyed.

The next day, we drove out to Los Angeles. After doing the usual tourist attractions, I pretended to take a nap in our hotel room while I listened to Dalton on the phone, talking negatively about our relationship to one of his ex-girlfriends. An ex-girlfriend who just happened to live in Los Angeles. An ex-girlfriend that we ended up meeting for dinner that night. She had huge tits. I’ve hated L.A. ever since.

“Come watch the game with me baby,” The Waiter said, taking me by the hand. “I’ll teach you all about hockey.” The fifteen-minute intermission was up and the Rangers were back on the ice.

“Okay,” I smiled. “And then we can watch one of your games when we get home. And you can teach me more.”

“If that means what I think it means, then I’m down.”

“Oh, you’ll be down alright,” I replied.

He laughed. There was that sexy, knowing smile that I loved. That same smile I’d seen in the back of the cab the night we’d left De La Guarda and were headed uptown to my hotel. That was the first night we slept together. And now we sleep together every night. We don’t have sex every single night, of course. But I was getting laid on a regular basis. That