One MardispA/s

Brady watched the new waitress the rest of the night, admiring not only thy shy she filled out the black silk shirt she wore, but also how she dealt with the customers.

She was polite, always polite, even to the most rowdy customer. At one point some idiot college student with too much booze in his system hadled led her down on his lap. Brady had made his way over, determined to help her if she needed it. She didn’t.

She’d given the boy a sweet pat on his cheek, as if he were her little brother, then had carefully lifted herself back up.

“It’ll take more than fake shiny beads to get me to lift my shirt,” she told the boy, winking as his friends laughed and cheered.

And that had been that. He wondered how often she’d had to deal with drunks in order to learn that kind of composure. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-one, not with her doe eyes and flawless skin.

But when he looked at her, looked into those hot baby blues of hers, he saw something there. Something older and more experienced than the age he’d guessed her to be.

By the time the bar closed it’s doors, it was two-thirty in the morning and Chloe’s feet had begun to ache. Not that she hadn’t ever waited tables before, but it had been a while, and her body needed to get used to standing for so long.

Sighing, she stretched her hands over her head, tightening the material of her shirt over her breasts.

She either didn’t notice or didn’t care, Brady thought, that she was tempting every male eye left in the place with those curves of hers. Now that she’d taken off her apron and the floor had been cleared, he had an unobstructed view of the woman.

She was gorgeous, her long hair now tucked up in a ponytail, her round ass tight in her jeans, her ample breasts outlined by the clinging material of her shirt. Damn, she was the hottest thing to walk through the door of La Rouge Femme in a long time. He wondered if she had a boyfriend. There was no way a woman like her wouldn’t be attached.

Chloe turned and caught the handsome bartender staring at her; Brady, she remembered. The other guy had called him Brady. An odd name for a man built like him. Oh, well, she didn’t exactly look like her name either.

Giving him a cat like smile, she eased her way over and watched him finish wiping off the bar.

“Busy night,” she commented, crossing her elbows on the slick bar. “Is it like this every Mardi Gras?”

“Yep,” Brady said, trying not to stare, “and it’ll get worse before it’s over.”

“Wow, you guys must not mind working double shifts,” Chloe said, trying to catch his eye.

Finally, he stopped and caught her gaze, giving her a crooked smile.

“Actually, there are usually three of us manning the bar in rotating shifts every night, except for Mardi Gras. Neil splits it up, two of us at night, the other on days plus one temporary bartender. He also splits the waitesses, Tammy over there plus two temp girls at night, the other permanent girl and one temp during the day. I guess the night girls decided it was more fun to party than work.”

“Hmmm, well, good for me,” she replied, taking the rag from underneath his palm and wiping an already clean spot with it. “I definitely could used the cash.”

Brady watched her slow, sensual movements, her delicate hands caressing the towel. God, to be that piece of cotton, he thought.

“Yeah, well, you did pretty well tonight,” he told her, pointing to the stack of cash Tammy had just laid at the end of the bar.

“That’s mine?” Chloe asked, so surprised she stopped her flirting.

“You earned it. You get your split of whatever’s in the tip jar, plus whatever you got off the tables,” Brady explained. “Neil’s a great guy to work for; he believes in taking care of his employees. If the jar isn’t full enough, he sneaks over and pads it. That way the customers feel obligated to add to it, and we get a little extra.”

The pair watched Tammy and Steve wrap their arms around each other and leave the bar, the conversation quiet and intimate.

Brady turned his attention back to the woman hanging on the bar and smiled.

“You know, it’s tradition that the bartenders walk the waitresses at least to their cars,” he told her, leaning back against the counter behind him while he crossed his arms over his chest.

“Oh, at least to their cars,” Chloe returned, her eyes slowly hooding as she studied the handsome man. “I suppose that there are times when they take them all the way to their – home.”

“Only if the lady asks him to,” Brady replied, feeling himself start to harden.

Damn, she was good at this bantering, and he was afraid he was going to pay the price.

“Well, then why don’t you walk me to my car and I’ll decide when I get there if I need an escort home,” Chloe said, her lips tilting in a suggestively.

“I’d be glad to…”

“Chloe, Chloe Lane; try not to forget it.”

He was damn sure he wouldn’t.

He followed her outside watching her curved hips sweep from one side to the other; he was positive his zipper was going to give and his heart was going to stop if she kept moving like that.

Chloe waited for him outside, the still crowded sidewalk a bit tamer than it had been a few hours before. When he reached her, she gave him a bright smile and shook her head.

“You are a gentleman, Brady, walking a girl home like this,” she told him, then turned away, knowing what he’d infer from her comment.

Brady stopped short and stared at her back, his eyes straying back down to her tightly gloved rear. Had he just heard correctly? Was she…did she just…hot damn!

As if an invisible rope tied him to her, he shifted around the knots of people and managed to slide beside her.
en sen she stopped in front of a little blue car, he gave her a questioning look.

“Well, this is it. Home,” Chloe declared, motioning to her car.