She needed a drink. As Tonya squeegeed the exterior of the walk-in fridge, she could think of little else than the taste of tequila, the feel of it sliding down her throat, smoky and sharp with a hint of citrus. She imagined how it would work its magic, relaxing her tired muscles and blurring the image of Imani’s disdainful expression as she’d demanded that Tonya throw out her hard-earned groceries and then acted appalled by what Tonya had considered a generous counteroffer not to microwave the PB&Js in the house. One little shot of Cuervo would soften everything. Unfortunately, dulling her constant thoughts of Melissa and Mike and everyone else involved in the sordid events of the last several days would require a whole bottle.
Tonya swapped the squeegee for a shammy and began drying the fridge door. She moved her hand in circles. Wax on. Wax off. The Karate Kid was before her time, but she’d resurrected the film to watch with Layla because of the iconic lines and high rating on family movie websites. Mr. Miyagi’s moral was that mundane tasks could teach valuable lessons. But what lesson was there in clean the fridge? Don’t sleep with high-powered men who suggest they can leverage their influence to launch careers? Don’t fall for the married friends of such men? Don’t have the baby thinking that, maybe, it will all work out?
Tonya slapped the towel against her arm before putting it down. Shame on her for thinking that way. It had all worked out. Her daughter was worth every indignity. She would scrub a million fridges for Layla. She’d done far worse than that.
Still, she really wanted a drink.
Tonya tiptoed toward the dining room. A metallic rattling stopped her. It was a strange noise for a restaurant, more befitting a ship or a construction site. She whirled around, scanning for an item coming loose from a wall or the ceiling. There was the sound of something spinning followed by a thud.
Tonya strained to hear more. Footsteps were followed by the creak of a door opening and closing. The front door, Tonya assumed. Someone had come into the dining room—and left—through the patrons’ entrance.
After hours, that door was typically bolted shut. She wondered who would have the code to the electronic lock. Philip, surely. Perhaps a building maintenance crew. Tonya could also imagine the head chef doling it out to business partners or anyone he trusted to deal with deliveries relating to the bar. Mike had possessed it at some point, hadn’t he?
Whoever had been in the dining room was gone, Tonya figured. But the liquor was surely still safe on the bar’s illuminated shelves. A lot had happened this past week. She just needed to oil the edges of her memories, make them easier to swallow.
Tonya barged into the room and strode toward a glowing row of reposado tequilas. No one would notice a shot or two gone from an already-open bottle, she figured. When Mike had been bartending, he’d always doled out a couple pours after an extra-long or boring shift, listing them as “spills.” Philip hadn’t seemed to mind giving the staff a few freebies. One of the unspoken rules to keeping a minimum-wage-earning restaurant crew happy was the discount on food and drink.
Mike wasn’t behind the bar now, of course. But the same rules surely applied—though Tonya didn’t exactly want to ask Philip outright if that was the case. It was uncomfortable enough that she’d shown up at his door homeless. Begging for booze would pretty much erase the distinction between her and a wino.
Besides, he wasn’t even in the restaurant. He’d disappeared shortly after the last cook had taken off. Now that she’d been cleaning for more than a week, he probably didn’t think it necessary to babysit her while completing odd jobs in the kitchen.
Tonya slipped behind the front bar and scanned for a bottle with a broken label over the stopper. One “spill” was all she wanted. One shot to ease walking into and waking up in Imani’s peanut-free household.
Tonya spied a previously uncorked bottle of Casamigos. She grabbed it, feeling like a thief, even though she assured herself that she wasn’t stealing anything that she wasn’t entitled to. If Philip were here, he’d probably have a shot and offer her something too. Tonya popped off the bottle’s cap and selected a glass from the counter.
Behind her, a door opened. Tonya jammed the stopper back on the bottle’s neck, pressing it down with her thumb as she pushed it away. She whirled around. “Hello?”
Philip walked toward her. He seemed to bristle at the sound of her voice. His posture became painfully erect, as though tensed from an unexpected shock. “Why are you in here? Shouldn’t you be in the kitchen?”
The light emanating from the back bar wasn’t enough to highlight Philip’s expression. But Tonya didn’t need to see his full face to feel his anger. It was evident in Philip’s seething tone. His stiff body language.
“I was thinking maybe the bar needed a dusting.”
Philip continued his approach, eyes bright and burning. “I don’t see a dust cloth.”
Tonya chuckled, partly out of embarrassment, partly to lighten the mood. “You’re right. To be honest, I was hoping to take my end-of-shift shot.”
Philip stepped within feet of her. He held his arms out from his sides in a way that Tonya found aggressive. As if he might need to come out swinging. “What end-of-shift shot?”
Tonya felt the blood rise to her face. “Sometimes you would give us all a pour of whiskey, remember? Or, sometimes, whoever was working the bar would let us toast at the end of the night.”
Philip’s peaked brows rose. Molehills becoming mountains. “You’re saying Mike gave out free booze on the restaurant’s tab?”
Tonya winced. She was going to get Mike fired instead of furloughed. “No. Not usually. Once in a blue moon, probably when he thought the staff needed a pick-me-up.”
Philip’s hands landed on his hips. “This is why restaurants fail. People take advantage. They take free booze. Free food. They invest so they can seem like big men to their friends and then want to pull all their money at the first sign of trouble. Restaurants fail because everyone is a fucking mooch and no one wants to earn anything.”
Tonya stood a little straighter. “I know that I’m living in your home without paying rent. But I am working here every day and—”
“And the job’s over.”
“What?”
“You cleaned, right? The fact that you’re out here means you’ve finished cleaning?”
“Yes.”
“Then go home, Tonya.”
Philip slipped behind the bar as he spoke, reducing the impact of distance on his size. Standing directly across from him, Tonya could appreciate what a physically intimidating presence Philip truly was.
“I’m sorry, Chef. I shouldn’t have thought to pour myself a shot. I didn’t think it would be a big deal, and I would have definitely asked you if I’d known that you were still here. You weren’t in the kitchen, and I didn’t think to check anywhere else—”
“Where else is there?” Philip cut her off. “There’s nothing in the dining room anymore.”
Something about Philip’s voice drove Tonya several steps back. He wasn’t yelling. But there was a seethe in his tone. He sounded like water in a pot, right before reaching a rolling boil.
“I’m sorry. I won’t come back in here.”
Philip’s cold blue eyes seemed to register the tremble in her voice. They softened along with his body language. “Sorry. It’s just that the kitchen is the only place we’re really maintaining at the moment. We don’t want anyone leaving food or spilled liquor in the other rooms. The pandemic is driving the rats insane. If anyone gets bitten, or news gets out of an infestation, that will be the end of everything.”
Though Philip’s voice was back to normal, the memory of his prior tone kept Tonya timid as she slid from behind the bar. “I understand.”
Philip looked at her like he was profoundly disappointed, either at her or at himself. “Do you want a ride back?”
His enraged speech against moochers still reverberated between her ears. There was no way she was going to accept another favor. “It’s fine. I have to pick up some things. I’ll grab the subway.”
“Take the ride, Tonya.”
He wasn’t asking. Tonya found herself nodding. “Of course. Yes, Chef. Thank you.”