The Bar

19. The Scream

Vanessa had replaced Clara for her shift, although Clara wasn't ready to leave. Even though she was sore - mainly from flint - she was willing to put in the effort to stay busy and not leave just yet. She felt useless, she felt like a freeloader and the only way to rid herself of that feeling was to work.

Her hair was in a messy bun, strands around her face, some kept getting in her eyes. She felt a wave of exhaustion come over her as she gathered dirty plates from several tables and placed them in a grey tub. She went into the kitchen and placed the tub on the counter next to the sink. A young man took the plates and began to rinse them. She helped him trying desperately to busy herself. The man kept shifting his eyes over his shoulder as if he was being watched.

Clara looked over to where his eyes lingered but only the chaos of a busy kitchen could be seen. No one studied them or stood near them. Cooks called out orders, some repeated and others simply replied with a "yes, chef."
Clara felt like she was on an episode of Hell's Kitchen, only the chef barking orders wasn't nearly as good as Gordon Ramsey, and his yells and insults were more uncalled for rather than justified.

Once done helping, she went to leave the kitchen but was stopped by a short round man in a white uniform.

"How in the world are you still working here?" He says with a voice risen with curiosity. Clara opens her mouth to answer but no words come out. The man's plump features were accompanied by a few pockmarks. He looked exhausted, dark circles surrounded his eyes, his mouth agape, slightly drooling like he was dumbfounded.

"Open your mouth wider and I'll put something in it, and trust me when I say it won't be food," he says amused with himself. She feels insulted and disgusted. She shuts her mouth and moves around the man to leave but he grabs her arm and pulls her back.

"You didn't answer me," he says. His grip on her wrist tightens imensly, her wrist burning with pain.

"Let go of me," she says sternly. She knew that the man would probably be fired, bloodied and bruised if Flint knew the man not only had hand on her but was also hurting her.
The chef tightens his grip even more and then gives her a quick shove. She stumbles but is able to straighten her stance. She moves past the man and out the door, rubbing her wrist.

Clara passes a few people and enters the storage room. She moves to the door in the back and lightly knocks before entering. She closes the door behind her and looks around the room.

Flint shifts his gaze from the papers at his desk to the woman walking into his office. He smiles at the sight of the beautiful girl. He looks back at his work and tries to sort through the pile of papers.

"I'm almost done. What do you want for dinner? I was thinking I could have you, but I'm not sure you'd be up for that..." He chuckles.
He steals another glance at the woman only to look again with worry. She looked exhausted, in pain, vaguely agitated.

"You okay?" He says suddenly.
She sits on the chair in front of his desk and sighs, forcing a smile.

He sees her exhaustion having worked for 8 hours straight. She was hungry and tired but more importantly she wanted to just lay in bed with Flint.
She got up and went to the sofa on the opposite side of the office. She laid on the couch, her head throbbing. She hadn't had a good nights rest for days but it wasn't because of the sex.

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It was nearly midnight, the bar was crowded with people, some tipsy and some in a distressful drunken state. Flint hated hearing the whining of the girls at the bar, complaining that their boyfriends were cheating or their husbands weren't paying them enough attention and vise versa. Flint hated the sound of guys laughing hysterically when making a joke about the waitresses. Even though he hated these things, he loved his bar with passion.