From Dead to Worse

It was . . . coy. “No, waiting for you.”
    They sat at the bar and Sam served them. Soon they were chatting away, and when their drinks were gone, they got up to leave.
    When they passed me on their way out, Amelia said, “I’ll see you when I see you”—her way of telling me she might not be home tonight.
    “Okay, you two have fun,” I said. Their departure was followed by more than one pair of male eyes. If corneas steamed up like glasses do, all the guys in the bar would be seeing blurry.
    I made the round of my tables again, fetching new beers for one, leaving the bill at another, until I reached the table with the two guys wearing the FotS shirts. They were still watching the door as though they expected Pam to jump back inside and scream, “BOO!”
    “Did I just see what I thought I saw?” one of the men asked me. He was in his thirties, clean-shaven, brown-haired, just another guy. The other man was someone I would have eyed with caution if we’d been in an elevator alone. He was thin, had a beard fringe along his jaw, was decorated with a few tattoos that looked like home jobs to me—jail tats—and he was carrying a knife strapped to his ankle, a thing that hadn’t been too hard for me to spot once I’d heard in his mind that he was armed.
    “What do you think you just saw?” I asked sweetly. Brown Hair thought I was a bit simple. But that was a good camouflage, and it meant that Arlene hadn’t sunk to telling all and sundry about my little peculiarities. No one in Bon Temps (if you asked them outside of church on Sunday) would have said telepathy was possible. If you’d asked them outside of Merlotte’s on a Saturday night, they might have said there was something to it.
    “I think I saw a vamp come in here, just like she had a right. And I think I saw a woman acting happy to walk out with her. I swear to God, I cannot believe it.” He looked at me as if I was sure to share his outrage. Jail Tat nodded vigorously.
    “I’m sorry—you see two women walking out of a bar together, and that bothers you? I don’t understand your problem with that.” Of course I did, but you have to play it out sometimes.
    “Sookie!” Sam was calling me.
    “Can I get you gentlemen anything else?” I asked, since Sam was undoubtedly trying to call me back to my senses.
    They were both looking at me oddly now, having correctly deduced that I was not exactly down with their program.
    “I guess we’re ready to leave,” said Jail Tat, clearly hoping I’d be made to suffer for driving paying customers away. “You got our check ready?” I’d had their check ready, and I laid it down on the table in between them. They each glanced at it, slapped a ten on top, and shoved their chairs back.
    “I’ll be back with your change in just a second,” I said, and turned.
    “No change,” said Brown Hair, though his tone was surly and he didn’t seem genuinely thrilled with my service.
    “Jerks,” I muttered as I went to the cash register at the bar.
    Sam said, “Sookie, you have to suck it up.”
    I was so surprised that I stared at Sam. We were both behind the bar, and Sam was mixing a vodka collins. Sam continued quietly, keeping his eyes on his hands, “You have to serve them like they were anybody else.”
    It wasn’t too often that Sam treated me like an employee rather than a trusted associate. It hurt; the more so when I realized he was right. Though I’d been polite on the surface, I would have (and should have) swallowed their last remarks with no comment—if it hadn’t been for the FotS T-shirts. Merlotte’s wasn’t my business. It was Sam’s. If customers didn’t come back, he’d suffer the consequences. Eventually, if he had to let bar-maids go, I would, too.
    “I’m sorry,” I said, though it wasn’t easy to manage saying it. I smiled brightly at Sam and went off to do an unnecessary round of my tables, one that probably crossed the line from attentive and into irritating. But if I went into the employees’ bathroom or the public ladies’ room, I’d end up crying, because it hurt to be admonished and it hurt to be wrong; but most of all, it hurt to be put in my place.
    When we closed that night, I left as quickly and quietly as possible. I knew I was going to have to get over being hurt, but I preferred to do my healing in my own home. I didn’t want to have any “little talks” with Sam—or anyone else, for that matter. Holly was looking at me with way too much