The Bar

37. Glass

Ever since Clara had her horribly frightening encounter with Max the chef, she had never stepped foot in the kitchen again, until today.

Cavenaughs men were nice to her, they never made jokes or got handsy, they were far nicer than most patrons. They smiled at her, even offered to get their own drinks from the bar. The men could get their drinks from the bar, however they could not get their food from the kitchen.

Clara didn't put two and two together until she was outside the kitchen's swining door. She could hear Max's voice bark away at his assistant. His insults made Gordon Ramsey look like a teddy bear. Clara took a few steps closer to the red door of doom but as soon as she opened the door something came flying her way.

A dish crashed. Tiny pieces of a thick white plate smashed against the red door. White ceramic pieces exploded across the entryway, some landing on the floor, others in Clara's skin.

Clara shrieked in surprise, instantly stepping back and away from the door.

Heads turned from the large projector and towards the waitress. She nearly trippes as she launched herself away from the door. Her heart racing, beating hard against her ribcage.

She heard Max scream another insult but it wasn't projected at his assistants.

The small, plump, red faced chef bursts out of the kitchen, plate in hand.

"I told you, don't step foot in my kitchen again, putain," He says warningly.
He turns on his heels and slams the door shut, yet it swings slowly back into place.

Clara, red faced in embarassment, turns to the storage room to get a broom.

She knew it was a bad idea and yet she went foreward. She felt sweat drip down her cheek, irritatedly she wiped the drop away then refocused herself for the task at hand. Clean up the glass.

As she grabbed the broom, she felt a sense of worry. She had no sense of worry for herself, instead she was thinking of Flint. His anger would cause him to explode if he had been there. Max would probably never have the option of an open casket, had Flint been there. Max's actions were not the only thing that stuck, but the sexual harassment he had paid her weeks ago.

If a stranger had looked at Clara then at Max, it could be assumed that she would be able to fight him off. He was short, rounded, walked with a limp, was old and coughed a lung at the slightest point of exercise. Clara was undoubtly afraid still. The man might be weak but so was Clara. She knew she would freeze and submit if he tried anything. She didn't even have confidence in herself to scream for help if the situation presented itself.

"Clara," Najeem says entering the storage room.

She jolts out of her thoughts, nearly jumping at the sound. She turns to see her alli with a worrisome look. She couldn't look him in the eye. Embarasses still, self-counsious, weak almost.

"Are you okay?" Najeem asks. He checks for injuries, starting with her legs until finally his eyes meet hers.

"Shit!" He curses. A small cut on her cheek showed that a piece of glass no doubt ricocheted off of the door and towards her face.

"I'll get the first aide kit. Stay her and do not talk to Flint, he'll ask questions," Najeem instructs.

"Trust me, I would really prefer that my boyfriend not kill anyone," Clara says shaking her head.

Before Clara can turn to the broom, before Najeem can turn to leave, both are startled by a third voice.

"Who am I going to kill?" Flint asks.