Omega Mated: The Omega Academy, Book 4 by Victoria Brice

Author:Victoria Brice
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub

9

Bastion

Bastion tugged at the sleeves of his borrowed white waiter’s jacket. The damn thing was clearly not designed for an Alpha, being both tight across the shoulders and not quite long enough in the arms, but on short notice, it was the best he could do. And since his mom’s monthly payment was due in three days, he would wear twenty stupid jackets if it meant she could keep up her treatment.

“Waiters! Prepare to deliver first apps,” barked a short woman with dark hair. “Let’s go, people. Trust me, you do not want to fuck this up.” He’d forgotten her name already, but she was in charge of the waitstaff. Bastion had already seen her send one girl home in tears for wearing nail polish. Clearly, the woman put up with no shit. He liked her style.

The chefs piled plates with artfully arranged morsels onto the holding table, where the waiters would retrieve them and serve a table at a time. The boss inspected each plate with a steely gaze before nodding her approval. She had informed all the waitstaff earlier that it would be a smaller party by the hotel’s standards, only 50 people or so. But apparently, “these people put the V in VIP, so if any of you screw up, you’re gone.” Bastion made a mental note to be extra careful.

“First table! Let’s go.” She clapped her hands, urging them on. The first string of waiters fell in line, grabbing plates with practiced ease. They were the pro team, the ones deemed skillful and competent enough to take care of the head table. Apparently, this was a rehearsal dinner for some big shot’s wedding, and even the people delivering food had to be on top of their game.

Bastion was glad he only had to deal with the side tables. After what happened with Harley, Grant, and his father, he’d had enough of rich people for a lifetime. He would do the gig, get the money, and get the fuck out.

Lina, yeah, that was her name, ordered the next group of servers up with military precision. There were three teams, one waiter per guest, working to deliver the plates so that a whole table got their food simultaneously. Bastion didn’t see the point, beyond that it just made life more difficult for servers. Maybe that’s why these people liked it.

“Third group, get in there.” Bastion fell into line behind his fellow waiters, grabbing a plate and heading out through the sliding doors. The hotel was old, built in the 1920s. Every square inch of the place was covered with fancy carvings, shining mahogany furniture, and oil paintings in heavy gold frames. Bastion could imagine movie stars of the past haunting the ballroom, black and white figures doing old-timey dances under the sparkling chandelier.

As he followed his fellow waiters through the maze of tables, he caught a glimpse of the guests in his peripheral vision. Rich older people mostly, the men in expensive suits, ladies in brightly-hued cocktail dresses.

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