Sick Bastard Read Online Free

Aside from having to deal with him and how he’s making my body react, I think I’m hanging in there, just barely.
    “Why wouldn't I be?” I fire back.
    He sighs tiredly, “I’m asking because of Mr. Williams’ tasteless fucking behavior towards you.” His voice is harsh as he says this.
    I get it. He's one of those types that thinks he needs to rescue me. I almost laugh out loud. He hasn’t got a clue. I don’t need to be rescued and I sure as hell don’t need him to ride in on his white horse and shiny armor, flinging around his sword to protect little ol’ me. I’ve got my shit handled, which includes handling Mr. Williams. In fact, he's one of my easier costumers.
    “I'm great, so don’t worry. I can deal with him.” I assure him, “But you’re a problem,” I mutter to myself. I'm a little annoyed at his assumption, but it’s also kind of sweet he cares, I guess. I keep my voice sweet and polite, “He's nothing I can't handle.” He lets go of my arm and doesn't say anything more. That was easy …maybe a little too easy.
    Walking back over to the end of their table, I look at Mr. Marx. His body is radiating anger and he doesn’t even try to hide it. Man, what’s his deal? He's wound up tighter than a cheap ass watch.
    “So, are you all ready to order?” I ask with my pen and pad ready.
    “Yes. Bring out a few of the sample appetizer dishes, please.” Something’s going on here, and I’m getting a bad feeling that I won’t be receiving my usual tip. It’s as if Mr. Marx has changed the whole dynamic of the group, which may cause me to suffer financially.
    Nevertheless, I go to close my pad when I hear, “Excuse me, again. London, is it? Mr. Williams doesn’t speak for me,” Mr. Marx says as he gives Mr. Williams a look, “and I would like to place my order, if you don’t mind.”
    There’s that fucking patronizing voice again. It must be in the rich asshole’s handbook to strive and achieve to be the best asshole you can be; Chapter One: Being the Perfect Asshole in a Public Setting. The writer would be so proud of Mr. Marx because he has to be exceeding his expectations. “Yes, of course. What would you like?”
    He looks surprised that I’m ready to take his order. Is he fucking serious? What did he think I would do, give him attitude for being hungry? I swear, people never cease to amaze me with their stupidity.
    “Surprise me,” he says in return. I’m over his shit. Now I’m just ready to see him get the fuck out of here.
    “I can do that. I'll be back shortly with your orders.”
    I scurry over to my other table and get their orders too. I hand one slip over to the kitchen, but I don't know what to write for Mr. Marx yet. I’m thinking something mixed with a little spit. I give it some thought and don't come up with anything exciting, so I order him a French Dip. It's one of my favorites so he’ll either love it or hate it. I don’t give a shit at this point.
    As I put in his order, I see another one of my tables waiting to be seated so I go to greet them, seat them, and take their drink orders while I wait for my food orders to come up.
    As I’m exchanging pleasantries with the group of regulars, I look up to find Kim, another waitress, making rounds at my table, shoving her big plastic tits in Mr. Marx’s face. I almost laugh, except the look on his face keeps me from doing so. He’s not looking or even paying any attention to her. His eyes are only on me.
    As usual, the guys are overly sweet and a little grabby. They try holding my hand, putting their hand on my lower back as they speak to me, things like that. It goes with the job, but I never said I like it. It’s a means to an end for me, that’s it.
    I start to walk away when I bump into a hard chest, “Excuse me, Mr. Marx. Can I help you?” I ask him, failing to sound as cordial as I should.
    “Come with me,” he whispers harshly. His face is just below my ear and right at my neck, making my body feel