I continue to stare at them, my brain registering their neutral faces in utter shock and mortification.

Seriously? Waiters? He got bloody waiters for a weekend with a call girl?

This man clearly has no frickin’ clue what to do with his money. But more importantly, I had absolutely no idea there was going to be anyone else here, and now there are not one, but six healthy and coherent eye witnesses who can attest to my presence here—and worse, the reason for it.

It’s obvious—far too obvious, actually—that they can all read the tag sitting right next to my plate. Hell, one of them probably printed the damn thing out and put it there.

I feel bile rise all the way to the top of my throat at the thought of how many times they’ve done this before; set a dinner table and placed a ‘Reserved for sub‘ sign on the very seat my ass is parked in.

I think I’m going to throw up.

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