by Kate, Jiffy
“I’m not a stripper or a...hoochie mama,” she says with her arms in the air. I’ve officially riled this girl up and I don’t even know her name. Her hoochie mama comment forces me to fight back a smile. But I can’t crack, not now.
When I take a step closer, the sun creeping in the window illuminates her, bringing her pale pink hair into view. It’s different. She’s different. And so are her eyes. They’re dark, coming off nearly black in the dim light, such a contrast from her hair and pale skin. And her accent. She’s definitely from the south, but she’s not from around here.
She also has a nice shiner and a split lip. Girl fight? Drunken bar fight? Boyfriend? Regardless, she looks like trouble and I definitely don’t need any of that here.
“Where’re you from?” I ask.
She sticks her chin out in defiance, crossing her arms over her chest. “Why do you care?”
I stand there, stoic, staring at her like she’s lost her damn mind. No one ever contests me or contradicts me, except my sister, and on a rare occasion Paulie, but other than that, my word is the end all, be all.
“Oklahoma,” she reluctantly mutters after an elongated pause.
“Go back to Oklahoma,” I reply, turning around and walking out of the bar, past the storage room, past my office, and out the door at the end of the dark hallway. When the door slams behind me, I let out a few expletives, trying to relieve the sudden buildup of stress.
It doesn’t work. Growling, I kick the metal banister, but that does nothing but make me wince in pain. My steel-toed boots took the brunt of it, but it still didn’t feel good.
Looking up the rusted staircase to my left, I exhale deeply before taking the steps two at a time. Once I’m at the top, I fling the door open and storm inside.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
No, scratch that. I know the answer and I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to think about anything right now. I just want to clear my mind and push myself to the limit and there’s only one way I can do that right now.
Scanning the large studio apartment I own above the bar, I verify it’s empty and I’m alone before I walk over to my bench press, toss some weights on and get down to business.
I’ll need to shower again once I’m finished because after I punish my body into submission, I’m always drenched in sweat, but at least I’ll be able to tolerate myself. And I’ll be easier to work with.
Inhaling deeply, I bring the bar to my chest. Exhaling, I muscle it up.
Again.
My employees and patrons will thank me for this later.
And again.
And I’ll be able to think clearer.
Again.
And Oklahoma will be out of my head.
Who the fuck does she think she is? Coming into my bar? And what the fuck was up with her face? Who did that to her?
I pump harder, faster.
I’ll also be having a chat with Wyatt about sending a flippant...girl to my door, because that’s what she is—a girl, maybe twenty-one. He’s a lot better suited to employ someone like her, so why would he send her to me? What in the world would I do with her...in my bar?
Not happening.
Chapter 3
Avery
It’s been a week. A whole freakin’ week. And I still don’t have a job. I’m not complaining. I know people search for work for a lot longer and are a lot more desperate than I am. Plus, I’ve been enjoying my slow mornings, painted in the bright, crisp hues of the early Louisiana sunshine.
While on my job search, I’ve found interesting spots to stop and hang out. I’ve walked barefoot through parks and window shopped through the French Quarter. I’ve drank in the free atmosphere and soaked in the deep culture—street art, jazz bands, second line parades. But my funds are running low and I only have a week before I’ll have to find another place to stay, and I was hoping I’d have a job by then and know how much I’ll be able to afford.
The dreaded what ifs have started to settle in.
What if I can’t find a job?
What if I run out of money?
What if I’m forced to go home?
I’ve decided that when I get down to my last hundred dollars, if I still don’t have a job, I’ll concede defeat and go home. I won’t have another choice.
When I was talking to my mama yesterday, she voiced her concerns and tried to get more information about what happened between me and Brant. Apparently, his mama was at the drug store when she stopped in to get Daddy’s blood pressure meds a couple days ago and she mentioned that Brant hasn’t been himself and she can’t get him to take her calls.
My mama tried to get me to agree to calling him, but that’s not going to happen. I know I’ll eventually have to talk to him, and I will. I’m not a chicken shit. And, despite what happened, I’m not scared of him.
Okay, maybe I am. A little.
I still can’t believe he hit me.
I can’t believe he went from someone I would’ve trusted my life with to someone who’d make me question its safety.
Who is he?
Where did the Brant I used to know and love go?
Thankfully, the split in my lip is almost healed and the bruise below my eye isn’t as angry as it was the first few days. It’s still there and noticeable, but it doesn’t look like I just lost Fight Night.
Pulling myself out of bed, I quickly shower and dress, pulling my hair into a high ponytail. The pink I normally dye it has faded into my platinum blonde. I like it. It’s still pink, just not my normal, vibrant fuchsia, but it’s pretty. And it’ll have to do for now, because after paying up my room for the two weeks and buying gas and food, I’m down to a thousand dollars. It’s enough for now, but not enough for long.
I give myself a quick look in the mirror and take a deep breath. Despite everything, I feel lighter and happier than I’ve been in a while. This city feels good. It feels like somewhere I can be myself.
All the more reason I’m going to find a job and I’m going to make it. I’m not ready to go home.
Someone out there is in need of someone like me. I just know it.
“Go get ‘em, Avery,” I whisper to myself in the mirror.
Walking out of the neighborhood I’m staying in and into the French Quarter, I make a beeline for the coffee shop I’ve already grown accustomed to. I think that’s important. Both the coffee and finding a shop that suits you. It’s the sign of a good fit. I would go to The Crescent Moon every day, if it was closer. But it’s a nice walk, plus a ride on the streetcar, so I’m thinking, it’ll be a once a week thing. Maybe later today, after I stop at a few more places and check on job openings, I’ll treat myself. I intentionally avoided it on Sunday and Monday because I remember what Wyatt said: Shaw is a regular on his days off. After our showdown in his bar last week, I really have no desire to see him again.
He was surly.
No, scratch that.
He was an asshole. Grade-A, prime choice, top-of-the-line, asshole deluxe.
Just thinking about him pisses me off all over again. He only hires men? How sexist can he be?
When I make it to Neutral Grounds, I get the cheerful “hello” I’ve come to expect.
“Hi, CeCe,” I call back with a wave and a smile. Yeah, I’m already on a first name basis with my barista. “Just a drip,” I tell her as I walk up to the counter. I’d love to have a cappuccino or a latte, but I’m being frugal. So, fancy will have to wait.
“Any luck finding a job yet?” she asks as she turns to get a cup and fill it up. What’s really awesome is if I stay and chat, which I’ve done a time or two, she’ll fill it up as much as I need, which means breakfast is a reasonable two dollars and nine cents.
“No, nothing.” Sighing, I lean on the counter and place my correct change by the register.
She gives me a look of pity and genuine disappointment, offering me a “sorry” before setting down my coffee along with the caddy containing the cream and sugar.
&nbs
p; “It’s okay.” Instead of whining like a baby, I set about fixing my coffee just like I like it—four creamers and one sugar. “Something is bound to come up, right?”
“It will,” she encourages, busying herself with making a fresh pot of coffee. “Oh, I did see that the bar across the way put a help wanted sign in their window a day or two ago...maybe it was yesterday?” She shrugs, turning around with a contemplative look. “I can’t remember, but I bet, if you head over there, it might still be up. That is, if you don’t mind working at a bar.”
I look out the window, across the way, and wonder out loud, “Come Again?”
“Yeah, just on the corner.”
I don’t know why, but my blood starts to boil and it’s not the coffee. “Thanks,” I tell her with a smile as I hold up my cup, trying to hide my anger. What an asshole! A week after I come looking for work and he puts up a help wanted sign? Like he didn’t know he needed help when I was there? Oh, that’s right...he only hires men.
“You know, I think I’ll head over there now. Catch ‘em early.”
“Good thinking,” CeCe chimes in. “And come back for a refill if you want.”
“Thanks,” I tell her again, securing my cup with a lid before heading out the door. It’s early and I have a feeling the bar isn’t open yet, but last week, when I stopped by on Tuesday, even though they weren’t technically open, the door was unlocked.
Sipping my coffee, I make my way slowly around Jackson Square, taking the long way to give myself enough time to caffeinate and cool down a little before going back into the lion’s den, aka Come Again.
Once I’ve finished my drink and made two laps around Jackson Square, I’m kind of a sweaty mess. Standing near the bench in front of the bar, I toss my empty cup in the trash and stare at the offending yellow sign in the window.
Sure enough.
Help wanted.
I’m not sure I’m ready for this, but I desperately need a job, so I’m going in. Maybe if he’s desperate enough, he’ll be a bit more amicable. I scratch his. He scratches mine.
Not like that. I inwardly groan, making a half circle to face the cathedral. Not that scratch. A job. Although, I hate that he does appeal to me on a sexual level. There’s just something about him that makes my body react. He’s older, mature. The way he walks is more like a stalk, each step intentional. I admit I watched him on his way out of the bar last week, all the way until he disappeared down the long, dark hallway.
Sure, I was fuming.
I was also offended, pissed off, and annoyed.
Digging deep to the pit of my stomach, right down to where my roots live—I pull from the girl who grew up on a farm and was taught to never take no for an answer. A few seconds later, I draw a deep breath and turn my attention back to the bar, storming over to the door. It creaks when I open it, just like last time and I wince at the announcement of my arrival. I could’ve done without that, maybe had a minute to finish finding my gumption and resolve. But nope, the second I walk through the door, the dark eyes from Tuesday are turned on me and when he sees it’s me, he glares.
“I’m here for the job,” I demand, a bit out of breath from all the pre-gaming I just did out on the sidewalk, but I find it imperative to have the first word.
“I’m not hiring.” Turning his back to me, he goes about his business of stocking the booze behind the counter.
“You’re lying,” I challenge, placing my hands on my hips and readying myself for a fight.
Slowly, he turns, but only half way, glowering at me from the side. The way the light hits him, it shows off his face and his features aren’t as harsh as he makes them out to be. It’s the constant scowl that really sets them off. But beyond the scruff, there’s a straight nose and a high forehead, which accentuates his dark eyebrows and intense eyes, which are also dark. He’s kind of mesmerizing.
“What did you just say?” he finally asks.
“Lying… you’re lying,” I repeat, swallowing to keep myself from wavering.
He barks out a laugh and I huff out my annoyance. Turning around to the small window beside the door, I tear the yellow sign off the glass and walk over to the bar, slapping it down with force. “Help wanted?” I ask, thinking maybe that’ll ring a bell. “I came in last week looking for work, remember?”
“And I told you—”
“Right, I don’t have a penis. You made that clear.” I roll my eyes and shake my head. “You know how ridiculous that is, right? Let me tell you, I can do just as good of a job as any man. I grew up on a farm. And I might look small, but I’m strong and I can carry my weight.” Before I stop for a breath, I’m practically standing on the bar, my pointed finger now in Shaw’s personal space, precariously close to touching his chest. The stare he’s giving me is lethal, but I’m not scared of him. He might try to intimidate me—and it might work, a little—but he’s not running me off this time.
I’m not leaving this bar without a job.
When I continue to hold his gaze, unflinching and unwavering, his expression starts to change. It doesn't soften—soft and Shaw are two words that don’t belong in the same sentence—but it does shift into something resembling surrender, reluctant surrender, but surrender all the same. His lips twitch as his nose scrunches into a snarl. He hates this. He hates that I’m in his space. I can see it written all over his face, but something about what I just said got to him and I can see he’s reconsidering.
“Just hire me for a trial basis, maybe a month. If I can’t perform up to your specifications, you can fire me, but I’d prefer a notice of some sort. I’m kind of here on my own and I can’t afford to be without a job.” When I realize I’m starting to ramble, I stop myself from saying more and hold my breath to see what his final decision is going to be. If he wants to go another round, I’ve got a little more ammunition, but I’m hoping I don’t have to use it. “Come on. Give a girl a break.”
“Fine,” he grits out behind clenched teeth. “Be here tomorrow at noon. You’ll start training then.”
My eyes widen and I almost ask him to repeat what he just said, unsure I heard him correctly, but then I think better of it. Shaw O’Sullivan doesn’t come across as a man who likes to repeat himself and I’m not stupid. I know when to push the limits and when to keep my mouth shut, so all I say is, “Thank you.”
Before I open the door to leave, I turn back to him and he’s already back to restocking shelves. “You won’t regret this,” I tell him, or his back rather, which is broad and strong, even under the cover of his black t-shirt.
I see him shake his head and hear a harsh chuckle escape before he mutters under his breath, “We’ll see.”
When I’m back out on the sidewalk in the New Orleans sunshine, I realize I didn’t even ask how much he’s going to pay me, but I guess that doesn’t matter. I have a job and anything is better than nothing.
Chapter 4
Shaw
“So, I hear you have another new hire starting today,” Sarah says in her normal, happy tone. My sister is the most cheerful person I know. She’s the light to my dark, the joy to my misery. However, she does share some of my physical attributes. All of my siblings have the same dark hair and nearly black eyes.
Black Irish.
Striking.
I’ve been called that on more than one occasion, usually from women who only want one thing. Occasionally, I indulge them.
“I needed someone,” I tell her, hoping to cut off the Spanish Inquisition before it starts. I’m not really in the mood for conversation, which doesn’t bode well for today’s training session.
Sarah’s expression is pleased and intrigued. “Uh huh, a girl.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Oh, but it does.” She’s so fucking good at antagonizing me. If I didn’t love her so much, I would tell her to fuck off, but that never goes over well with Sarah. She might be sweet and nice and caring, but she’s not afraid to put me in my place, or anyone else, for that matter.
I huff, exhaling harshly through my nose, trying to tamp down the annoyance and frustration. “Please drop it.”
“Okay,” she sighs, leaning her hip against the barstool. “Want to talk about last week?”
“Nope.”
“Didn’t think so.” The disappointment is evident in her tone, but that’s another thing I don’t want to get into, not today, besides it was last week—past tense. I made it through, that’s all that matters. One day at a fucking time. Story of my damned life. “Well, I can tell you’re going to be an absolute pleasure to work with today, so I’m going to leave you with Paulie and the newbie.”
About that time, Paulie comes walking into the front of the bar with a crate of clean glasses. “Thanks,” he says to Sarah, giving her a side eye and a sly smile.
“How’s everything going at Lizzie’s?” I ask, feeling the familiar twinge of pain in my chest with the mention of the cooking school next door. It’s perfect, though. The only name that would fit the establishment.
“Great,” Sarah replies. “This month has been jam-packed, especially with the added evening classes and the increase in tourists. I’m kinda shocked, actually. I didn’t think cooking in New Orleans in the heat of July would be appealing, but I guess anything that gets people out of the humidity is a selling point.”
“Good.” I nod my head, thinking. “You know, if it gets too busy and you need someone, I could always send over one of my guys.”
She sighs, standing up straight. “Well, I admit, it’s kind of a lot, especially when the classes are in session. What with keeping up with the prep work and cleaning,” she says with a sigh. “But I love it, of course, I love being so busy and I’m managing, for now.”
“I’ll gladly go over and help,” Paulie chimes in.
“Thanks, Paulie,” Sarah says with a smile. She’s got more of a soft spot for the old man than I do, and he has one for her too. “I might take you up on that offer one of these days.”