by Nina Levine
We left together, walking upstairs, carrying a quarter bottle of whiskey and two glasses at midnight.
He was drunk enough to want to sleep with me, and I was tipsy enough to leave all my inhibitions downstairs.
Then we banged each other’s brains out.
I only needed a name to cry out when he gave me multiple orgasms. He could walk away with his name and past. I knew I wasn’t in his league, so I took what he offered and had a good time. No regrets.
I flip the dumpster lid open, swinging each arm in practiced moves until I’m simultaneously over-arming each black trash bag from the night’s cleanup into the near-empty belly of the dumpster, with satisfying double thuds.
I turn around and head back to the back door and scoop up another two trash bags, a deep shiver beginning to work its way into my bones.
I should have dressed warmer to do the rubbish runs. Still, I wasn’t looking to spend time selecting fresh warm clothes while standing naked in front of the hot guy. Who notably at the time was tenting the sheet with a delicious growing erection while watching me through long lashes and bedroom eyes, gathering my clothes off the floor I wore earlier to work. His requests going unanswered to come back to bed and enjoy another round of orgasms brought on by erotic sex—in positions I didn’t even know were possible—but hallelujah for an experienced older guy.
I charged out of my bedroom before I could dive back into bed and use his cock as a lollipop, quickly changing back into the: tight, scoop-necked white tank top with QUEENIE’S in bold black lettering on the front and STAFF on the back, and my shrink-wrapped denim shorts. The calf-high black boots complete the uniform.
Exactly how the boss likes the female staff to look, but the guys get to wear jeans. The boss is my stepfather, Lorenzo.
I’m not harboring any animosity toward this skimpy uniform. Much?
I have to obey the rules like all the staff—even if this was my dead biological father’s family business.
Every business is doing what it needs to get patrons through the door after the major collapse in the global economy.
The pandemic of 2020 lasted through most of 2027, claiming my biological father’s life in 2025 at the age of thirty-nine, along with millions of other lives, until an approved vaccine that worked ended the global pandemic.
My great-grandfather bought the 1902 Old Town historical red sandstone brick-walled three-story building in 1952, turning the ground floor into more of a pub with a small menu. Still, he named it Queenie’s Tavern after his beloved wife and my great-grandmother, Queenie Jean, who passed before I was born. The building has been in the family for nearly ninety years. Yet, my blood carries no weight of authority because my stepfather calls the shots.
Mamma was diagnosed with cancer in 2031 and married Lorenzo (my stepfather) in 2033, after knowing him less than a year, and then she passed six days before my eighteenth birthday in 2034.
I’ve long suspected Lorenzo targeted my sick mother. He wasn’t even in the door, working as a bouncer when he was preying on my sweet mother’s fears of her only child being left alone in this world with no known living relatives. I watched Lorenzo play his cards right around her, worming his way into my mother’s heart and bed.
At eleven years her junior, he was the perfect doting boyfriend, telling Mamma what she needed to hear, and then he got a ring on her finger.
Mamma was forty-eight when breast cancer stole her from me, and Lorenzo made my mother very happy while she was terminal, and I couldn’t rock that boat. She died knowing her husband loved her and would look after her daughter.
I was too young to take over the family business even if a nearly century-old tradition dictated otherwise. Queenie’s Tavern got inherited by the eldest son in every generation when the father retired or passed away. The last time I checked, I am not a boy.
In Mamma’s cancer-ridden wisdom, she signed Queenie’s reins over to her new husband, and she believed my biological father would be proud of her for finding a solution to keep the tradition alive, ensuring a male inherited the bar. And the kicker? The building is under Lorenzo’s financial care until I turn twenty-five.
My father assumed that his wife would have a long, healthy life, and she would, regardless of tradition, name me as the heir to Queenie’s. My father would never have denied his only child’s right to inherit the business because of my gender—tradition be damned. What a lot of pressure to put on a couple to give birth to at least one son.
Mamma did what she thought was best—or Lorenzo convinced her to sign everything over to him. It is something I will never know.
The closer I came to being of age, the more I worried about the lawyer Lorenzo brought in to handle Mamma’s affairs before her death and whether it would be that easy to claim the building when I came of age.
My mother didn’t leave me high and dry. While I was in high school, she had me learning the ropes of her legacy for me to nurture. Kingdom of Wigs is a company she set up in 2032 when she had Lorenzo backing her at Queenie’s, taking the lion’s share of duties and delegation. He graciously freed up her time to set up the business to keep her happy and busy, making him invaluable to my mother.
Mamma was brightening the lives of so many women with high-quality human hair and synthetic wigs of all colors, lengths, and styles, lifting their self-esteem while undergoing treatment, making them feel like princesses and queens.
And now I carry on with her good work: Monday through to Saturday lunchtime I am at the shop and warehouse. I also have a busy online shop. Lorenzo can’t lay a finger on the funds.
I lob the next two bags of trash into the dumpster. Turning back toward the door, I’ve got one more load to go. Then I can head back to bed where it’s warm.
I was only three-years-old when the pandemic started. “The world has changed dramatically,” my mother used to say when I was older, telling me of the time before the pandemic versus the ‘new world’ we were now living in.
The whole sixty-four acres of Old Town isn’t what it used to be. Post-pandemic, crime is higher, and the tree-lined streets aren’t as well-kept as they once were.
Too many families lost breadwinners. Grief turned to depression, and so did the streets of Old Town Chicago, suffering as the humans suffered.
Old Town is one of many areas that have been forgotten—left to fend for itself until our time comes to get money injected into it to revive the colorful life it once led.
I’m now nearly twenty-four and work Friday and Saturday nights at Queenie’s mainly to keep an eye on Lorenzo because my gut tells me not to trust the man.
Queenie’s is a survivor business. It has held its own over the changing years, with the small pub menu boasting the best ribs and burgers around.
The tavern has a lot of character: maroon leather padded barstools of the early century with its original mahogany bar and heavy wooden round tables and booths with matching leather seating.
Still, the interior needs money spent on it. We could raise the bar (no pun intended) on the clientele with an updated look without losing the original wood and brick interior. Now, it represents the dive bar scene nearly ninety years after opening, rather than a cool place to hang out and meet friends. I want more for Queenie’s. I want more for Old Town and its remaining residents.
Usually, my stepfather is around working, but he’s been away since Friday morning and not due back until lunchtime. He expects the bar to be clean and tidy on his return. I agree, but I also plan to sleep through to lunchtime, so getting the jobs done now works well while freeing my bed up.
With the final two trash bags hurled into the dumpster, I’m flipping the lid back down when I get a strong feeling that I am no longer alone. Danger! Danger! Somebody is in the alley with me, lurking in the shadows.
Before I can race to safety, I get slammed from the side into the grimy brick wall beside the dumpster—the air whooshing from my chest on impact.
Gritting my teeth, I attempt to shove away from
the hard surface, but in the blink of an eye, a large gloved hand smothers my mouth and pinches my nose, restricting my air intake, while a heavy shoulder presses into my back, holding me in place.
“Hold her fucking still.” A second assailant, his accent Irish, twists my hands away from my body, wrenching them behind my back, causing pain to skate through my shoulders so my wrists can get zip-tied together. “Took you fucking long enough to bring the trash out.” Shithead is annoyed.
Have they been watching me tonight? Were they drinking in the bar, overhearing me talking to Layken? Tonight isn’t my night to take the trash out. They had a heads-up it would be me.
Struggling for air, I’m beginning to fade, my body growing limp when the hand slides away, and all I can do is fill my lungs with oxygen instead of screaming blue murder.
After precious seconds, gulping oxygen, a strip of fabric gets tied tightly around my mouth, biting into the corners of my lips, allowing me to breathe, but silencing me. Then I’m blind-folded.
I can’t take two guys on in this position, so I wait precious seconds to see if the bastard holding me against the wall releases me, now that I’m zip-tied, gagged, blinded, and helpless.
Asshole number two retreats; his footsteps tell me he’s far enough away, responding on his phone with clipped words—nothing useful to make out.
I’m not ready to go down without a fight. It’s now or never. Mamma taught me to fight for my life if it ever got threatened. I’ve still got a pair of long legs in working order to use against these fuckers.
I forcefully let my body go limp, giving the impression I’m a weak damsel.
The boots I’m wearing have a decent heel that will do some damage.
It’s all I’ve got.
The pressure on my back loosens. Areshole-one is letting his guard down. I gauge where his foot should be, snapping my right foot backward, stomping down with all the strength I can muster, praying I can distract him with pain.
“Fuck… Bitch!” he curses loudly. My aim is true.
I’m out of time. I whip my head back, correctly calculating his head is lowered, hearing the satisfying crack of bone and cartilage.
“Motherfucking whore!” he growls.
I’m spinning around, blindly kicking out, scoring a goal, soccerballing my closest captor in his balls. Hard.
I hear him cry out before it sounds like he’s dropping to his knees.
But asshole-two is too quick for me. He’s already implementing Plan B. “Happy birthday, darlin’,” he says in an Irish accent before I hear the click of a trigger. “Sleep tight.”
Oh, shit!
I’m hit in the neck; my legs give out on me, but the pain isn’t what I expect, nor do I smell blood.
I’m falling slowly to the ground feeling woozy and disorientated, thinking jokes on you, my birthday is a week away as my knees fold underneath me, and I drop face-first onto the filthy alley ground.
My last flakey thought was of the guy I had just had the best sex of my life with upstairs in my apartment.
Fuck. My. Life!
2
King
Rolling over, discovering no naked Daisy next to me in bed, I realize I must have dozed off.
Checking the time on my phone, I realize it’s been roughly an hour since Daisy Duke left her apartment to do what she needed to do downstairs.
The fake name didn’t get lost on me. I was happy to play along because I wasn’t exactly honest about my name. Touché.
Daisy amused the hell out of me when she chose a character who worked in Boss Hogg’s bar in that old show from the ‘80s called The Duke’s of Hazzard. When in lockdown as a kid, I caught up on many old TV series’.
Daisy Duke wore tiny high-cut jean shorts in that show and a low-cut tank top. The bartender was taking the mickey out of herself as Hemsworth, my old friend, would say.
I think she wears her ‘Daisy Dukes’ better than the actress who played the part, and that’s saying something. The bartender’s ass is phenomenal.
I was looking forward to another round of sex with the silver-haired beauty before she climbed off my cock, announcing she had chores to do before getting dressed and letting me know the security system would be off. A definite hint I could leave while the coast was clear.
I’d been downing whiskey, flirting with the stunning bartender all night, hoping for a one-night stand. Nothing more. I needed a distraction, and Daisy filled the position—beautiful and clueless to who I am.
Fuck it! I’ve sobered up now—no need to hang around any longer. By now, Daisy’s probably waiting for me to leave so she can get back to bed.
I locate my clothing, carelessly spread about the neat bedroom discarded while we clawed at each other’s bodies. Once my black jeans and now creased white button-down is on, next up are my polished black shoes, opting to carry the formal black jacket folded over my arm.
I run a hand through my thick, dark hair to tame it into place before pulling my phone from an inside pocket of the jacket and call—“Hemsworth. Wait for me in the alleyway.” Then I disconnect, taking one last look around the bedroom to make sure I’ve not left anything behind.
I take the wooden staircase down two flights to the bar area, using the torch app on my phone to lead the way.
“Hello?” I call out.
There appears to be nobody around, but it is after four in the morning. The low lighting over the bar gives me enough light to see without my phone’s assistance, so I put it away.
I’m not one for skittering away in the night, afraid of a clingy female, so I plan to find Daisy and say goodnight. I had a good time with her.
I look around the bar and call out, “Daisy.” I’m loud enough to get her attention if she’s on this level.
There’s no response.
Light is glowing through the porthole of the swinging traffic door. She has to be here somewhere waiting for me to leave, which makes me want to confront her even more. It irks me to think she’s hiding from me because I don’t chase women, and this is what I am doing now.
I’ll try the back area. If she doesn’t answer me, I’ll leave via the back exit rather than a cop car driving past and catching me leaving out the front at this time of the morning. I don’t need that kind of attention.
I walk through the swinging doors, hoping she will pop up somewhere, but there’s nobody outback.
“Daisy!” I call louder.
Now I’m beginning to feel like a Grade-A fool. Has the bartender skipped out on me? Am I to believe she doesn’t want to face me.
I find the self-locking back door left ajar with a brick. The security system panel shows it’s not engaged for the night.
Well, if that doesn’t scream ‘show yourself out.’ She doesn’t want to confront me with awkward small-talk.
I walk through the steel door, swinging my jacket over my shoulder. “Daisy, I’m leaving now. You can shut the door yourself,” I holler, not expecting a reply but letting her know she can come out of hiding.
Perfect timing. Hemsworth is reversing the car into the alley.
When I reach the sleek, black, executive town car, Hemsworth is already standing beside the open passenger door in a full three-piece navy suit and tie, looking impeccable at this time of the hour. “Sir, did we have a good night?”
I nod before sliding into the backseat while Hemsworth closes my door, and I slump back against the leather seat, manspreading, trying to relax for the fifteen-minute drive.
Hemsworth’s behind the wheel looking in the rearview mirror at me. “Mr. King, home, sir?”
“Home,” I repeat, distracted with my thoughts of an ass born to wear Daisy Dukes and pissed off at myself for still thinking about her.
“May I ask, are you all right, sir? You seem bothered.” Hemsworth has worked for my family for forty-one years.
I lower the back window taking in the chilly night air to temper my annoyance at being dissed by this female when I hear a loud echoing bang.
“I want you to inquire at a more suitable time of the morning about the owner of Queenie’s Tavern and dig deep.”
“Thinking of acquiring it, sir?”
It depends. Daisy lives upstairs. She could be connected to the bar. “No.” I sigh. “I’m just curious.”
As Hemsworth starts to pull away, we are parallel with the dumpster. Two more bangs echo against the night.
Leaning toward the open window, I hear two more rapid, almost desperate sounding bangs.
“Hemsworth... STOP!”
My driver has the car parked and smoothly opening my door before I have my seatbelt off. “I heard it too, sir.” He’s got a can of pepper spray in his hand.
I lift an eyebrow as I step out of the car at his choice of weapon. “Planning on defending me against a dumpster?”
“You can never be too careful, sir.”
Bang... Bang… Bang… BANG!
A muffled scream has both of us scrambling to get the lid open on the dumpster and peering inside.
“Hemsworth, shine the torch on your phone inside while I take a closer look.”
I’m climbing over the edge just as Hemsworth gets enough light inside for us to see—“Daisy! Jesus—”
3
Queenie
I come to in complete darkness, feeling like my brain is mush.
Am I dead?
The thought makes me giggle because I’ve got pain in my shoulders, and there is an unpleasant stink surrounding me.
Am I in Hell?
I try moving, but all I do is fall sideways at an angle against something crunchy. This new position does not help the pain in my shoulders or the headache creeping up inside my head to let me know I am alive as my eyeballs start to throb from the ache.
I try to open my mouth to talk and realize it is bound tight.
My motion is sluggish, but I manage to feel around with my feet until I hit a metal side. Am I in the dumpster?
Inhaling through my nose, the stinky air and plastic rustling against my body make me think I am inside the dumpster.