by Liv Morris
By the last question, I feel like I’m hanging on by a thread, like my fingers are holding on precariously to the side of a cliff as the world of unemployment waits below to catch me.
“I have one more question for you today. We’re a tight-knit community here at Peachtree. What could you contribute to our school as an art teacher?”
I think I can answer this one honestly. No padding the response this time.
“People hang artwork on their walls. It beautifies their homes, makes them more welcoming. I’d like to bring that same feeling to Peachtree. Have the students here realize how much more beautiful our world is because of art and all its different forms.”
“Interesting. Can you be more specific? What exactly do you have in mind?”
“Well, football season begins the first week of school right?”
“That’s right. The guys have been doing morning practices since July.”
“Imagine the banners the art students can make for the games. Colorful, eye-catching. Artist meets Athlete. A good way to bring groups together.”
“I’d have to run that by the football coaches and the cheerleaders. They usually do all the banners for the football players. But who knows? They may welcome the chance to share.”
“Sure. It’s just one idea. There are so many other ways to bring art into the students’ everyday lives.” Here goes the close. The pitch. “I’d love the opportunity to do that at Peachtree.”
“You definitely have enthusiasm for your subject. It’s a good counterbalance for the lack of teaching experience you have.”
Ouch! And with those words, my heart sinks into a sea of disappointment. Ker plunk.
“Again, thank you for the opportunity to interview with you today, Mr. Reynolds.” He stands as I’m speaking. I expect him to move forward and escort me to the door like he did The Hair, but he remains planted, not moving a muscle toward me. Crap, this is bad.
I shake his hand while he says a quick goodbye and tells me, “We’ll call you later with our decision.”
Completely discouraged, I head out of the office and see Mrs. Peterson’s empty desk and I’m glad. I just don’t have it in me to force another smile on my face. Right now I’m trying to hold ugly crying at bay.
You may be wondering why someone like me, a qualified teacher with a master’s degree, is having such a hard time landing a job? The facts are hard to face. Across the country, art-teaching positions are almost impossible to come by because of budget cuts. Cost-saving measures by school boards all add up to few openings. Unfortunately, art departments are the first to land on the cutting floor when schools need to trim costs.
So it has come down to an art teacher actually winning the lottery for me to even secure an interview. Pathetic. There are times that I wish I were a science teacher like Priscilla. They’re actually in demand. A scarcity.
Once I make it out to my car, I crank up the A/C and drive back to Priscilla’s apartment. It totally sucks that she’s not here right now because I could really use a friend. A shoulder to cry on and a drinking buddy would be great.
As I’m pulling into her apartment complex, I see a small bar across the street from the entrance. That’s when inspiration hits me. I need some liquid encouragement. Pronto!
Chapter 3
Once inside her apartment, I quickly shed my interview attire. I decide on clothes more appropriate for this sweltering heat and hanging out at a dive bar. Now I’m wearing white, short shorts, a breezy aqua-colored sleeveless top, and a pair of sexy, gladiator-looking sandals, the ones with all the leather strings that wrap around the ankles. They also look great with togas. Think Animal House.
At this point in my story, it’s important to clarify that drinking before noon isn’t my normal behavior or routine. But you know how my morning has gone. Straight down the crapper. So, hopefully, you can understand my need to get a little buzz going.
If my mother knew what I was up to she’d kill me. Heading off to a neighborhood bar by myself no matter the time of day, isn’t what a young woman raised in Augusta, Georgia, does. Oh well, I’m not in Augusta anymore. Thank God.
After locking up the apartment and donning my favorite sunglasses, I head back out into the bright midday sun. One good thing about Joe’s Gather’n Place, the bar across the street, I can crawl home if need be. No driving necessary.
Heading toward the bar’s entrance, I cross the street and feel the pavement heat radiating up around me. It’s going to be a scorcher today. Gravel dust stirs as I walk through the small parking lot. I finally arrive at the door, grab the tarnished brass handle, and tug on it. The hinges let out a protest as I walk into the darkened bar. The door shuts behind me. All sunlight disappears. It’s like walking into a cave. I remove my sunglasses, but my eyes still have a hard time adjusting to the darkness.
Finally, I see the beer signs illuminated above the long, wooden bar to my left. The neon lights beckon me to belly up and partake. I select the stool the farthest from the door, not sure why, but I guess I’m not really in the mood to socialize. Which isn’t a problem as there’s no one here but the old bartender. He has to be pushing seventy. Maybe he’s Joe, the bar’s namesake.
“Welcome, Miss,” the old-timer greets me. His smile shows he’s missing one of his front teeth. Poor guy.
“Hello,” I answer back.
“What can I get ya?” he asks. “Something to drink?”
“Definitely something to drink.” I’m just not sure what my poison should be. It’s about high-up noon, so I can move past the morning standards of Bloody Marys or Mimosas. “I’d like a vodka tonic. In a tall glass with lots of ice, please.”
“One vodka tonic coming up for the pretty lady.” He ends with a little wink. What a flirt and I have to laugh.
“Are you always this busy around here?” I joke.
“This place is usually pretty crowded at lunch. Must be the heat.” I watch him pour a scary amount of vodka into my glass. I need to eat something if I plan to drink this much or I’ll be sliding off the stool onto the floor after two drinks.
“Lunch? So you serve food too?” I ask.
“Been told that our hamburgers and fries are the best in the area.” He puffs out his chest and boasts. “Have folks coming from all around here for them.”
“Sounds good to me.” My neglected stomach starts to rumble. I was too nervous to even think about food before the interview. “I’ll have burger with cheese and can you—”
As I’m getting ready to ask the man to hold the onion, the door squeaks and light floods in from the outside. It’s blinding as I turn my head to see it flood through the door. But what catches my eye is the shape of the man standing there. The sunshine streams around the darkness of his form, almost looking like it’s jetting out of his body’s edge. He appears to be glowing. It reminds of a scene you might see in a western movie. The outlaws are at the local saloon, hiding away at the bar, and in walks the sheriff. A dramatic moment.
When the door closes behind him, all I can make out is his height. He’s a giant but, damn, my eyes are not working right. The shock of light from outside blinds me again and they need to readjust.
The silhouette of the man begins moving toward the bar where I’m sitting. He walks toward me taking long strides. Before I know it he’s actually standing one place away from me at the bar. I find this interesting, as there are about ten empty stools to my left. But when my eyes start focusing clearly again, I’m damn glad he’s close by because he’s as hot as the dashboard of my car on a sunny summer day. Burn your fingers when you touch him hot. Sizzling. Lucky me.
I’m guessing he’s at least 6’3.” Towering tall. He’s more a presence then a mere man, the kind that turns your head and makes your eyes follow. Muscled arms press against the sleeves of his gray t-shirt, the material also stretches tightly across his large chest and shoulders.
He sports a pair of cargo shorts. I’m not normally a shorts fan for guys, but I get a little peak of hi
s thighs along with his toned calves. I gulp down a bit more of my drink. Damn, his body has more definitions than a dictionary.
“Afternoon, Coop.” The old man greets the guy who decides to perch himself one empty stool away from me. Seems safe to guess his name is Coop too.
“Afternoon, Joe. What’s up?” Whoa, the way this Coop guy speaks gets my attention. His deep voice is commanding. Confident.
“I was just taking this lovely lady’s order for a burger.” The old man tilts his head my way. “Tell her about them, Coop. I think she’s a first timer.”
And just like that, Coop and I begin engaging with one another. Thoughts of food or the old man standing in front of me fade away when this guy named Coop turns toward me.
I bite my lip waiting for the full view of him as he slowly turns his head. Anticipation builds. I notice his eyes first. He looks directly into mine. Consuming. I feel this strange flutter in my stomach and my breathing stops. It’s an unusual and intense connection and he doesn’t break it by looking away. His gaze is keeping me paralyzed, pinned to my stool. Add his high cheekbones, the light stubble outlining a razor sharp jawline and he looks like a model in GQ. He’s a total panty-soaking machine.
The bar is too dark for me to make out the exact color of his eyes, but they appear almost black, piercing. Like they know unspoken things about me. It’s unnerving, really. Then he takes his sweet time while giving me the once, then twice over. When he’s finally finished perusing me, my skin feels sunburned, overheated.
“Hi there.” His words float on a cloud of lust to my ears. Sexy just isn’t a big enough word to describe him. I find myself shivering like a cold blast just ran over my skin. It’s so bizarre. I’ve gone from hot flashes to chills in seconds. No other guy has gotten this reaction out of me. Never… Who is this dude?
“Hi there.” I’m doing a great job as his echo.
“So you’re new here?”
“I’m not even new. More of an interloper,” I finish with a little chuckle.
“An interloper?” He appears amused as his smile appears a bit crooked, like he’s trying to figure me out.
“Yes. I’m up here from Augusta. Had a job interview this morning.” I turn to my vodka. I need some liquid courage and my mouth is parched, dry, unlike my panties. I take a healthy swig and continue. When I turn back to him, he still has that amused smirk on his face. It’s cute. Don’t get me wrong. He’s still as sexy as sin but, hell, there’s something endearing about his smirk… It’s like he’s transformed into this adorable, young boy mixed with a little orneriness. The pull your sister’s pigtails kind.
“So, a job interview? I’m thinking it didn’t go so well. Right?” Spot on, Sherlock.
“You must read minds.” My sarcasm answers his question.
“Sorry about that.” I examine his face to see if he seems sincere. His dark eyes have softened and to my surprise, I think he’s truly sympathetic. Honestly sorry. Rather refreshing.
“Thanks. It was beyond bad.” I hold up my vodka toward him. “I wouldn’t be sitting here drinking by myself this early in the day if I’d hit a slam dunk.”
He scoots over my way. Now he’s sitting on the stool next to me. We’re side-by-side now. He swivels his body toward me, and I feel his knee touch mine, knee-to-knee, skin-to-skin and I shiver.
“Well, I think we should do what we can to turn this day around for you…?” He ends with his brow raised in question. I’m deducting that he wants my name.
This is tricky for me. Do I tell him Amelia or Millie? I only have seconds to ponder this. I’m thinking Millie. It’s casual. We’re in a dive bar. The nickname is used mostly by my friends. I want to be his friend or get friendly with him. Easy guess on which one I use.
“I’m Millie.” I shamelessly bat my eyelashes at Coop. Remember, I’m drinking on an empty stomach and my first vodka tonic is now all ice. My normal restraints are falling down. “And thanks. It’s been a rough day.”
“Well, the day is young. I bet we can turn it around.” The word “we” makes me want to scoot closer to him. Have more than just our knees touching. And guess what? I do…
“I like that idea.” I want to add “and you,” but refrain. I need to ease into flirting even if I’m totally okay with him easing into my panties. My naughty thoughts make me snicker as I’m not usually this much of a bad girl.
“All right then. We have a plan,” Coop commands and I melt. “Make Millie another one of what ever she’s having, Joe. I’ll have my standard.”
“Coming up.” Joe takes my glass and tosses the melting ice into a sink. “You still want that burger, young lady?”
“If I’m going to have another drink, yes, I better.” I’m really feeling buzzed at this point. The carbfest from last night’s pizza seems to be long gone.
“Have the cook throw one on the grill for me too,” Coop adds.
“So where were we?” Coop says winking at me. I feel my face flushing turning red. “Helping Millie forget about her shitty morning. That’s my game plan now. Are you okay with that?”
All I can do is nod my head and wonder what he means by game plan. But regardless, I’m totally on his team and shaking my pom poms while cheering, “Go Coop!” I’d be okay if he wanted to round a few bases with me too. A home run might be pushing it though.
“Sure, I’m game.” And with that comment, my life forever changes.
Chapter 4
One thing leads to another. One drink becomes too many to count. And before I know it, I’m in big trouble with a capital T. R. O. U. B. L. E.
I’ll spare you the mundane details and go straight to the sordid ones. They’re what you want to know about, right? Do I hear an, “Amen, sister?” Yes, I think I do.
It’s now pushing three in the afternoon, and I’ve sufficiently soaked myself with enough vodka to prune a pickle. Joe’s bar has had a few more folks drop by for the day, but Coop and I are in our own little bubble at the bar, chatting, flirting, and drinking. Finally, he makes his move, steps up to bat, goes for a home run.
“Whatta ya say we go back to my place?” He speaks with a voice that makes me melt like butter over hot toast. He’s so smooth. And I fear this means he’s had some major practice with that line. Like there’s a bevy of babes strung across Atlanta who have heard this same question and most likely have succumbed.
In my drunken haze, I try but can’t look away from his eyes as they blaze with lust at me. Millie. The girl next door who’s now being asked by a hot piece of ass to go home with him. It’s decision time and I decide right then that I need to go visit the ladies’ room, needing to regroup or possibly throw up if my head doesn’t stop spinning.
“Hold that question, Coop. I’ll be right back.” My words sound slurred even to my own ears. Placing my hand on his hard as a rock forearm, I start to rise off the barstool. “Could you point me in the direction of the ladies’ room?”
“Back through the hallway on the right.” He seems disappointed. Undoubtedly, it’s not the answer he usually hears.
“Thanks. I’ll be right back.”
“And I’ll be waiting for that answer, baby.”
Holy shit… That little endearment and my vodka’ed blood make me almost fall to my knees where I stand. But I pause, smile at him and head to the restroom. As I make my way to it, I can feel his eyes perusing my backside. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t add a little more sway to my hips.
Once inside, I handle my business quickly and do what every girl should do when faced with a decision like this: call a girlfriend.
“Hey, Millie. How’d the inter—”
“Oh, my God!” I completely interrupt. “Priscilla, you’re never going to believe where I am.”
“In Atlanta still, I hope.”
“Yes, but I’m across the street from your apartment building at that dive bar, Joe’s Place”
“Wait. What are you doing there? Are you by yourself?” She sounds worried but I continue on.
“Well, yes and no. The interview went horrible. Terrible.” I have difficulty pronouncing those last two words. Too many “B’s.”
“Oh no. What happened?”
“’The Hair’ totally has the job, not me.”
“Millie, you’re not making a lick of sense right now. And who’s ‘The Hair’? Have you been drinking? For Christ’s sake it’s only a little after three!”
“I’ve been drinking, maybe even a tad tipsy, but I’ve run into the hunk of all hunks here. Coop the Divine.”
“Now you’re really worrying me. So you’ve just met this guy. There at Joe’s?”
“Yes. He’s a regular here. Tall and gorgeous. Built. I think he likes me too.”
“Of course he likes you. You’re the hottest friend I have. Uber sexy. That was said in a non-lesbian way, okay?”
“You’re so funny. I’m not even a little sexy.” I lean against the sink to steady myself. No more drinks for me. “I just wanted to let you know who I was with in case things heat up and I’m never heard from again. He’s asked me to go back to his place.”
“Oh, Millie. I don’t think that’s a good idea. You really don’t know who this guy is, you’re drunk, and it’s only three in the afternoon.” She pauses and I hear her sigh. “And if he’s as hot as you say, I think your ‘never sleep together on the first date’ streak will be over.”
“He seems like a nice guy, though. Joe, the old bar guy, knew him by name. Anyway, he’s been trying to cheer me up after the interview from hell.”
“I don’t like this at all, Millie. Please be careful. If I don’t hear from you in a couple hours I’m calling this Joe guy.”
“I promise to call. And what can happen to me in broad daylight?”
“A lot, believe me.” There seems to be a bit of “been there, done that” in Priscilla’s words.
“I’ll be careful.” Deep down inside I’m not sure that’s the truth. “Okay?”
“Okay.” She appears to throw in the towel on talking me out of going home with him. “Remember, call me or else.”