Sasha (Mixed Drinks #1)

by Rae Matthews

  Sasha

  Copyright © 2014 Rae Matthews

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at rae.matthews@aol.com.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  This book is intended for a mature audiences.

  Edited by: Missed Period Editing

  Formatted By: Champagne Formats

  Cover Design: Wicked By Design

  Author Photo by: BC Fotos

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  To my B.B.C. girls... May your wood always be certified

  WHEN YOU FALL IN LOVE for the first time with someone, it’s a feeling like no other. You prance around with a shit-eating grin on your face, feeling like the whole world revolves around just the two of you. You don’t care that you haven’t seen your family and your friends in weeks, or the light of day for that matter; you just want to spend every waking moment with that person. You want him to hold you in his arms and pretend that real life is a dream, and that laying here in bed with just him is the reality. Cloud nine has nothing on the feeling of true love, right?

  That is, until the moment the world comes crashing down around you when you once again realize that true love is actually a giant heap of dog shit. You know the kind; the large, stinky ones that when you step in the big steaming pile, it’s not just your shoes that are ruined, but your whole damn week is over, too. Because no matter how many times you scrub down in the shower, you just can’t seem to get that smell out of your nose. You suddenly remember that in a real world relationship, the super awesome, happily-ever-after bullshit that the cartoons and romantic comedies shove down our throats about the magic of love at first sight, true love, and the man that is too gorgeous for his own good are really just big fat lies, told to sell movie tickets. To gullible idiots like me.

  My name is Sasha Michaels, and I’m twenty-four years old. I live in the not too big yet not too small city of La Crosse. That’s in Wisconsin, for anyone who is geographically challenged like me. It’s a beautiful area, located right on the Mississippi River between scenic bluffs. It’s a pretty typical Midwestern community, but what do I know about typical? I’ve never really been anywhere else, except for a short trip to Mexico with my best friends last year, but that doesn’t exactly make me an expert on human dwellings in the developed world.

  Here in La Crosse, we hold a festival for just about anything; we have a Corn Fest, June Dairy Days, Irish Fest, and the Famous Oktoberfest to name just a few. Basically, the festivals really just exist to give everyone an excuse to celebrate and party it up, Wisconsin-style. And don’t let me forget to mention... La Crosse has the proud honor of housing the world’s largest six-pack, holding 22,220 barrels of beer, thanks to the local brewery. In case you’re wondering how big that is, picture a two story building that is actually shaped like a six-pack of beer, complete with logos painted on it. The cans are actually holding tanks filled with real beer; pretty exciting stuff if you ask a tourist.

  But back to the falling in love crap. My mom always says that although the cartoon fairytale is not real life, you can find your knight in shining armor; you just have to be willing to get your heart broken a few times until he comes along to rescue you. Well mom, he better get off his lazy (and hopefully rich) ass and rescue me soon, or I think I may just have to become a nun.

  Oh, who am I kidding? I would be about as good at being a nun as Whoopi Goldberg was in Sister Act, but without the ability to sing or save the day. I would run to the nearest bar and drink as much as I could, then proceed to show my boobs to whoever would look in the hopes that they would kick me out of the nunnery. Not that my two besties, Megan and Sadie, would ever let me join a convent anyway. Megan, Sadie, and I have been best friends ever since I got custody of them in the break-up with one of my previous boyfriends, Tim.

  Five years ago, Tim and I met at a local eighteen and over hangout. We hit it off, hot and heavy. As in, take me out to your truck and fuck me now. In my defense, my self-control didn’t stand a chance when I saw his hazel eyes staring at me from across the dance floor. He started to walk towards me, and I could see his tan, muscular arms screaming inside his tight white T-shirt. Not to mention, the bulge in is pants was calling my name.

  “Sasha! Sasha, let me out and play with me, and I will make you come like never before.”

  I have, or should I say did have a strict, no sex on the first date policy. But it wasn’t really a date since we had just met, so it didn’t count. Or so I told myself the next day, when I woke up remembering the field trip to the parking lot to see if the little man could really live up to my fantasy. Unfortunately, it was not as great as I had hoped.

  After starting off on the wrong foot with Tim “I recall him fumbling for his keys like a 16 year old boy about to lose his virginity, then him kissing me like he wanted to eat my face” I should have seen the signs telling me to slam on the brakes right then. But it had been almost a year since my last roll in the hay, so I was horny as hell, and thought he would make up for it when we got down to it. As we quickly undressed our lower halves, I was disappointed to see that the bulge was not as impressive as I had hoped, but it was still adequate. And then it happened: Orgasm, party of one, please exploded between our bodies, and I realized that I was not the one invited. He was very sweet and apologetic about his early finish though, and not a jerk that got what he was after, so I chalked my lack of an orgasm up to a seat belt buckle being lodged in a not so nice place, and thought he was at least worthy of a call back for a second chance.

  Tim called the next afternoon and took me out on a real first date that night to Top Shots, the local pool hall. He was a perfect gentleman the whole night, not even once alluding to the fact that he had already seen me naked and was just there to see it again later. Tim really had me fooled; he opened the doors for me, showed interest in what I had to say, and didn’t even look at another chick while we were together. I was hooked...even if he wasn’t all that great in the sack; I figured that could always be an acquired skill. I was once again entangled in the new relationship fog and could not see anything but him and hi
s potential.

  Long story short, I became fast friends with Megan and Sadie after meeting them at one of Tim’s parties. They were dating Tim’s friends, Matt and Will, and were part of the social group I was eager to join. A year or so later, Megan, Sadie, and I were out to dinner when they surprised me with a rather odd question.

  “So, Sadie and I were wondering, what’s it like being in an open relationship?” Megan blurted. I could see them both fidgeting and eagerly awaiting my answer, as if I had the inside scoop on the next winning lottery ticket numbers or something.

  My jaw dropped. I’m sure I looked like a deer in headlights, as I had no idea what they were talking about. Tim and I had been dating at that point for a year and a half, and had just gotten an apartment together. As far as I knew, it was just Tim and I in a monogamous relationship, heading down the road to our own version of happily ever after.

  “Um...What?! What The hell are you talking about? I’m not in an open relationship!” I yelled.

  Megan and Sadie were now in extreme panic mode, fumbling over their next words. That was obviously not the answer they were looking for. We had agreed a while back not to gossip about our relationships because we didn’t want all that drama in our circle of friends. I’m now regretting that pact, because I probably would have learned of Tim’s shenanigans much sooner.

  I got no real information from them. Apparently everyone thought Tim and I had an open relationship because Tim would hook up with random whores from time to time and tell everyone else that I knew about them and was totally on board with it. Needless to say, the world soon came crashing down around me, and the hunt for my knight was on, again. After castrating Tim, of course.

  Working Sundays at the Broken Jukebox was something I looked forward to all week. I’ve been bartending there for the last five years, and it is currently my only source of income. Wayne, the owner and his wife, Cici are really some of the best people you could meet, and the best employers I’ve ever had. They’ve been giving me as many hours as I can handle during the week, and don’t mind when my friends hang out there on Sunday afternoons. As long as the customers come first, they always say.

  Wayne and Cici gave me a chance after I lost my last job at a dive bar downtown. I was a waitress there, and I got fired after I told the owner where to go when he told me I had to wear his new uniform. I refused to work in a mini skirt that showed my ass cheeks, and a tank top that left very little to the imagination. I had never bartended before, but it’s in my blood, so I picked it up pretty quickly. My dad owned a neighborhood bar and sold it when I was two. He talked about The Duck Inn often, how people of all ages would come in and have a good time. It was more than a bar, he would say, it was like hanging out at your friend’s house. He even met my mom there.

  Anytime the bar or jail was brought up in conversation, we would all hear the story of how they met. “You know, the only time I’ve been to jail was the night I met your mother,” he would say to me. Then he would continue on about the night the most beautiful woman walked in into his bar and changed his life. My mom and her friend had just moved into the apartment building next door and came over for a late dinner after unpacking, but my dad didn’t know that at the time. My dad waited on them all night. When the time came for last call, well, he never called it, and just stayed open, not wanting my mom to leave before he had a chance to ask her out. Why he didn’t just ask for her number and get on with it, I will never understand, but he claims he was shy. Anyway, the cops eventually came to shut him down for the night, but my dad being the ‘tough guy’ that he is, smarted off to the cops and landed himself in jail for the night. I really wish he hadn’t sold The Duck Inn so I could have seen it in all its glory.

  Over the last few years, as Megan and Sadie got busy with their careers and boyfriends, it got harder to find time to hang out together. I, being the lowly bartender, and again without a boyfriend, my calendar was pretty wide open. We did manage to find time to hang out on Sundays while I worked at the bar. Sundays were always slow days. Normally there were just the old time regulars, stopping in for the one-dollar tap beer special. This left us with plenty of time to catch up with each other, and gossip about the world.

  Megan and Sadie showed up earlier than usual today, only because they were eager to hear about my latest break-up with Dave, so it doesn’t surprise me when they walk through the door while I was still working on the morning to-do list. Dave and I met at the grocery store a few weeks ago; a nice change from the drunken idiots I normally meet at work. He seemed super nice, and his gorgeous ass didn’t hurt, either. We talked for a few minutes about baked beans, randomly, and chuckled when we both realized it had to have been the most ridiculous conversation in the world. So when he asked for my number, I happily gave it. I mean, if you can have an accidental conversation about farting beans with a hot guy and he still wants your number, he has to be a good one. Right?

  Well, you would be wrong. I start to tell the girls about my encounter last weekend, and how I originally thought it was so sweet that Dave came over to help me do some cleaning before we had planned to catch a movie. I didn’t even think it was odd when he offered to do my laundry for me, even though we had only been seeing each other a few weeks. That is, until I walked into the laundry room of my apartment building and caught him huffing my panties. It wasn’t like he was trying to read the washing directions label and I misunderstood the situation. Oh, no. He was taking in deep breaths, while my bright pink, lacy Victoria’s Secret panties were wrapped around his face, and his hand was down his pants. I, of course, screamed bloody murder, as if my panties were my best friend, and he was attacking her. He jumped halfway across the room in shock, ripping the panties from his face and fumbling over his words, trying to come up with some valid excuse for what I had just seen. I can only assume that he thought the laundry room’s door was locked.

  In reality, the building’s maintenance man jammed the lock because Betty, the little old lady who lived next door in apartment seven, kept locking herself in by ‘mistake.’ Personally, I think she was sitting on the dryer having a good ole time, and she didn’t want to be interrupted. Then she would be so flustered that she couldn’t work the lock to get out. Betty’s husband had died two years ago. I felt really bad for her, because they had one of those magical marriages. I mean, any couple that has been together for fifty years and can still get it on has to have some magic involved; but that’s a whole other story.

  I screamed for Dave to leave immediately, and with a bright red face, he scrambled for the door, panties in hand. I threw my arm out to stop him. “Um, I think those belong to me, thank you very much,” I said to him, avoiding eye contact.

  “Oh yeah um, I, um, well you see, um-” he mumbled. I grabbed the panties and motioned for him to leave; reminding him as he left that a follow up phone call was not needed. Or wanted.

  So now that the girls were caught up on the madness that is my life, and equally as grossed out as I was, it was time to give Dave his nickname. Sadie looks like she is about to burst into laughing tears as Megan starts rattling off things like, Sir smells a lot, Mr. Snifferson, Davy Crotchsniff. They just kept coming. I finally had to walk away to catch my breath. As I return with a fresh soda for each of us, Sadie and Megan are still rattling off potential names, I let them keep going for a few minutes then finally I interrupt and say,

  “Ok, that’s it, let’s just keep this simple. Dave shall forever be known as ‘The Huffer’. I don’t think we can get any simpler than that.” We continue to laugh like hyenas before finally calming down. Renaming my past boyfriends has always been a favorite pastime of ours. Why not give them a more fitting name, because who really needs to remember the guy’s real name? You want a name to remind you why it didn’t work, so at three in the morning on a drunken, horny night you don’t call him. Thinking you made a mistake. In this case, The Huffer left no room for regret.

  Whenever e W Whenever we needed a good laugh we would walk down the m
emory lane of assorted ex-boyfriends that I have acquired over the last five years. One favorite among my ex’s was Mr. Wiggles. He wiggled and squirmed so much during sex, it was like he was running away from the vagina that was about to eat him. Then there was Sniffles, who cried after sex because he was just so happy to have shared an experience like that together. And of course, I can never forget the Minute Man. I know it’s not a very original name, but when the title fits, you just have to go with it.

  I just don’t get it. I meet a guy, and hit it off. He seems like he’s a great guy, and when I finally decide to go to the next level and sleep with him, it all goes wrong. Maybe I should just marry my vibrator. I know it will never disappoint me in bed, never talk back, and never ever huff my panties.

  As the afternoon went on, a few customers came and left, but for most of the day I had only one real customer in the bar other than my girls. His name was George, and he was somewhere in his mid to late 70’s. He normally kept to himself, and he came in every Sunday like clockwork. George would enter through the side door with his oxygen tank, grab a seat in the middle of the bar, and ask for his regular glass of Blatz beer, tipping me a dime for my trouble. Today, I kept his glass full for most of the afternoon, which was a little out of the ordinary since he would normally leave after two or three glasses. When I went to refill his beer for what I thought was the tenth time, I thought that I should ask him if everything was ok.

  “Hey George ready for another one?”

  “Yeah, better give me one more,” he replied.

  That was a favorite saying among the old guys. As if to imply that if they didn’t have one more round, then the world as we knew it would somehow come to a screeching halt.

  “So, George, is everything ok? You’re joining us longer today than usual.” I ask, giving him a smile.

  “Ah, they took my driver’s license away Wednesday. Said I was a danger to myself and others,” George bellowed out.

  “Oh no, I’m so sorry to hear that.” I say softly, and with real empathy for his situation. I’m not sure what I would do without my car.