by Adele Hart
We have a cozy-yet-airy house right on the beach where the kids can run around and play and swim, and we can watch the sun go down every night. My parents have taken a long time to accept Mac and our life together, but after Nicholas was born, they saw how Mac puts me first every chance he gets, and they started to come around—especially my mom. I found them a great vacation home here on the island where they spend several months a year.
They just left last week, so we won’t see them for four months, which is okay with me. As much as I enjoy having them here, I love our life together with just the four of us so much, that I miss it when people come to visit. Today is going to be another perfect day. We’re going eat a leisurely breakfast on the veranda, then go for a lazy walk along the beach with the kids. They’ll body surf in the waves and dig for crabs with their bare hands. They never catch anything, but they sure have fun trying. Later, Mac and I will cook a big meal together, and after we eat, we’ll watch a movie with the kids, then get them tucked into bed, so I can keep Mac up late again tonight. I’ve got something particularly fun planned for him this evening, and just the thought of it has me grinning.
THE END
Choose Me-Sneak Peek
Chapter One
Erica
My new boss stands rigid beside me, the cords of his neck stretch tight enough to pop. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Sharing.” First day on the job and I am already in trouble. I bolt to a standing position and hand the box of wings to Kai’s mother.
“Don’t feed them, they’re like stray cats, if you feed them they’ll never leave.” Larry Feeble stands at the back door of the bar and shoos the mother and her little boy away. Little Kai looks over his shoulder, his lips are circled in ketchup, and his eyes are vacant. “I don’t give you an employee meal so you can waste it.” Acrid smoke slipped between Larry’s tobacco-stained teeth.
I bite my lips closed to silence the response bubbling in my throat. There is no point in arguing. Men like Larry have no idea what it’s like to be hungry.
I lift my chin and release my lips into a smile. It is the kind of smile that shouts, you’re an asshole on the inside, but when paired with a tilt of the head, it comes across as genuine gratitude. “Thanks for the meal.”
Kai is no more than five-years-old, but if his life doesn’t change soon, he’ll have to master that look to survive. The world is tough enough as it is, the poor kid doesn’t need to face it hungry.
Larry’s beer belly indicates that he’s never been hungry a day in his life.
“I found a nametag for you to wear.” He reaches below the roll of fat and into the soiled pocket of his jeans to pull out a plastic tag. The name Betty is written across it in bold, black letters.
“Betty?” I’ve been called many things in my life, but Betty was never one of them. “As in Paige?”
“This is a theme bar, sweetheart. You wear the wig. You wear the outfit. You wear the name.” He tosses his cigarette to the ground and stamps it out with his dime-store flip-flops. “Break’s over.”
It is nearing eight o’clock, the time Alana says things start hopping. When I reenter the bar, I find her stocking the liquor shelf with glasses, and bottles of tequila, and whiskey.
“You look great in dark hair.” She reaches up and tucks a stray hair back into the wig she loaned me. Hell, the whole outfit is borrowed. Everything from the siren red lipstick down to the pretty little heels that pinch my toes are hers. She supplied everything, even the job. “How’d you get all your hair into that wig?”
“Apparently, I didn’t.” I run my fingers around the netted edge to make sure there are no other escapees. “But what I did get into the cap is held up with a dozen or so bobby pins that are digging into my scalp. Maybe I should cut my hair?”
She gasps, “Don’t ever say that. You’re like Samson with that hair. Cutting it off would ruin your luck.”
“You’re right.” I shake my head and laugh. “Without bad luck, I’d have no luck at all.”
She plops her round tray on the bar in front of me. “I need two light beers and three shots of Jack.” She grabs a wad of napkins and stocks her tray. “Are you going be okay tonight?”
Beer and shots are easy, it’s the mixed drinks I worry about. I studied a bartender’s guide all week to learn the most commonly requested drinks, and since this is a forty’s themed bar, I studied up on cocktails like the Sidecar and the Manhattan—favorites from that era. “I got it, and if I don’t, I’ll use this.” I pull my phone from the side pocket of the ridiculous red polka dot dress. “Did you know there’s a mixology app?”
Alana shrugs. “Doesn’t surprise me. There seems to be an app for everything.”
“If only that was true. I wouldn’t be in the position I’m in now.” I can think of a few apps that could come in handy. An asshole detector app would be beneficial. One, that when placed in front of a man and activated, would scan his brain for attributes like sincerity, sense of humor, compassion. Hell, even scanning for brain activity could be useful. What about an app that rates bedroom skills? Manners? Intentions? There is a lot a girl can learn from the right app.
Alana looks around the room of testosterone mixed with a bit of estrogen. “I was talking about them.” She nods toward the room full of military guys.
I pull the tap and fill two frosted mugs. Pouring beer is an art form that requires the perfect amount of foam. I read that men are particular about the amount of head they receive. No surprise there.
“I don’t have to like them, I have to serve them.”
“You can’t judge all men by the misdeeds of a few.” Alana adjusts her breasts and pastes on a smile before she turns and heads toward the group of men standing by the jukebox. V-Day is perfectly located outside the gates of Hickam Air Force Base and Pearl Harbor, now a joint base. I thought that mixing the two services would be like kenneling a dog with a cat, but it seems to work out for everybody, especially Larry. He supplies the booze. The bases supply the soldiers and sailors. They supply the cash. Everyone is happy.
Off to the right, a group of sailors approach the bar. I don’t know if it is a sixth sense or what, but it is easy for me to tell the difference between services. Maybe it’s the gleam in their eyes or … it could be the anchor tattoo most of them sport. Sailors are rugged—grittier than flyboys. “What’s it going to be, boys?” I fold my arms under my chest and lift the girls, making them appear ready to topple over the low-cut neckline. Alana swears the way to an overflowing pocketbook starts with overflowing cleavage. By the bug-eye look of my newest patrons I have to agree.
“Tequila. Keep ‘em coming.” Four shot glasses line the counter in front the men. I carefully fill each to the mark so Larry doesn’t complain to me that I’m giving his bar away for free.
He hovered over me for the first hour of my shift. That was until Alana handed him a near empty scotch bottle and told him it was under control. He disappeared into his office only to reappear at the end of my break.
My thoughts go back to Kai and his mother, Jillian. Where will they stay tonight? What will they eat tomorrow? My stomach growls at the thought of food. One wing and a fry don’t fill me up, but I’m not at risk of starvation.
“Smile,” Alana says. She is back with her tray and her next order. I look over her shoulder. The last pool table is now occupied by new arrivals—Air Force guys, if my guess is right. I swear they all went to the same barber—some guy that trims their hair one strand at a time to get the perfect look. Never too long. Never too short. Just above the collar, but still within regulation. Damn sexy if you like guys in uniform. Not me, I swore them off for life.
Next to the new arrivals stand a group of wallflower women, they lean against the jukebox waiting to be noticed. My eyes skirt the room and then come back to my best friend.
“Sorry.” I clear my head with a shake. “Deep in thought.” The presence of women means my bartending skills will be put to the test. Girls don’t order d
rinks straight up, they order drinks with cutesy names and a ton of ingredients. Alana asks for Two Screaming Orgasms and a Sex On The Beach. I’ve never had either in the figurative or literal sense. Hope springs eternal. I pull the vodka and peach schnapps from the shelf and grab the cranberry and orange juice from the refrigerator.
“Did you get the utility thing figured out?” She plucks maraschino cherry from a nearby container and pops it into her mouth. The guy at the end of the bar watches with rapt attention while she rolls and twirls it between her lips. It disappears, and in its place, comes out a stem tied into a knot. He bites his lip and tosses her a five-dollar bill. Note to self … work on that skill.
“I did that thing where I wrote a check to the gas and electric company, and then I put them in the wrong envelopes on purpose before I mailed them. I figure that should give me a week or so to come up with a plan or learn to love candied cherries.” I nod toward the guy at the end who seems to be waiting for round two. “They’ll either think I’m an idiot, or they’ll catch on to me since I did the same thing a few months ago.”
“I think you’re a genius.”
I garnish the frou frou drinks with cherries, which excites Mr. Fiver on the end. I’m pretty sure if one of those wallflower girls has even a tenth of Alana’s oral skills, she’ll be set for the night.
Chapter Two
Cade
There are only two reasons a man would come to a bar like V-Day. One is to get drunk, the other is to get laid. Every guy inside will give you a hundred reasons for being here. Justifications range from meeting with buddies, to liking the food, but not one of them will tell you the truth.
With its flashing, pink neon V, sitting prominently on the rooftop, next to the nose of a plane buried wing-deep in a mock up hangar, the place screams sex. Men don’t come here for the burgers, they come here for whiskey and women, in that order.
My eyes adjust to the darkness as my ears tune into the sounds of big band music coming from the jukebox in the corner. The smell of chicken wings and sweet perfume float through the air.
This hangout is never a disappointment. There is a bar and a bevy of beauties, which makes achieving the top two objectives not only possible, but probable on any given night.
“Cade, over here.” Blake yells from the corner. Mike, Josh, and Dan stand nearby chalking up their cues. A pile of twenties sits on the green felt of the pool table waiting for the DD to be chosen. Most call that person the designated driver, but that’s not how we roll. We call the chosen one the designated dick because that’s what he needs to be to survive. It is his job to stay sober, pay the bill, and make sure everyone lives through the night.
The practice started after Blake got wasted and disappeared for a day. The base was notified when he was found lying passed out and naked on Waikiki beach. Needless to say, his call sign changed from Badger to Streak.
“I refuse to be the DD tonight.” I toss two twenties on the felt and pull the single sheet of paper from my back pocket.
“It’s official,” I wave my divorce paper around like a victory banner—one little piece of paper that was more of a starting point than a finishing line. I have a new beginning, a new life, a new vision for myself. I slap the folded sheet onto the pool table feeling like I’ve been pardoned. “I’m single,” I shout.
Several women crane their necks to see who’s yelling. I shake my head. Note to self, stay away from the right side of the room. That’s where the Hickam Harem leans against the wall to scout out new recruits. They are much like the Puget Debs from An Officer and a Gentleman—women who are looking for a man to save them. I am no one’s savior.
“It’s about damn time.” Blake shoves a mug of beer into my hand and raises his glass in a toast. “To a weekend of drinking and debauchery.”
This side of the room rings out in robust affirmation. Dan racks the balls while I take in the surrounding scene. The place is crawling with women. It is a regular smorgasbord. Short, tall, blonde, brunette, young, old, plain, and tatted. There is even a girl sporting a mane of spiky green hair, but she isn’t for me. My attention goes straight to the bar where Betty Boop leans over the counter. Her breasts spill from the top of her red polka dot dress like an offering. She’s new.
“I’ll be back.” I turn to walk away when Blake reaches out and stops me.
“Where the hell are you going? You just got here.” He is my co-pilot and always has my back, except that one drunken night in Las Vegas when I saddled myself to Satan. That night Blake was glued to the craps table while Diane and I said I do in front of Elvis and a handful of strangers.
“I’m on a mission with two objectives—get drunk—get laid.”
His eyes follow my line of vision straight to the woman who is pouring a pitcher of beer from the tap. “Good luck with that one. She has that I’ve-got-your-number look to her. The one that says, ‘I’ve seen it all, move along.’”
“She doesn’t have my number—not yet. But she will before the night is over. I’ll have her on speed dial and in my bed.”
At the mention of a challenge everyone gathers around.
“Fifty bucks says you’ll fail.” Blake tugs his tattered wallet from his pocket and pulls out several bills. The others follow suit. Mike collects the money, and the bet is on. Before the night is over, I better have that bartender in my bed, or I’ll be out two hundred bucks. Anything less than success and these guys will change my call sign from Hawk to Squawk.
“Watch and learn.” I toss back the rest of my beer and walk to the bar with the empty mug. The worn wood creaks and groans as I slide onto the barstool and watch the woman serve the men at the far end. She carefully rims four shot glasses with lime and salt and then pours a round of tequila shots for each. By the glasses that are piling up, they are already on their second or third round. Let’s hope alcohol makes them happy—not stupid.
“Drink up, boys.”
The guy at the end of the bar hands her a twenty-dollar bill that she tucks between her beautiful breasts.
Her smile is brilliant, full red lips designed to bring a man to his knees. She turns my way and my heart stutters. She is fierce in the way she approaches me—trouble is written all over that shimmering smile, but I don’t flinch, I got the call sign Hawk because I’m a predator, not prey.
“What’s it going to be?” She leans forward giving me a birds-eye view of her recently acquired Andrew Jackson. I pull my gaze from her breasts, letting my eyes rake over her body. Up close she is perfection. Her curves are candy to my simple male mind. She is pretty enough to paint on the side of my plane if that was still allowed.
I push my mug toward her. “I’ll start with another beer.” I could throw down the gauntlet right away and ask for her number, but I’m not interested in a quick crash and burn. My money and my reputation are at stake, so I add, “and your name.”
She points to the nametag pinned below her breast. “Betty.”
“No way.”
“You’re right, but it’s who I am tonight. Regular beer or light?” My mug disappears under the counter. A frosted one appears in its place.
“Do I look like a light man to you?”
She lifts her eyes and purses her lips.
“No, you look rather regular.” With a tilt of the tap she pulls the perfect beer. I love a woman who knows exactly how much head a man needs.
“Betty,” my voice drips with sex appeal, “I’m anything but regular.”
She gives me a non-committal shrug and walks away.
“Any luck?” Blake stands beside me with an empty pitcher.
“Leave me alone. You can’t rush these things.”
“You’ve got until closing time.” He raises the pitcher and nods toward lovely Betty. She cuts her conversation short with Alana, who is also pin-up pretty, but not really my type. Blake obsesses over the girl while she pretends he doesn’t exist. However, when he isn’t looking, Alana’s eyes devour him. It is a game of cat and mouse. Blake is the mouse
and obviously, Alana likes to play with her food.
I can’t blame her. The chase is half the fun—but only half. I enjoy a challenge.
“Same thing?” she asks Blake.
“Up to the top, sweets.” He pulls a wad of twenties from his pocket and pays for the beer. “Can you set my friend straight? He thinks he can pick you up, but I can see that you’re the discerning type, so he hasn’t got a chance. Can you let him down quick and easy so he can come back and lose a bunch of money to me at the pool table?”
She licks her shiny red lips with a slow swipe of her tongue. “You want to pick me up?” She smooths the front of her dress and bends toward me.
“Well, I wouldn’t be opposed to getting to know you better.”
Blake leans against the bar and watches as “Betty” and I negotiate my attempted flirtation.
“What’s your name?”
“Cade.”
“Well, Cade, I’m Betty,” She points to her nametag, “but my friends call me, Erica. Are we going to be friends, Cade?”
“I’d like that.” I pick up my mug and sip at the foam. “I’d also like a shot of Jack, please.”
“Statistics say that a better impression is made when you’re sober. Unless of course you’re the shy type and then having a shot of courage is helpful. Tell me, Cade. What type are you?” She flips a shot glass in the air and catches it before it hits the scarred top of the bar. She upturns the bottle of whiskey, fills the glass to the top and hands me my drink.