My One Despair

by Burgoa, Claudia

  “You know my type of drink?”

  He walked around to the other side of the bar, leaned in closer to me and spoke. “I could try to guess.”

  “Guess my drink?” I said, unable to come up with any original words because the intensity of his eyes hypnotized me. “I just want a dirty martini.”

  “Dirty martini isn’t you.” His warm breath caressed my neck, making me shiver.

  Suddenly, I wanted to feel the warmth of his hands all over my body, for that electrical current we created to charge my entire being. I wanted to listen to that spellbinding voice of his all night long.

  However, the enchantment broke as soon as Dwight’s band began to play. My ears were about to explode. Dwight needed a few voice lessons, some talent, and maybe trying a different way to break into the music business. Using me wasn’t cool.

  I tuned out the noise and turned back to the bartender who was by then a few inches away from me. Good. I was there to have fun and not to fall in love with some sexy guy who made my heart race a mile a minute.

  “Is that your hidden talent?” I asked him, trying to regulate my pulse.

  “What are you talking about?” He frowned, folding his arms across his chest.

  “Guessing what your patrons like to drink?” I rolled my eyes. “Ha, I dare you. Serve me, noble sir.”

  There was no way he could know what I liked. I didn’t even know whether I liked vodka, tequila, or just cider. Dirty martinis sounded sophisticated enough that no one questioned my age.

  He smirked and pulled out a tumbler, poured Coke in it and then some red liquor.

  “Here, this should be perfect for you. It’s on the house.”

  “This is cherry Coke,” I protested, setting the glass down. “What happened to my dirty martini?”

  “It’s called Roy Rogers, not cherry Coke,” he corrected me.

  “I wanted a martini.” I raised my voice even though I was sure he could barely hear me.

  “It’ll be waiting for you,” he said with a cocky smile. “When you turn twenty-one.”

  “I’m twenty-two,” I claimed appalled.

  “ID,” he requested.

  “Your guy at the entrance already checked it.” I avoided his gaze and began looking for the exit.

  That night turned out to be the worst night of my “fun summer.”

  What was next?

  Calling Dad because I needed him to bail me out for underage drinking?

  I swallowed the fear and didn’t let the bartender see me shaking. He had no idea of the media storm that would happen if Kaden Hades’ daughter were arrested.

  “Look, sweetheart, I don’t serve alcohol to minors. I don’t care if the waitress didn’t check your friends, but I check everyone.”

  I handed him my fake ID. He looked at me, then studied it. I turned to the guy next to me and said, “Can you believe this?”

  “If you’ll excuse my brother, he can be a little anal,” the guy said.

  My attention focused on him for a second. They looked a lot alike, deep green eyes, a straight, strong nose. The bartender’s lips were fuller, his voice deeper. And unlike the guy next to me, he made my heart flail around wildly.

  “Come on, Gage, give her a break,” he said mockingly.

  “Look at her,” he continued. “She seems like a nice girl. How old are you? Eighteen, nineteen?”

  “Twenty-two,” I insisted.

  “What is Tessa short for?” Gage asked.

  “It’s Tess, not Tessa. It’s short for Contessa,” I snarled. “My mother has issues. She swears we’re royalty.”

  “So, it’s not short for Alyson?”

  Fuck, I mouthed.

  He pushed the glass toward me. “Would you like a bendy straw, sweetheart?”

  “Thank you, kind sir, you were the highlight of my night.” I pulled out a twenty from my purse, left it on the counter, and waved at him. Then, I called a cab and went home.

  Five

  Gage

  According to my sources (the internet), the average American adult consumes 11.5 drinks a week. I have no idea how they came up with those figures or whether I can trust them. When I worked as a bartender, some customers would order two or three pitchers for a table and then drink them all by themselves while others nursed a single drink the whole night. We had only a few regulars who drank closer to the “national average” during my shifts—until I’d cut them off.

  I did believe it, however, when I read that Americans consume about four hundred million cups of coffee a day. On Mondays, I felt like we served at least half of those at Logan’s Java. Most customers requested double or triple shots when they ordered their twenty-two-ounce soy milk latte with two pumps of sugar-free vanilla. Which, according to my calculations, was our most popular drink.

  “Rodin, can you deliver the order for the flower shop?”

  “Where’s Ash?” Ash was the delivery guy, since he’s the only guy who owns a car. “I can’t deliver shit, Logan.”

  I could walk to the shop. It wasn’t far. But if I did it that one time he’d ask me to do it every time.

  “He called in sick,” Logan informed me.

  I rolled my eyes. Last night, Ash had come to the bar with a leggy blonde perched by his side. He was pretty healthy.

  “Come on, Rodin. The flower shop is just a couple of blocks away. You can walk, right?”

  “Fine, I’ll take it, but after that, I’m off. I don’t have time to do this errand, come back, and then make it to school.”

  “You need to rethink your career, boy,” Logan said. “Try to form another band or go solo. I know a few people if you’re interested.”

  Please, who could he know?

  I almost laughed in his face. Just because we had a few musicians who got their coffee here didn’t mean he was tight with them.

  “Thank you for the offer, Log. I’ll think about it.”

  “In fact, I think a solo career might be better for you. I told Kaden Hades and Jax that for years. But did they listen?” Logan shook his head. “Of course, not. They changed keyboardists and bassists several times. If you ever get serious, they might help you.”

  “You know the guys from Killing Hades?” The news shocked me.

  “Yes, but I’m only using that connection when you’re ready. Obviously, you’re not.” He handed me the cup holder with four drinks in it. “In the meantime, take this, and don’t make a fool of yourself.”

  “See you around, Log.”

  “Don’t forget to go in through the back door, kid.”

  I waved at him and made my way to the employee room where I changed my shirt and shoes and left my apron behind.

  The front of the flower shop had a closed sign, but I walked around like Logan told me to and rang the bell. I wasn’t expecting anything special, but when the gorgeous strawberry blonde from Friday night opened the door, my dick came alive at the sight of her.

  She looked adorable, wearing her hair up in a messy bun, no makeup, and a smocked apron that read: Hummingbird Flower Designs. She had on a pair of papaya-colored sneakers with fluorescent shoelaces. This girl felt more real than the version I’d met at the bar with layers of makeup on.

  “Hello,” she greeted me.

  I moved my gaze from her kissable lips to her eyes. “Hey, Alyson, wasn’t it?” I chuckled.

  She turned red and checked behind her. “Shhh.” She glared at me.

  “Where’s my ID? You never gave it back,” she whispered shouted.

  “The one I confiscated?” I asked in a mocking tone.

  As I looked at her, I noticed her gaze was fixed on my throat and her cheeks flushed. Either she was nervous or afraid that someone was going to hear about her Friday escapade. Her boss?

  “It’s right next to your dirty martini,” I explained. “Both waiting for you to turn twenty-one.”

  Her gaze narrowed, she opened her mouth, but instead a male voice sounded from the next room. “Tess, hurry up, sweetheart. I need you to
help me with this balloon order.”

  “Ugh. Coming, Dad.” She pressed her lips together.

  “I could blackmail you,” I laughed.

  “Or I could find a guy to make you disappear from Seattle,” she giggled. “You know too much already.”

  “Do I, Contessa?” I bowed, pretending she was royalty.

  “Never call me that, please. So, why are you here?” She crossed her arms, but her lip twitched slightly.

  “Spying on you, of course.” I showed her the coffee tray I carried.

  “Wait, you work at Logan’s Java too?” She frowned.

  “One of my many talents is frothing milk from five a.m. until nine every other morning.” I winked at her and read the tags of each drink. “I could guess which one is yours.”

  “You think so, but you’ll get it all wrong.”

  My gaze was drawn to the sweet curve of her gorgeous mouth. Her lip twitched again. She was fighting a laugh so hard that it made me wonder how it would sound. I assumed that it would sound like a whisper of sunshine during fall—warm and smooth—just like her voice.

  “What will you give me if I get it right?” I taunted her.

  “Hmm.” The tip of her tongue touched the left side of her upper lip while she stared at me. “How about winner’s choice?”

  That sounded promising. I liked the idea of taking her out on a date and spending some time talking to her. There was something about Tess that made my body stir with need. She was like a highly addictive substance. The closer I got to her, the more I wanted her.

  What was it about her? It wasn’t her mouth, though I did wish I could kiss her. It was her big, light-brown eyes that tried to hide who she was but were, in fact, two open windows.

  Guessing her drink seemed like a childish game. For me though, it was an opportunity to see her at least one more time and figure out what it was about her that had kept her in my mind since last Friday.

  “It’s the twenty-two ounce, iced half-caff, vanilla-mocha latte with coconut milk.” I smirked.

  Her eyes widened a little, but her features didn’t change. She studied me from head to toe before she spoke. “What’s with the tie and the jacket with patched elbows, professor?”

  I shrugged. “One of my many talents, sweetheart. You work here?”

  “For now.” She took the tray, handing me a twenty-dollar bill. “Thank you.”

  “It’s already paid for.”

  “Oh, that’s the tip we always give to the delivery guy,” she pointed out.

  “So, what’s your drink?” I held onto the door. I wasn’t letting her leave me hanging.

  “I guess you’ll never know.”

  I laughed along with her.

  “I got it right, didn’t I?” I said in a teasing voice. “You’re trying to play me, Tess.”

  “Yes, damn it. But how?” She pouted, defeated.

  “I know because we’ve delivered that chai latte order every day for the last seven years. It’s for the owner of the shop. If her husband’s around, he’ll get the black coffee. The caramel macchiato is for Raven, the manager. She’s at the shop often. That leaves only one drink that could be yours.”

  “You cheated,” she snarled.

  “I wasn’t cheating. Everything is fair in love and war and coffee,” I said. “You owe me, whatever I choose.”

  I exhaled and she held her breath for a couple of seconds, her face turning slightly red. “What is this, war or love?”

  “That’s what I want to figure out, but for now I’ve got to run. One day I’ll cash this, Tess. Enjoy your coffee.” I winked at her and placed the twenty-dollar bill on top of the coffee tray.

  Six

  Gage

  The average teacher works an average of four hundred hours of overtime a year. Thirty percent of teachers have a second job—or three—like me. Facts that I knew by heart included that teachers can change the course of a student’s life. High school teachers with a master’s degree working at a private school got paid a lot better than the average teacher. When I found that out, I applied for a position at Greensborough Academy.

  My parents and brothers didn’t understand my unnecessary research. Sometimes, it paid. Because of that useless fact, I worked at one of the most prestigious schools in the country where the pay was above average. Their music program was one of the best. Unfortunately, the school only needed me thirty hours a week. Fortunately, the school allowed me to offer private guitar, voice, or piano lessons to any interested students. I taught them during lunch and after school.

  Marti, my ex, was right about one thing. I was wasting my life on nonsense. Though she also added that holding onto a childish dream would keep me from reaching my full potential. That’s a fancy way of calling me a fucking loser. We didn’t understand each other. Our chemistry was off the charts when we were horny, yet another reason why I always took her back when she knocked on my door asking for forgiveness.

  It all began with rough, angry sex. I never questioned why afterward there was nothing else between us. Fucking only felt great in the moment, and once it was over, I wanted to walk away from her. Sex with Marti was like a night out drinking with my brothers. I enjoyed it while it was happening, but the next day I regretted the consequences. While a hangover only lasted a day max, Marti stayed with me until she sucked all my energy.

  “Quit your music,” she said. “Once you grow up we can start our lives—like we planned.”

  There was no we in my future—ever. She was the one who included herself when she heard “traveling” or “financial security.” Fuck, what was I doing with her? She wasn’t a bad person, just not the right one for me. I should have quit her forever; not my music. Marti was the master of abandoning whatever she was doing when the going got tough or when she got bored. Nothing held her attention for more than a few minutes. Not even a good book.

  Finally, I accepted that there was no point in letting her back into my life. We’d outgrown each other long ago. I couldn’t understand her gypsy ways just as she didn’t care to support my ultimate goal of playing, composing, and performing.

  Music was my oxygen, my heart—the food to my soul. In the meantime, being a teacher wasn’t bad. Teaching gave me a little hope. Maybe I’d change someone’s life.

  While my parents fought, I had music. When they divorced and Dad moved us to Seattle to start a new life, I had music. While Dad worked, and I had to be in the afterschool program, a music teacher taught me how to create lyrics and melodies. Marti didn’t understand it. What ever happened to the girl who supported my aspirations? She swore to stick with me until I made it big. Was it shitty that I didn’t miss her?

  Falling out of love was sad. For a long time, I didn’t want to accept that we were over. But as I packed up my shit and moved to my brother’s, I realized that Marti and I had been over since I started college. I just opened the doors when she came back because being with her was comfortable. Marti was like the bowl of chicken soup I enjoyed in winter because it was comforting, not because I loved it.

  The school bell rang, reminding me that the day was over and that I should stop brooding over my life. Thank fuck. I hated to wait an entire hour just for one private lesson, but I needed the money. Carson Smith, my three o’clock appointment came running toward me.

  “Mr. Rodin, I can’t stay today.” He handed me a check. “Mom’s sorry. She forgot that we had an appointment today.”

  “You want to reschedule?” I studied the check mesmerized by the amount and the note.

  It was for five thousand dollars. The memo said, one year paid in full. Was it right? I had to check our last email, because it didn’t make sense. I had never received so much money in one lump sum in all my life.

  “Nah, we’ll see you next Monday, okay?”

  I waved at him, still staring at the check. It didn’t seem right. That was a lot of cash and yet, the kid wasn’t staying for long. I wasn’t sure if I should feel like it was Christmas in September or be concerned
because they might ask for their money back if the kid couldn’t play by the end of the year. I was a teacher, not a miracle worker.

  A mix of disappointment and relief hit me when I realized that I had the evening to myself before I headed to the bar. Teaching wasn’t everything that I dreamed it would be, but it was my way of giving back for the blessings I’d received. I doubted that these rich kids needed an outlet. Maybe they only wanted to learn enough to brag that they could play the classics like Stairway to Heaven by Led Zeppelin.

  On my way out, I stopped. There was a woman screaming at the top of her lungs at one of my students, Hannah Hades. I remembered her because she had a great voice and knew how to play the piano beautifully. I wasn’t sure what was going on, but I didn’t like the way she flinched and seemed to be waiting for the woman to hit her.

  “Move along, students. There’s nothing to see here,” I said, pushing my way through the crowd. “Is there a problem?”

  “Mind your own business,” the middle age woman snapped at me.

  “Hannah, is there something I can do for you?” I offered.

  “This is between me and my daughter,” the woman screamed at me.

  “Then you wouldn’t mind taking your issues back home, ma’am. This isn’t the place to handle family business.”

  Hannah’s chin quivered. She looked around searching for someone or maybe somewhere to escape. Was she in danger? I pulled out my phone to call the police.

  “What is your name? I’ll have you fired!” the woman threatened me.

  “Enough, Mother!” A loud voice vibrated through the crowd. “What in the world are you doing here?”

  Tess pushed through the circle of nosy students. The sweetness in her eyes had been replaced with anger. She stepped between Hannah and the woman.

  “Hannah, wait for me in the car.” She handed her the keys. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  “I’m not leaving you alone,” Hannah said with conviction, pulling in some courage from her sister.