by MK Schiller
“You want the bottle caps?”
“If you bring him all the bottle caps, that would be great,” I said so Dillon wouldn’t have to explain. He was itching to build something.
Evan paused for a second before he nodded. “Sure, we can do that.”
“I’m glad you came back,” Evan said, opening up three beers.
“Me too.”
“Did you ask her?” Tilla said, coming behind him.
“Not yet,” Evan said, a flicker of annoyance on his face.
“Ask me what?”
“I’ll do it,” Tilla said, sighing impatiently. “Evan said you lost your job. Are you looking for another?”
“I found one.”
She looked disappointed. “That’s too bad, because we sure could use some help around here.”
“That’s sweet, Tilla, but I don’t know the first thing about working in a bar.”
“We could teach you that part,” she said. “You have a passion for music and you’re a lost soul. You’re one of us.”
“That’s true,” Dillon interjected.
Thanks for making it easier, bro. “This is too far. I don’t have a car.” I had no idea why I continued to make excuses after I already passed on the job. Who was I trying to convince here?
“We have a spare apartment upstairs,” Tilla said. “The rent’s reasonable and there’s a discount if you work here.”
“There are apartments upstairs?” I knew the brick building was two stories, but I’d figured the top was office space.
“There are two, actually.”
“Do you and Mike live in the other one?”
Tilla scrunched her nose in distaste. “Please, I spend enough time at this joint without living here too.”
“Who lives in the other one?”
“I do,” Evan said. “For now.”
“This isn’t the best area, but the bar is doing phenomenal business. The tips are amazing,” Tilla said.
I swallowed down my agitation because even the thought of living next door to him made me both uncomfortable and excited at the same time.
“It’s a generous offer, but I don’t think it’s for me.”
Tilla nodded and grabbed a bar napkin. “If you change your mind, here’s the number.”
“The number for the bar?”
“No, Evan’s number. You can call him,” she said, sliding the napkin with a flourish. I pocketed it before Dillon could make origami out of it. He’d almost finished building the most impressive bottle cap tower I’d ever seen.
Evan leaned in. “In case you didn’t figure it out, she’s trying to make something happen between you and me, but the job is real. They do need extra help around here.”
“I got that.”
“I’ll make sure Tilla understands.”
“Understands what?”
“That I’m not your type and we’re friends.”
“Good,” I said in a way that made good sound bad.
“Out of curiosity, what is your type, Price?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Everyone has one.” He held his beer, gesturing to the crowd. “Show me who does it for you. Who gets top billing in your fantasies?”
What would he think if I told him he was the star of my show?
I swept my gaze across the room. This bar attracted a real mix of people…young and old, from every walk of life, yet they all looked like they belonged.
“There isn’t anyone here.” Save for the guy asking me the damn question.
“That guy at the pool table,” Dillon said, jerking his head in the general direction. I would have been mad, except Dillon had pegged me. The guy was someone I would have gone for. Why did I think that in past tense?
“That guy? The one is the suit who looks like he has a pool stick up his ass?” Evan asked.
I shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I prefer a professional. What about you?”
“What about me?” Evan asked.
“What girl interests you?”
“The one I’m looking at,” he said, staring at me so intensely my skin prickled.
I chugged back my beer, wishing to God I had some clever comeback, but this boy did things to me that weren’t normal.
“I don’t buy that,” I finally said. “I’m not your usual type. I know that.”
“Change is good.”
“Answer the question.”
He looked around the room. “Ten o’clock in the white dress.”
I followed his direction. The heavily made up, raven-haired girl wore a skimpy spandex dress, and was suffering from a serious case of side boob. Looking at her sharp stilettos made my feet hurt.
“She looks like a hooker.”
Wow…when had I become such a bitch?
He clinked his bottle against mine. “I too prefer a professional.”
Chapter Eight
I started working for Rick on Monday. Rick helped troubled businesses by sharpening their strengths and eliminating their weaknesses. In fact, that’s where Marley and he had met. She often said he saved both her job and her life. He had saved her company, the same one she worked at today, just as he had many businesses. He was in high demand and had a long waiting list of clients.
I learned all sorts of new skills, like creating pivot tables, flow charts and visual presentations. And in the end, it wasn’t so bad. The work kept me busy. It took me a while to get used to all the new tasks. By Friday night I was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to chill watching a Netflix romance with my best pals Ben & Jerry, two boys who clearly recognized my needs. I took out my knitting supplies, deciding to finish the blanket I was making for Marley’s baby.
Unfortunately, my family had other plans for me.
“We’re going clubbing tonight,” Stevie announced, throwing a pink chiffon halter-style shirt at me. I had to admit it was pretty. “You can have that. I can’t quite fit into it anymore. Get dressed.”
“I don’t feel like it.”
“You can’t spend your weekends cooped up in the house.”
“Why not?”
Marley grabbed the afghan off me. “How many of these have you made?” she asked.
“Mrs. Garcia and I work on them together. That’s number four.”
“Shit, you’re quilting afghans? How old are you?” Stevie threw the questions like they were darts. “Mom doesn’t even quilt.”
“I’m knitting, Stevie. There is a difference.”
“Well, I think they’re lovely. Really, sweetheart,” Mom said, shooting Stevie a warning glance.
Stevie pointed to the gauzy pink fabric in my lap. “Yeah, well you’re not wearing an afghan tonight, you’re wearing this.”
Marley folded up the blanket. “You don’t want to be here anyway, Billie. The boys are having Friday night poker and they’re watching all the kids.”
Before the words were even out, the front door opened and a tornado swooped right before my eyes as four little men screeched in excitement and four big ones chased after them. They managed to take up all the oxygen in the room.
“I’ll get changed,” I said.
“I don’t think you should go, Marley,” Rick said, sitting next to her, rubbing her tummy.
“Rick, I’m pregnant, not an invalid.”
“Should I come with you?” he asked.
“No, this is girls’ night. Not even Dillon is coming. He’s hanging out with you guys tonight. I’ll have my mom and my sisters with me. We’ll be fine.”
“Call me when you get there and before you leave.”
“Rick, stop it. They’re going to my club,” Damien said. “I run a very nice establishment and I’ll make sure they are taken care of.”
It was adorable how all three of my little brothers clung to our mom. Damien practically had to pry them off.
“I packed chips for the boys to snack on,” Mom said, kissing each of them.
“You packed chips?” I asked, surprised she’d packed them anythi
ng that might be labeled ‘J’ for junk food.
“They’re kale chips,” Damien explained, shaking his head. “They can have real chips once in a while, Jessie. Ice cream and cookies, too. I’m not a vegan and I turned out all right.” Damien called mom Jessie even though her real name was Emmie. It had something to do when they first met and she gave him the wrong name. There was something sweet and romantic about it, but that’s another story entirely.
“You turned out better than all right. They can have that stuff one day, but not today. They don’t know the difference. Why spoil this? It’s the only time in their lives we get to dictate what they ingest. I just want it to be perfect. Do you understand?”
“Not really, but I’ll go with it for now if you agree to hire a nanny.”
“I don’t need help raising my children,” Mom said, pointedly. We all looked in other directions because as usual, our family issues had a way of never keeping quiet.
“You’re exhausted. I should know because I’m not even home all day and I’m exhausted.”
“This isn’t the time.”
George tugged on Mom’s shirt. She signed something to him. I didn’t mean to intrude by looking, but I could figure it out. “Not fighting. Talking.”
“Are you girls going to go already?” Adam asked.
“Okay, we’re leaving,” Stevie said, kissing Bobby and yelling some last-minute instructions for him.
I didn’t give much thought to Damien’s statement about the quality of his club, but once we got there it became obvious what he meant. Security hovered around us as if we were celebrities. They even joined us on the dance floor, looking odd as they swayed side to side. Finally, we retreated to a table in the corner and people-watched.
“We figured you might get to dance with a cute guy, but unless that cute guy is Moose, the bear hunter over there, it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen,” Stevie finally said.
She had a point. Every time a guy even got close to us, security swooped down like a SWAT team, shooing any potentials away. I cracked up every time because no doubt this was what Damien had been trying to tell Rick.
My phone buzzed in my pocket and I took it out, surprised to see a message from Evan. I’d added him to my WhatsApp after he’d insisted I text him to let him know I got home safely the other night. He’d uploaded a pic of the suit guy from the other night with the side-boob, spandex girl. She was sitting on his lap. Evan had captioned it Check it out. Guess our types were right for each other.
Billie: Too funny
Evan: Want to come by?
Billie: Wish I could. What are you doing?
Evan: Slinging drinks and singing songs—what I do best.
Billie: Is that what you do best?
Evan: Second best
Billie: What’s first?
Evan: What do you think?
Billie: Naughty boy
Evan: You love it.
He was right. The flirty way he said things made my mouth go dry and other parts of me moisten up.
Evan: What are you doing?
Billie: At the club—girl’s night.
Evan: Great—first, you reject me then you make me insanely jealous imagining you grinding next to another dude.
That was an unexpected reaction.
Billie: I didn’t think you were the jealous type.
I didn’t get a message back for a long time and I thought he’d regretted what he’d said. My mind played out all the angles, as usual. Diving for a deeper meaning in shallow waters could really fuck a girl up. He was just flirting and he was probably busy doing what he did second best. God, I hoped he wasn’t doing what he did first best. Eventually, my phone buzzed again.
Evan: I didn’t think I was either.
There was no time to dwell on it though because Stevie almost dislocated my arm pulling me out of the chair.
“Who could you be texting? Let’s dance.”
Reluctantly, I succumbed to the lure of the dance floor, trying to make sense of Evan’s statement. Not that he had anything to worry about. The circle of security surrounding us made it impossible for any guy to get within speaking distance.
“My husband put you up to this, didn’t he?” Mom yelled over the music to the bouncer aptly named Moose.
“Mrs. Wolfe, the only instructions he gave me were that four of the most beautiful women were going to come here tonight and I better do my level best to make sure no unsavory characters go near them. When I saw you ladies, I figured it had to be you he was talking about.”
Stevie, Marley and I all aww-ed and sighed at Damien’s description of us, but Mom crossed her arms. “He told you to say that too, didn’t he?”
A look of panic took over the big guy’s face, making him appear like a larger than life baby. “I really need this job, Mrs. Wolfe.”
My mom patted his arm. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not your fault.”
“Let’s go home, guys,” I said, pulling Mom’s arm. “I think I’m danced out for the night.”
The kids were sound asleep in the living room at Marley’s. A baby monitor was set up next to them.
“Isn’t that adorable? They made tents,” Marley said.
“With Billie’s afghans. Guess they came in handy,” Stevie said, her voice low.
We all slid off our shoes and tiptoed to the basement, also known as Rick’s man cave, where they usually played poker or watched sports.
“Okay, last call for bets,” we heard Dillon say.
The door creaked slightly and we heard a few swear words and running around followed by a screeching sound. So of course, we rushed down there just in time to see Adam jump on the couch, knocking over a bowl of popcorn. The screeching sound had to be the whiteboard being shoved into the corner.
“You guys are home early.” Adam’s voice was oddly anxious.
“What’s going on?” Mom asked.
“The game was a blowout so we decided to watch something else,” Damien explained.
We all looked at the television and back at them.
“You’re watching this?” Marley asked, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. I had to admit it didn’t make sense. This was a show about a high school glee club. The only club these guys watched shows about were motorcycle and fight clubs.
“Sure, it’s a good show,” Rick said.
Mom walked around them, her arms crossed, her gaze sharp and demanding. “I don’t watch a great deal of television, but this happens to be one of my favorite shows.”
“It is?” Dillon asked.
“I can’t believe you guys are interested in this.”
“We’re modern men,” Adam said as if he was insulted.
“That’s lovely, because Damien never watches this with me.” She placed a hand on his shoulder. “Now that I know you like it, we can catch up on all the back episodes too. I believe there are like sixty episodes.”
“Um…ah…sure,” he said, shooting a helpless look toward the other guys.
“And I’m glad you guys watched tonight, since I missed this episode. Tell me what happened.”
“Well—” Dillon said.
“Not you, Dillon. Why don’t you tell me, Damien?”
They all stammered for a few moments. I’d never seen Damien at a loss for words. What had they been doing—watching a skin flick? If it wasn’t so amusing, I might have felt sorry for them.
“They just broke out into song,” he finally said. “For no reason.”
Stevie laughed. “That happens on every episode. What was the plot? Why don’t you tell us, Adam?”
“I was busy making the snacks. I missed a lot of it.” Then to cement the point, he began picking up the popcorn on the floor.
“It’s almost over. I’m sure you watched most of it. Popcorn doesn’t take that long.” Stevie’s statement held a small accusation.
“Rick, why don’t you tell us?” Marley asked.
“Sweetheart, I was so worried about you, I couldn’t concentrate.”
Stevie strode over to the coffee table and picked up the remote. Adam jumped to grab it from her, but she held up her hand just before he got to it.
“Hit last channel, Stevie,” Marley said.
“I can’t find it,” she replied, just as Adam tried taking the remote again. Stevie ducked underneath him and threw the remote to Mom, who caught it mid-air. Who said women can’t jump in stilettos?
“Just calm down…everyone. Put down the remote, Jessie,” Damien pleaded, holding his arms up as if she held a gun.
“Not until we find out what you are up to.” She looked down at the buttons while trying to hold Damien off, no easy task since he towered over her. “Why is this so complicated?”
“Last button on the right,” Marley said.
Mom sidestepped Damien like a professional basketball player. “Got it,” she said.
“Welcome back to Marriage Material,” the television voice boomed.
Blood rushed through my ears as the image of Preston in a dark suit escorting a tall red-headed girl with a sparkly dress to a candlelit dinner on an overly decorated veranda filled the screen.
“Why are you guys watching this?” I asked. They all looked very different, but right then each of them had the same expression—guilt.
“This is why,” Marley said, flipping the whiteboard over.
I stomped over to it. It was a list with each of their names on the side along with categories like date, kiss and second base written out in red and blue marker.
“I don’t understand.” The realization stabbed me like a sharp knife. My tone was thick with accusation. “You’re betting on the show?”
“Billie, it’s not like that,” Rick said.
“Then what’s it like?” Mom demanded.
“We didn’t mean to. Last week, something weird happened with the satellite dish and all ESPN stations disappeared.” Damien gestured to the television. “This was the only thing that was clear. We were about to turn it off, but then Adam said, I bet that girl wins the private date. Before I could even think about it, I took the bet.”
“You guys should be ashamed of yourselves,” Mom said. “Et tu, Dillon?”