“Anything else?” I ask, leaving the check without waiting for an answer. “If you need another drink, you can get it at the bar.”
Technically, I’m not supposed to serve alcohol. I’m only fifteen. But Jim and Margo ignore the law. And the police are too preoccupied with what happens in the parking lot to notice what happens inside this metal Twinkie.
It’s a job. I can’t afford not to be here. And, believe me, I constantly remind myself of this too.
I clear my other tables and make sure they’ve all paid before returning to the table I just fed. “Ready to pay?” I ask.
They’re interfering with my night. If they don’t like the not-so-friendly service, they came to the wrong place. Besides, I’m not counting on the crappy tip they never planned to leave me.
A guy with tattoos covering his thick arms pulls out two twenties and drops them on top of the bill without looking at it.
“Need change?”
He shakes his head. I try to hide the surprise that flashes across my face with a blink. Maybe he can’t count. I’m not about to offer a math lesson. I hand the cash to Margo at the register and wait for the change. All she does is handle the money. She doesn’t trust anyone. Not even Georgia or Mal, who’ve worked the bar since before I was born. No one touches the cash other than Margo, who remains perched on her wooden stool, watching everyone with her beady blue eyes.
She reminds me of a bird, frail and thin, with wrinkled skin hanging off her, scowling at everyone like she’s tempted to peck their eyes out. She sees everything. I try not to talk to her. I try not to even look at her if I can help it. She creeps me out.
I duck into the back, past the counter where plates of food are waiting to be picked up. “Jim, I’m clocking out.”
“No you’re not,” he bellows. “You have five minutes left in your shift. Go check the bathrooms.”
I stop, wishing I had kept my mouth shut and just clocked out. He would never have known.
As soon as I push open the red metal door, I’m forced to cover my mouth and nose. The stench is overwhelming. One of the toilets isn’t working. Jim knew and didn’t want to deal with it himself. Bastard. Well, I’m definitely not going to unclog it. Women are disgusting. I’m convinced we’re grosser than men—throwing who knows what into the toilets, pissing all over the seats, littering the floor with shreds of toilet paper that are destined to stick to the bottom of someone’s shoe. There’s no way I can get away with leaving it like this. I’ll get reamed the next time I work.
I pull on latex gloves and pick up the fragments of paper towels and toilet paper scattered on the floor, shoving them into the overflowing trash. I wipe down the chipped porcelain sinks and step down on the trash to compact it.
Taking the trash bag with me, I walk out the back door to toss it in the dumpster. When I try to go back in, the door’s locked. I groan. Of course it is. I’m never getting out of here. I’m forced to walk all the way around to the front where there’s a line to get in.
A car honks. I turn my head just as Tori pulls herself out the passenger window, sitting on the edge of the door.
“Why are you here? I thought I was coming to your house?” I question, recognizing she’s dressed to go out.
“Change of plans. Tony’s meeting friends, so we have to go now or else we won’t have a ride.”
Tony nods with a subtle grin in the driver’s seat. I smile back, biting my lip to keep it from being too big.
I look down at my hideous, stained uniform that smells like grease and beer, knowing the rest of me pretty much smells the same. “But I’m repulsive.”
“Put on extra perfume. Besides, guys love the smell of this place. You may even get licked tonight,” Tori teases wickedly.
I shoot her a disgusted look.
My skin feels like I have a layer of oil clinging to it, and I don’t even want to know what my hair is doing.
“Seriously, Tori?” I gripe. With a frustrated sigh, I turn toward the line blocking the front door.
“Hurry up!” Tori hollers in return.
I push my way through the bodies, not bothering to excuse myself. It wouldn’t help. This crowd responds better to brute force. And I desperately need to get out of here.
And now there’s suddenly a line to get into the bathroom. The clogged toilet’s probably not helping.
I grit my teeth in frustration. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” This night just keeps getting better and better. Hell, this entire day has been shit. Might as well keep it coming.
I slip into the kitchen without being seen by Jim and past the grill where Carlos is flipping hockey pucks. Some of them, I know, are supposed to be pancakes. I glance at him, and he winks at me.
“Going out tonight, beautiful?”
“Trying,” I respond.
Carlos is a flirt but harmless. A guy who feels compelled to compliment Margo’s bug eyes is pathetic, not threatening. I seriously doubt he’s ever had a girlfriend in his life. I kinda feel sorry for him. Until I catch him staring at my ass and have to fight the urge to punch him.
I clock out at five past ten, grab my bag and try Jim’s office door so I can change. It’s locked. Why is it impossible to get out of here tonight? I hide myself in the corner the best I can and slip my shorts on under my dress. I unzip the green monster and let it fall to the floor, quickly pulling the halter top over my head and removing my bra beneath it. When I turn around, Carlos is staring with his brows raised and a spatula hanging limp in his hand.
“What?!” I question accusingly, trying not to think about what he might’ve seen.
He just stares at me dumbly.
I ignore him and pick up my crumpled uniform, shoving it into my bag. I exchange my black sneakers for the strappy wedge sandals. I don’t have a mirror, so I use the camera on my phone to check my makeup. Running a finger under my eyes to capture the smears only makes it worse, so I add dark liner and smudge it for a smoky effect and finish with shiny pink gloss on my lips. I gather my hair into a knot on top of my head and slide on a sparkly crystal headband to hold back my bangs. Despite the effort, I still feel like a mess. I’m just hoping hard I don’t look it.
I exit the back door without saying anything to Jim. I clocked out. I’m done.
I spritz perfume on my neck and wrists then spray it in the air to walk through it, desperate to conceal the eau de Stella’s. As long as I don’t act like a mess, no one will know. Right? That’s what Tori always tells me.
“Act the way you want everyone to see you, no matter how you’re really feeling.”
I haven’t quite mastered it. I tend to be way too expressive. My feelings are always evident all over my face, even when I try to hide them.
“Fake it ’til you make it.” Great. Now I’m quoting posters from Mr. Garner’s office.
I open the back door of Tony’s car and throw my bag across the seat before sliding in. “Okay, bitch, let’s go to this fucking party.”
Chapter Four
“Never let a boy lay a hand on you,” my grandmother says sternly, pointing a finger in my face. She looks angry. But I don’t remember doing anything wrong. And a boy definitely didn’t touch me. “Do you understand me? Not ever.”
I nod, too scared to ask what she means.
“House party in Oaklawn, huh?” Tony pulls into the circular driveway lined with cars.
“Hey,” Tori declares defensively, “we never go to house parties.”
“Maybe because no one we know owns a house.” I eye the people wearing plaid and jeans, standing outside the house, holding red Solo cups. It’s like walking onto the set of a CW show. I had no idea that these kinds of parties really existed.
“You’d never catch me at one of these white-boy parties,” Tony says with a chuckle.
“We’re not staying. I told Lincoln I’d meet him here; that’s all. Nina’s picking us up after she gets off work,” Tori explains, as if she has to keep defending why we’re here.
I don�
�t know why she’s so sensitive about it. Maybe because she always wants her four older brothers to think she’s badass, and this party is anything but.
“Don’t call me if you get stuck,” Tony tells his sister. “Lana, call me if you need a ride.”
His dark eyes find me in the rearview mirror and I wink.
“Asshole,” Tori throws at him, getting out of the car. “C’mon, Lana.”
I grab my bag and slide out.
“Don’t have too much fun without me,” Tony says to me, flashing a devilish smile before driving away.
“You two need to get it over with,” Tori grumbles, walking toward the open front door of the huge white house.
“He’s hot, but I’m not hooking up with your brother,” I tell her again.
“The flirting is making me nauseous.”
“Too bad,” I say with a laugh. “It’s better than hearing me scream his name in the room next to yours.”
“Ew,” she groans, scrunching her nose in disgust.
“Exactly,” I reply, smiling.
“Fine. I get it,” Tori snaps, nudging through the packed bodies in search of alcohol—or at least, I hope she is.
Without warning, Tori turns around and faces me. I stop short.
“What?” I try to look over her shoulder, thinking she saw someone she doesn’t want to run into.
“Be nice,” she instructs, almost threatening.
“You’re telling me to be nice?” I let out a short laugh at the irony.
“Whatever,” she says with an eye roll. “I just mean that I know these aren’t exactly our people, but I want to see what Lincoln’s all about. He’s … different. And I don’t want you ruining it with your honesty.”
I laugh. “I will try,” I assure her. “But I make no promises.”
She sighs and turns back around, leading us through a huge crowded room, everyone drinking and laughing. We finally emerge into a large open kitchen, but I still don’t see any alcohol, only abandoned red cups and half-eaten bowls of chips and pretzels.
“Where do we get a drink?”
I’m suddenly nervous. Maybe we needed to bring our own, even though Tori promised me they’d have plenty here. We never go to parties where the alcohol is free. It always costs something.
Tori scans the crowd until a smile emerges on her face. I follow her gaze and find Lincoln. It’s actually hard to miss him since he towers over everyone … and he’s like the only black guy here.
“I need alcohol,” I tell her as she starts in his direction.
She doesn’t respond. Maybe she didn’t hear me, but I can’t stay at this party and remain sober. I squeeze through the crowd and spot a keg on the back porch.
“Of course there’s a keg,” I mumble, feeling stupid for doubting that this party wouldn’t supply drinks.
The apartment parties we’ve been to, you have to fend for yourself—bring your own and then guard it for the night, so no one steals your stash. Girls usually flirt—or some loose interpretation of that word—to get drinks, but that also means being stuck with that guy for the rest of the party.
I always make sure we come stocked with our own alcohol. There’s no way I’m going to be dependent upon a guy for drinks, and I’m definitely not owing him for my buzz.
I tug on my bag and struggle to get through the crowd until I’m finally outside in the open space of the deck, slightly annoyed. I don’t usually carry big purses, and getting caught on everyone who walks by is driving me crazy. I need to stash it somewhere. I’m not worried about it being taken. It’s not like anyone here is going to care about a beaten-up tote. I’m wearing the leather jacket with my tip money hidden in the inside pocket, and my phone’s zipped in the outer one. I pat the other pocket to make sure I put the “party in a bag” in there. I walk down the steps and around the side of the deck, hiding my tote in the darkest corner underneath. If anyone really wants the hideous uniform and shitty sneakers, they can have them.
“What’re you doing over here?” I hear as soon as I stand back up. “Are you getting sick?”
“Uh, no,” I reply sharply. “What are you doing over here? Looking for a victim?” I walk past the gargantuan dude who stares after me silently.
As I wait in line at the keg, I can feel the eyes on me. From everywhere. I scan the crowd and curse Tori under my breath. Of course they’re staring—with my ass cheeks peeking out of my lacy shorts and the cleavage revealed within the cowl of the low-cut halter. Where we usually go out, no one would think twice about what I’m wearing. Not here. I’m getting scanned up and down, like they’re trying to decide if they should threaten me to stay away from their boyfriends or offer me fifty for twenty minutes in the backseat.
“Who are you, and why are you at my party?”
There’s a guy in a blue polo shirt and khaki shorts next to me. He looks like most of the guys here—throw in a baseball hat here or there or a random button-down hanging over a T-shirt.
“I’m here for the free beer,” I tell him with a sardonic smile.
He smiles back. “Then let’s make that happen. Excuse me, guys,” he tells everyone waiting ahead of me in line. “The lady needs a beer.”
A moment later, he hands me a filled red Solo cup. “Here you go.”
“Thank you.” I take it from him and offer a small smile, not enough to encourage him to stick around.
“My name’s Blake. Let me know if you need anything, okay?” And, just like that, he’s rushing off to help some other girl in need of a shot. “Whitney, I have Fireball for you!”
“Who are you anyway?” a girl asks from behind me. “Who’d you come here with?”
It’s not a friendly let-me-introduce-myself question. It’s a total territorial you-have-some-nerve-showing-up-here question.
“It’s not about who I came here with,” I tell her with a smirk. “You should be worried about who I leave with.”
She gasps in mock horror. I fight the urge to roll my eyes.
I enter the house and find an empty spot in the corner of the kitchen. I don’t bother looking for Tori and Lincoln. I’m not third-wheeling it. I’m prepared to hang out here, lean against the counter and observe the spectacle happening around me ’til it’s time to go.
“Where are you from?”
“Can you believe she even thinks she has a chance with him?”
“You’re not from Oaklawn, right? I know I’d remember you.”
“And did you see what she’s wearing? That diet’s definitely not working.”
“Oh shit!”
Girls scream as a drunken ass collides with them, barely making it in time to throw up in the sink.
I’m a captive audience to the Middle America drama. The gossip. The terrible pop music blaring through the speakers. The amateurs who can’t handle what’s in their cups. The couple pressed against the wall, making out, his hand up her shirt. And, yes, I’m aware a guy’s standing next to me, trying to get me to talk to him.
“What did you say your name was?”
When he refuses to take a hint after I continue to blatantly ignore him, I release an impatient breath and say to his face, “Go away.”
He looks offended. I laugh at him.
“Bitch.”
“Undeniably,” I agree.
He scowls and shoves a path to the living room where a group of girls are failing to make dancing happen.
And then … I see his bright blue eyes. The same captivating shade as his brother. And, most likely, their father’s. The eyes that wouldn’t look away when he saw me at school earlier today and that hold me in place now.
He smiles, and a deep dimple creases his right cheek.
“Shit,” I breathe out.
He remains focused on me as he navigates the crowd. People talk to him along the way. He responds but doesn’t take his eyes off me and never stops moving in my direction. I am pinned to this spot, anticipating his approach until he’s finally in front of me. And I mean right in front of me.
His hand rests on the counter next to my waist as he bends down, and his lips brush my ear.
“Hey, Lana.”
A shiver shoots down my spine.
“How do you know me?”
He doesn’t pull away. My mouth is so close to his skin, I could easily suck on his neck.
“Who doesn’t know you?” he says, his voice a low rumble that sends a jolt through my heart. He leans away to look me in the eye.
I laugh. “Just about everyone here.”
“This isn’t usually your scene.” There’s an ease rolling off him, like he’s comfortable with the attention. He’s definitely getting plenty of that from just about everyone around us—for completely different reasons than I am.
“No, it isn’t.” I nod toward Tori, who’s laughing flirtatiously at something Lincoln said, placing her hand on his arm. “Being a good friend. So you’re the Joey Harrison? I thought you were a myth.”
He laughs, standing to his full height. And I’m regretfully aware of the distance between us.
“Yeah, I don’t come home much anymore.”
“Where do you hide?” I take a gulp of the chilled beer, needing to cool down.
“I go to a private school up north.”
I smirk. “Of course you do.”
He narrows his eyes, confused by my response.
“I’m glad you’re here.” He hasn’t glanced around once.
I can’t say I’m uncomfortable with his unwavering attention, but it’s definitely intense.
“Are you now?” I tease with a grin, trying to appear unaffected.
He flashes a devilish smile before taking a sip of his beer. “Want to get out of here? We were thinking of trying another party.”
“Who’s ‘we’?” I’ve learned that committing to leaving with a group of guys can lead to complications later.
“Lincoln, me and Vic.” He nods to the guy leaning against the counter across from us.
I hadn’t noticed him before now. He stands out worse than I do in his leather jacket with his clean-shaven head and a large tattoo scrawled up his neck and etched across his skull. He looks like sunshine walking. By that I mean, depressing as hell.
If I'd Known_The Cursed Series Part 1 Page 4