Ruby Tuesday

by Limey Lady

  ‘I can’t thank you enough,’ he said to Angie, holding out a bunch of tenners.

  Angie snorted. ‘Pay me when I’m done. Ricky’s not here for ages. We can settle up then.’

  ‘You can’t just abandon . . .’ Joe halted mid-stream. ‘What are you doing still here, anyway?’

  ‘I’m studying.’ Angie laughed. ‘But working behind your bar is much more fun. And before you ask, I am the course swot. I’m already ahead of everyone else. Working and socializing will do me the world of good. And it’ll save you from a heart attack, so accept reality. I’m here for the duration.’

  Joe did mutter on a bit, because he was a man. But, thanks to Angie’s superior debating skills, he did accept a version of practicality that would see him through to Ricky’s return. In other words, they soon agreed a shift arrangement committing each of them to no more than nine hours a day, allowing them both five hours rest and recreation while doubling up to cover the busiest spells.

  Money was, unsurprisingly, a touchy subject. Joe offered her far more than the going rate. Angie, ever into equity, negotiated him down, saying that she would accept a couple of drinks “after hours” by way of a makeweight. As she’d expected, Joe accepted the compromise.

  ‘Just don’t boss me around too much,’ she said in conclusion.

  Joe looked down her skimpy T and laughed. ‘I wouldn’t dare,’ he assured her.

  Chapter Seven

  Anyone who has ever worked behind a bar will know that conditions are usually cramped and contact between bodies is virtually unavoidable. Not that Angie experienced sexual harassment in any way.

  No, all the sexual harassment had come from her direction.

  Not that it set off as sexual.

  For four days the two of them worked the bar. They took breaks as agreed but never went any farther than the drinking area. In other words, taking into account “after hours”, they were spending sixty per cent of every day and as good as a hundred per cent of their waking lives together.

  In such circumstances two things can happen: total devotion or total hatred.

  By Monday lunchtime Angie reckoned her relationship with Joe had changed. They’d graduated from barman/customer, through boss/employee to . . .

  Well, she wasn’t sure exactly where they were at, but it was as equals. They were bickering as if they had been married ten years. Joe would often hog a beer pump and Angie would simply barge him out of the way. If that didn’t work, she’d pinch his bum until he moved.

  Yes, it was all virtually unavoidable and not at all sexual.

  Honestly.

  Monday was the first time Joe expressed uncertainty, business-wise. His “sources” had told him that two departments were going to descend on them at some stage, intent on drinking the Union dry.

  ‘It’s always the same,’ he complained. ‘You never know what’s going to happen. There’ll be a load of lecturers, post-grads, admin staff and God knows who else. They only ever socialize together once a year, showing a bit of humanity and what have you. Sometimes they drift away after a couple of quick ones. And sometimes they’re here all the way through.’

  ‘It sounds like quite a party,’ Angie replied. ‘Let’s hope they stay all the way through.’

  As it happened, they did.

  *****

  Angie never did discover which two departments descended on them. At her best guess Mathematics and Economics topped the bill. Whatever they were, there were lots of mature-looking people, thirsty, in high spirits and all arriving at noon in one big rush. By four in the afternoon very few of the revellers had drifted away and everyone was at least halfway drunk.

  The dynamic duo behind the bar included.

  Four o’clock and all the Christmas faves were blaring out from the juke: Slade and Wizzard along with Johnny Mathis and Boney M. And Mud, of course. Not to mention Band Aid and Queen.

  Joe didn’t forbid drinking behind the bar but did usually frown on it… yet not always. That particular afternoon he was actively encouraging festivity.

  Angie never did need much encouragement when pints of Marston’s were involved. She sank her fair share and made sure she was as festive as everyone else.

  She’d also downed enough to notice that Fiona and Molly were at their usual table, all over each other as ever and not joining in with the general dancing, singing and Christmas kissing.

  ‘So very predictable,’ she said the next time Molly came to the bar.

  Molly frowned at her.

  ‘Party-pooping,’ Angie enlarged.

  ‘We’re here, aren’t we?’

  ‘Huh, even five yards apart, you’re committed.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean you’ve escaped your ball and chain, but you’re still nowhere near any mistletoe.’

  ‘Same again,’ said Molly.

  Angie prepared the usual drinks and plonked them on the bar. And laughed, delighted to see that a sprig of green and white had appeared in Molly’s hand.

  She must have raided the decorations. Stealth attack or what!

  ‘Kiss first,’ said Molly. ‘I’ll pay you after.’

  Mildly surprised as she was, Angie leant over the bar and kissed her. Five seconds later, as she tried to pull away, Molly grabbed her by the shoulders.

  And kissed her like there was no tomorrow.

  Oblivious to a chorus of (mostly) male cheers, Angie kissed back. After maybe as long as five minutes of festive fun, they broke free.

  ‘Here,’ said Molly, handing her a fiver. ‘Keep the change. It was worth every penny.’

  Angie made change anyway. ‘I hope your girlfriend’s the understanding type,’ she said as she handed it over.

  ‘She gave me the mistletoe.’ Molly sniggered. ‘She’ll be here for her kiss in the next two minutes.’

  And she was.

  *****

  As the celebrations at last started to dwindle, Angie noticed that Joe was paying a lot of attention to an auburn-haired beauty. Perhaps forty, the beauty was well-dressed and had to be a lecturer.

  No, she had to be a film star.

  Angie hadn’t expected the bitter stab of envy. It hit her like a knife in the heart or acid in the face.

  Where had that come from?

  And why was she ready to commit murder?

  Serving customers while Joe charmed his charming audience, Angie brooded. There was no Mrs Joe; she knew that because she’d asked him, during one of their after-hours sessions. As far as balls and chains went, Gloria was the only commitment Joe had. But Gloria wasn’t currently on the scene, was she? And she had a hubby at home, even if she was bored with him.

  And what sort of ball and chain was someone else’s dissatisfied wife, come to that?

  Fit or not, Gloria was never going to be more than a distraction. Not to Joe or anyone else.

  That auburn-haired beauty, however . . .

  That auburn-haired beauty with a ring-free third finger . . .

  ‘Who on earth was that?’ Angie asked when the vision of loveliness finally departed, waving farewells to all and sundry, leaving Joe with no more than a peck on the cheek.

  ‘That was Professor Parkinson,’ he replied. ‘Isn’t she something else?’

  ‘She looks like an interesting woman,’ said Angie. Then she paused. Normally seeing so glamorous a woman would set her juices flowing. But not right now.

  Right now she wanted to claw the bitch’s eyes out.

  ‘I only ever see her once or twice a year,’ Joe went on, oblivious. ‘The less I see of her always leaves me wanting more, I guess.’

  *****

  The Christmas decorations had been put up in the Union in early December. Now, after closing on the Monday before the Big Day, they seemed to be a bit bedraggled. Angie didn’t care. Waiting while Joe was tilling-up in the back, she grabbed the freshest sprig of mistletoe she could find and relocated it.

  Then, helping herself to a Benedictine, she sat on her usual “after hours�
� stool, the lights turned down low.

  Joe soon joined her, bringing with him his usual glass of Tobermory.

  For perhaps half an hour they sat, sipping their fine spirits and batting the breeze.

  Good mates with nothing between them but friendship.

  Good mates with Angie secretly wishing the Parkinson woman dead, if unaware exactly why.

  ‘Shall we have one for the road?’ Joe said eventually, getting off his perch.

  ‘Ahem,’ went Angie, pointing up, above her head, pointing to the least bedraggled, best repositioned sprig.

  ‘How did that get there?’

  ‘Maybe by divine providence,’ said Angie. ‘Are you going to give me a Christmas kiss or what?’

  *****

  Kissing Joe was better than Angie had expected or intended; much, much better. Being blunt, it made her come very close to asking him to fuck her. But in the end he was a guy. Kissing guys was friendly, fucking with them was something else altogether.

  Not that he didn’t make the suggestion; politely but pointedly enough. And he did so without swearing, of course; his language was infinitely more refined than hers.

  ‘I can’t,’ she replied. ‘I’m a lezzie and I just can’t.’

  At that moment their bodies were pressed together. She’d felt Joe harden and pursued his groin when he attempted to move away.

  Pursuing it, pressing against it . . . imagining it moving inside her . . . yet still unable to say yes.

  She was, she supposed, the worst sort of tease.

  ‘I like you,’ she went on. ‘Maybe I like you too much. And I hate Professor Parkinson.’

  Joe laughed.

  ‘No, really,’ she continued, ‘she pecks you on the cheek then flaunts out of here like a tart. I might just track her down and punish her for that.’

  ‘Right,’ Joe laughed again. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever understand women.’

  Angie pressed tighter against his erection.

  ‘Me neither,’ she said.

  Chapter Eight

  If Monday had been frenetic, Christmas Eve was twice as bad. Leastways it was as the day went on. Early doors (as those in the know say in the pub trade), they were quiet. But, as time went by, more and more people crammed into the bar.

  And older people, Angie noted, almost gleefully. She liked older people, especially older people with pussies.

  In spite of those strange dreams she’d been having about Joe, older people with pussies were still up at the top of her list.

  Politely and efficiently serving on, Angie recalled that first dream. After Monday’s Christmas kissing she’d been unable to sleep so, taking her cue from that solitary pool player, she’d played herself left versus right. Left-handed she’d fantasized about Molly; right-handed she’d fantasized about Fiona.

  As a tactic it had worked. An hour of self-indulgence and she’d cheerfully nodded off.

  Only to wake from the most vivid dream she could ever remember. She’d been naked on a massive bed with an equally naked Joe on top of her, fucking her. And she’d loved it. She hadn’t been so keen on Professor Parkinson’s presence, though.

  Fully and expensively dressed, the Parkinson woman was on the bed with them, watching their every move and giving them tips and advice.

  Yes, giving tips and advice like the supercilious bitch she was.

  As if they’d needed touchline coaching! In real life Angie’s bedsheets were soaking. What they’d done in her sleep had been perfectly fine. In fact it had been so fine that, for the first time ever, she allowed her waking brain to fantasize about having sex with a man.

  And she’d used both hands to help herself along the way, blocking out Professor Bitch altogether.

  Other sleeping dreams had followed, some of them weird and all of them sexual. Waking in wetness had become an every-night occurrence. So too had continuing the job double-handed.

  I’ve been too long without a woman, she told herself now, automatically serving and trying to smile.

  It’s been well over a week. I’m going stir crazy.

  Talking of which . . .

  When Angie took her break she found Eileen slaughtering a group of four lads at darts . . . but not in a blatant sort of a way. As per always, she was keeping the scores close whilst ensuring she won. They were playing for a pint a game and Eileen was gallons up already.

  Angie grinned. She could tell that Eileen had the guys hooked. Their fragile egos couldn’t take defeat after defeat. And their fragile brains couldn’t detect how easily they were being had.

  It was winner stays on. Angie chalked up her name and, after a wait of half an hour or so, it was her turn to offer a challenge.

  ‘For a pint,’ Eileen said in greeting.

  ‘No,’ said Angie, ‘you know what it’s for.’

  Eileen obviously wasn’t going to go into detail with a mob of lads hovering, all eager to lose more beer to her.

  ‘Have three arrows,’ she said instead.

  As a game it wasn’t a contest. Eileen deliberately threw poor scores and, faced with double sixteen, Angie hit it at her first attempt.

  ‘I’ll put my name up again,’ Eileen said with a smile. ‘We can make it the best of three.’

  ‘Only if we’re cumulating the prizes,’ Angie countered. Then, nodding to the nearest lad: ‘I have to go back behind the bar. You take my place as defending champion.’

  ‘I owe you,’ Eileen said as Angie handed over her darts.

  ‘Right, as if I’d ever forget that!’ Angie edged her to one side, letting two tipsy guys start a new game. ‘You can settle up tonight,’ she went on. ‘My entire corridor is deserted. It won’t matter how much we moan and groan.’

  ‘My dad’s picking me up tonight.’ Eileen checked her watch. ‘Actually, he’ll be here any minute.’

  ‘Home for Christmas, is it?’ Angie tried to hide her disappointment.

  ‘Yes, home to Birkenhead. But I’ll be back on Monday. And I’ll have the flat to myself. We won’t have to worry about halls and corridors, moans and groans.’

  Angie couldn’t believe the girl was coming across so easily, albeit not soon enough. Not that she was going to sow seeds of doubt by admitting anything out loud. ‘I’m working here most of Monday,’ she said instead.

  ‘In that case I’ll catch you in here. And I’ll wait for you until last orders. Have a happy Christmas in the meantime.’

  *****

  Not quite due to resume her shift, Angie visited the ladies’, kicking herself for not making her second approach on Eileen sooner. If only she’d tried last night . . .

  If only Eileen’s dad wasn’t coming until tomorrow . . .

  If only girl-on-girl sex was freely available all day . . .

  Omigod, she thought, I’ve gone twelve days without. Call the Guinness Book of Records!

  In her opinion wet dreams and masturbation didn’t count. Neither did a handful of Christmas kisses.

  And it wasn’t all in her mind. Her body was physically craving human contact. Well, female contact, in an ideal world. But, right then, any contact would be acceptable.

  I’m a sex addict, she concluded. I’m a sex addict and the only turkey I’m getting is stone cold.

  The first thing she saw when she emerged from her cubicle was Fiona, fidgeting nervously by the row of hand-basins.

  ‘Molly’s talking to Ben from LGBT,’ she said, ‘we haven’t got long.’

  Angie gaped at her. Fiona responded by signalling the cubicle with her eyes.

  Two seconds later they were bolted away together, out of sight, kissing passionately. Angie’s senses spun. The sheer unexpectedness was as thrilling as the risks they were running.

  Then Fiona took her hand and drew it inside her skirt. Left to its own devices, her hand moved onto Fiona’s stomach then slid down, into her flimsy, rather damp knickers.

  Fiona gasped and kissed even harder.

  Excitement was crackling in the air about them. Angie fleetingly t
ook in the feel of Fiona’s landing strip and then progressed so her palm was on a noticeably erect clit and her fingertips were nearly, almost but not quite penetrating a hot and wet vagina.