[Reluctant Hearts 01.0] Caged in Winter

by Brighton Walsh

  “Sweetheart. Hey, sweetheart!”

  I’m so wrapped up in my fantasy, it takes me a moment to realize a guy from table seven is talking to me. I hate this part of the night. Those thirty minutes before last call, when everyone is drunk on alcohol and the prospect of getting lucky. The men get rowdy and restless…never a good combination.

  “What can I get you?”

  He crooks his finger at me, beckoning me closer. Internally, I roll my eyes, but my face holds the mask I’ve perfected in the time I’ve worked here, and I lean forward until his whiskey breath whispers across my cheek.

  “You can get me your number.”

  This isn’t the first time I’ve been propositioned, and it’s definitely the tamer kind I’ve heard. By now, I have a system in place. In the time it takes me to imagine what I’d do if this asshole told me that outside these four walls, I keep my eyes down and allow a hint of a smile to curve my lips, shuttering my real thoughts from him. When it seems like I’ve had long enough to actually contemplate his words, I offer him a regretful look, the corners of my mouth turned down. “I’d love to, but we’re not allowed to give our numbers to the customers.”

  “Just pretend you’re not working, then.”

  I’m standing close enough for his arm to snake around my back, his hand settling on my waist. After thirteen months of working here, I’ve gotten pretty good at reading people. I know from fairly early on which guys are going to hassle me, which ones are harmless flirts, which ones will get handsy by the end of the night. I called this guy as the latter when he was two beers in…six drinks ago. It makes my skin crawl, but I’ve had a long time to practice this façade. I could win a freaking Oscar for the performances I put on here.

  I lean into him slightly—just enough to make him think I’d actually be interested…if only we met at a different time, in a different place—and point to the back corner where a mirrored window reflects back at us. “I’d love to, but my boss is watching. I can’t afford to get fired.” The latter, at least, is true.

  Sometimes they’re satisfied when I feed them the whole my boss is watching line. Sometimes all I need to do is flirt a little bit, bat my eyelashes, flash a smile, bite my bottom lip. Sometimes that’s not enough, and I need to lean into them, touch their forearm or their shoulder. Those nights aren’t so bad. I still feel dirty after I leave, and I take a shower as soon as I get home, attempting to wash the disgust off me. And then I mark off the days on my calendar and remind myself this isn’t for nothing. I’m paving my path the best way I can. The only way I can on my own.

  But sometimes none of those work. And this is one of those times. Even though I was expecting it, it’s still jarring when his hand slides from my waist until he’s got a handful of my ass. If I felt threatened, I’d whip out one of the half-dozen self-defense moves I know, call for Randy, hope he actually did something, and walk away. In all the time I’ve worked here, I’ve only had to do that once, though. And even then, it wasn’t Randy who came to help, but Annette. Usually, like now, these guys are harmless. Disgusting, perverted pigs, but harmless. Sure, he smells like cheap cologne and alcohol, and he’s got something stuck in his teeth, but he’s too wasted to prove to be a real threat to me.

  I do a quick scan of the table, noticing the three other guys packing up their shit, divvying up the check, paying no attention to the dickbag with his hand on my ass. They’ve been here taking up one of my tables for three hours. Three hours of lewd remarks they think I can’t hear. Three hours of leers and whispers about my ass or my boobs. And now it’s down to five minutes…ten, tops. That’s all the longer I need to make it, and hopefully the show I gave them will be enough to warrant a tip large enough to justify feeling dirty.

  Sometimes I wonder if I wouldn’t be better off heading to Roxy’s, the strip club down the street, and just getting it over with. At least there, there are no pretenses. Take your clothes off, rake in your tips, go home. And there’d be no touching. I’m not the thinnest or the most voluptuous girl, but that doesn’t seem to matter to the guys. If my mother taught me anything in the seven years I was with her, it’s to use your body to your advantage if you can.

  Before I can smile or bite my lip or laugh, lean in and rest my fingers on his chest and tell him how much I wish I could bend the rules, he yelps and his hand is gone from my ass. I whirl around to a brick wall of gray cotton, and look up, up, up until I get to the clenched jaw of some guy I’ve never met. His dark hair is buzzed short, the bulk of his body nearly obscene, the forearms peeking out of his sleeves covered in ink, but that’s all I notice before I’m focusing on the fact that he’s got Handsy Asshole’s arm bent and twisted up and against his back, and he’s whispering something in his ear. Something too low for me to hear.

  And while I don’t have my customer’s hands on me or his breath in my face or his eyes fucking my body, I can’t focus on what relief I feel because all I can think is that this guy—this asshole who got a little handsy—was how I was going to buy groceries.

  And any chance I had of getting a tip probably vanished the second this giant of a man swept his way into something that’s none of his business in the first place.

  cade

  I spotted her somewhere between discussing the shot made in the final three seconds to win last night’s game and the latest version of Halo. It would make me sound like more of a guy if I said I was drawn to her because of her tits in that nonexistent shirt or her ass hanging out of those shorts that might as well be panties—which, yeah, I noticed both. But the truth is, her eyes were what drew me in.

  They look…lifeless.

  Sure, she’s got the smile plastered on. She’s got the glances down—the slight lift at the corner of her mouth, the lip bite—but she’s got this air of disdain surrounding her. She’s not like the other waitresses—the ones you can tell love working here. They flirt and laugh and touch. It’s obvious they thrive on the attention they get in a place like this.

  Not her.

  She hates it here.

  Someone who isn’t really looking, who isn’t really paying attention to her, might not notice, but I do. Her dead eyes give her away.

  I can’t blame her. Working here, surrounded by half-drunk men when you’re wearing less than some people wear on the beach, has to be tough. The thought of Tessa or Haley ever having to do this makes me sick, and I have to remind myself I’d never let it happen. That’s why we’re so careful with our money, why we scrimp and save even though we don’t have to. Why I work part-time even though the house is paid off, even though my mom made certain we were taken care of. Just in case. If our past has taught us one thing, it’s that anything can happen.

  All night, I’ve sat quietly, watching a group of four guys a couple tables over getting progressively louder and more aggressive. I’ve gotten bits and pieces of their conversation—when she’s been near, and when she’s been out of earshot—and it’s done nothing but ignite my temper. I’m waiting for one of them—probably the douche with the fedora—to grab her and pull her into his lap or spill his drink all over her shirt and mop it up with his napkins for an excuse to feel her up. I’m sort of hoping he does, just so I have a reason to confront the shithead.

  Jason is bitching about some basketball player, and everyone around me groans, but all I can see is the table three over from ours. The girl with the dead eyes comes back, and my skin boils as I watch Fedora Asshole beckon her forward and whisper in her ear. She shakes her head, points toward the back corner, and offers him a sad smile, though I can tell it’s insincere. She’s not sorry about whatever she just turned him down for. And based on the conversation I’ve caught bits and pieces of, it wasn’t anything tame. He probably asked her to suck him off in the bathroom.

  And then clumsy as all shit, his drunk-ass slides his hand down until it rests on her ass. She stiffens subtly, and I’m out of my chair before I can blink, my legs eating up the space between us until I’m right next to him.

  I
don’t think as I grab his hand, twisting it up and behind his back, pressing until I hear him groan. The image of Tessa or Haley in a place like this with a slimy jackass groping them hits me once again, and I push against this asshole harder, feeling a sick sense of satisfaction wash over me as his pained protests meet my ears.

  I lean in, my voice quiet and controlled as I say, “If a girl says no, you listen, fucker.”

  Two

  winter

  The whole thing takes maybe two minutes—from the second the sleazy guy puts his arm around me until he’s practically falling out of his chair to leave. Two minutes. After three hours of waiting on them. Of smiles and flirtation and not slapping them across their faces when they placed their order straight to my nipples.

  All that effort…gone. Erased. In two fucking minutes.

  My customer scrambles out of his chair, his friends following behind, eyes wide as they toss money onto the table and hustle out. Before they’re even out the door, I’m counting it and checking it against the total of their bill, praying that even with this behemoth next to me, obviously threatening them, they managed to leave me a little something. Hell, I’d take five bucks at this point. Five bucks could buy me breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

  When I’ve triple-checked my math, I hang my head, my eyes closing, shoulders slumping. I take three deep breaths, hoping for a calm I know won’t come.

  Seventeen cents. They left me seventeen cents.

  I try not to panic, reminding myself I’ve gotten through worse than this. I’ve gone longer without any money on hand. Rent’s due tomorrow, and with my other tables, I’d made enough to cover it—just barely—but these guys were my meal ticket.

  I’m off tomorrow and don’t have another shift until the following night, which means I’m going to have to last two days on whatever I can scrounge up in my kitchenette. Which isn’t much. I’ll have to ask Randy if I can pick up an extra shift tomorrow, even though he gets off on saying no, like he knows when I need it and refuses to help.

  “Hey, are you okay?” A large hand settles over the expanse of my shoulder, pulling me out of my thoughts.

  And all at once, my day catches up with me. The classes that are kicking my ass and running late tonight and having wasted three hours for a measly seventeen fucking cents, and I snap.

  I whirl around, jabbing my finger into his too-large chest as I glare at him. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

  cade

  Her sharp words and the fire in her eyes surprise me. I thought she’d be grateful, maybe offer a thank-you, but if the set of her jaw and the flattened line of her lips—Jesus, those lips—are any indication, she isn’t just mad. She’s livid.

  Did I read it all wrong? Was she interested in that slimy asshole? Did she welcome his hands on her? But I know I saw her spine stiffen when he grabbed her ass. I saw her inch away from him. I know I did.

  I open my mouth a couple times to say something, but nothing comes out. Which is probably good, because it seems she has a lot to say.

  “I asked who you thought you were, dickhead.” She pokes her finger into my chest again, and even though the top of her head doesn’t even come up to my shoulder and she can’t weigh more than a buck ten, she exudes a don’t fuck with me vibe like some of the biggest linebackers I ever encountered when I was still playing football. “You always go into people’s places of employment, shove your way in with your too big shoulders and your giant arms, and manhandle whatever issues you see until you’re satisfied?”

  Her voice gets louder with every word that comes out of her mouth until I feel nearly every pair of eyes in the pub looking at us. I still can’t find any words, dumbfounded by a reaction completely opposite from what I expected. And struck mute by the sight of her. She looks like an avenging angel, with her long, dark hair, the flush of her cheeks, the fire in her eyes, and the rage rolling off her.

  If I thought she was hot with her mask in place, it has nothing on this pure, concentrated version of her.

  She’s fucking gorgeous.

  “Oh, now you don’t have anything to say.” She throws her hands up and walks a tight circle before she faces me again, pointing an accusatory finger at me. “Do you think I work here for fun? Do you think I like having my ass grabbed or my tits ‘accidentally’ grazed by these drunk, perverted assholes?” Before I can answer, she snaps, “No! I work here for the fucking money, and now I’m out—” She snatches the bill off the table, and her lips move almost indecipherably before she glares at me again, spitting, “Thirty-eight dollars, thanks to you.”

  “I’m sor—”

  She holds up her hand, stopping me before I can finish. “I don’t want your goddamn sorries. Go hop on your horse, Prince Charming, and save some other girl. I don’t need your help.” She spins, her short legs chomping up the floor space between me and the back of the restaurant, and then she’s gone, disappearing behind a swinging door.

  I stand there for a couple minutes, vaguely aware of the rumbling laughs coming from my group of friends. Before I can think too much about it, I grab a couple twenties out of my wallet and toss them on the table. They were supposed to be for yellowfin tuna to make Seared Ahi Tuna Steaks, but I’ll have to make them next week. It’s practice anyway, not for a grade, and it’s clear this girl needs the money more than I do.

  “Bet that didn’t go how you expected,” Jason yells, and the rest of the guys crack up.

  I flip him off, glancing to where she disappeared into the back, remembering the heat in her eyes and her rigid stance, and Christ, everything about this girl is getting under my skin. “Not exactly,” I mumble to myself, unsure on when or if I’ll ever see her again.

  Three

  winter

  The campus is always busiest this time of the day, with so many classes just starting. I generally avoid it like the plague, getting to the Arts Building earlier, but I was running behind, having spent too much of my morning thinking about the events of the night before. I can’t believe the balls on that guy. First, he jumps in without prompting, attempting to rescue me—me! I snort, shaking my head as I dodge a group of students on the sidewalk. I can’t remember the last time I needed rescuing. When you grow up alone, passed around from foster home to foster home, you learn really damn quick to get self-sufficient.

  And then after he “rescues” me, after I tell him to fuck off, he has the audacity to toss money on the table for me?

  There isn’t a doubt in my mind it was him, either. Who else would it have been? The rest of the girls, while they watched the entire sordid affair, wouldn’t have given up forty bucks of their own tips just because I got screwed out of mine.

  And those dickbags who bailed didn’t come back in. The one who had his hand on my ass looked like he was about to piss his pants as he scrambled out of his seat. No way was he setting foot inside again, especially so soon after he made his escape.

  That pretty much seals the deal that Prince Charming swooped in, trying to save me again. Apparently he didn’t hear any of the words of venom I spewed at him. He was probably looking down my shirt while I was losing my shit, too engrossed in my boobs to pay attention to anything I said.

  The anger fuels me all the way through my walk across campus, daydreaming what I’d do, what I’d say, if I saw him again. I don’t know if I ever will, but the cash he left is stuffed in my pocket. Just in case. Just in case I get the chance to slap it against his chest and give him a piece of my mind—again—since he was obviously too thickheaded to hear me the first time.

  Until I do, though, it burns a hole in my pocket, thoughts of what I could buy flitting through my head. And it isn’t even anything fun. Instead of thinking about buying a new pair of shoes or books or name-brand shampoo, I’m thinking about groceries. Bread, meat, maybe even those soft, frosted cookies I love but only let myself indulge in if I’ve got more than a hundred-dollar cushion for my bills. Even still, I refuse to spend it.

  I’ve gotten by on my own for f
ifteen years. I certainly don’t need anyone’s help now.

  cade

  “Cade. Cade!”

  I snap my head up and glance toward Tessa as she pokes her head out of the kitchen. “What?”

  “Haley’s been talking to you for five minutes. What’s your deal?”

  “Sorry.” I shake my head and turn my attention to my niece who’s sitting on the other end of the couch. “What’s up, short stuff?”

  “Wanna play dolls?” Her big brown eyes—the only thing she got from her deadbeat father—implore me, and like always, I can’t say no. Fortunately, she’s too young to realize the true power she wields over me, but it won’t be that way forever. God help me when she’s sixteen and knows she can get anything from me simply by batting her eyelashes.

  “Sure. Go get ’em ready. I’ll be right in.” Before I’ve even finished talking, she climbs down from the couch, her stumpy legs pounding the carpet as she runs as fast as she can down the hall.

  “Seriously. What’s with you?” Tessa asks as she walks into the living room.

  I toss the game controller next to me on the couch, letting my head fall back as I close my eyes. “How do you know anything’s with me?” It’s futile, but I ask anyway. Tessa knows me better than anyone. There’s no doubt in my mind she’s noticed the shift in my mood.

  “Well, for one thing you’ve died five times in the past ten minutes on that stupid game that you love so much. For another thing, you’ve been quiet all afternoon.”

  “Maybe I just don’t want to talk to you.”

  She laughs and swats me against the back of my head as she walks past. “Please. You live to talk to me.”