Luck of Love

by Aleman, Tiffany

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Epilogue

  “Dean, have you seen my tank top for work?” I yell down the hall from my room. Digging around in my dresser, I frantically toss clothes behind me looking for that damn tank top. Where is it?

  All I’ve ever wanted to do since the tender age of twelve is to feel normal and do normal things: color my hair some crazy color, wear makeup, go to parties, and go on dates. I have a thing for fashion. I may be sarcastic, bitchy even, but I always look damn good doing it. I wish that I could have taken the opportunity to date when I was in high school. Boys liked me and asked me out plenty of times, but I always declined. When I was twelve, someone stole all those dreams of normal from me. If that hadn’t happened, then maybe Dean wouldn’t always be harping on me when I turn guys down.

  “Blake, did you look in the dryer?” Dean yells back. Sometimes, he says, “If you didn't have me to look after you, you’d be lost.” I have to say, I agree. Sure, I have a few acquaintances, but I only have two close friends, Dean and Rachel.

  Growing up in the small town of Golden Beach, Florida, everyone knew everyone. With a population of less than a thousand people, enemies came easy, but friends were rare. Rachel Montgomery is one of my closest friends. She’s stuck by me through thick and thin. She has such an incredible outlook on life. As captain of both the volleyball and cheerleading teams, people seemed drawn to her joyful spirit, friendly attitude and beautiful smile. If there was a queen to be crowned or a class officer position available, Rachel often found herself nominated for the position. Rachel is the complete package. How could a person not love her?

  In high school, she would tell me that I needed to do more. Now that I am, she can’t help but to express how she feels about it. Yesterday she told me, “I know that you want to be free to live your life and discover yourself, but why did you have to wait until you were in New Jersey to do it?” she whined. She always figured we would end up going off to college together at the University of Florida, but I had different plans.

  Digging through the dryer, I finally find the damn tank top that Frankie insists I wear to bartend. I have never understood why I couldn’t wear a regular T-shirt. Sighing as relief floods through me, I pass Dean while running back to my room and looking over my shoulder, “Where would I be without you?”

  “Late to work?” His sarcastic comment is not funny.

  Jerking my shirt on as I slam the door, I yell back, “Smartass!”

  Dean knows that I’m a procrastinator. He has an organized system from which he rarely strays. He has his papers done at least a week in advance and goes to the gym twice a day. The other day Dean and I were doing our homework together. I was rummaging through my notes when I couldn’t find my handout for our economics class. “Hey, can I see your handout on the stock market from last week?”

  Without looking up at me, lost in his own work he answered, “Yeah, it’s on my desk.”

  Walking into his room, I broke out in hysterics when I saw his desk. Grabbing the handout, I walked back to the kitchen table. Trying to stifle my laughter, Dean looked up at me and said, “What’s so funny?”

  Holding up the handout as if it was not obvious, I said, “I can’t believe you color coded your courses.”

  Rolling his eyes and with a slight shake of his head he said, “Well you found what you were looking for, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, but why did you color code economics green? Out of all colors, green?”

  He shrugged his shoulders and gave me a pointed look like the answer was obvious. “The color green symbolizes money and money equals economics.”

  Shaking my head, I reach for the door, and look back at Dean who is sitting on the couch. “All right, I'm leaving for work; I’ll see you in an hour, yeah?”

  Looking at me over his shoulder he said, “Yeah, I’ll see you in a bit.”

  I love that our apartment is above the bar where we both work but has stairs on the outside, so we don’t feel as if we live above a bar. Stepping outside I take in the fragrance of the fresh fall air that New Jersey has to offer. Fall isn’t a season I’ve been exposed to, considering where I grew up. Yes, the temperatures would get cooler, but not as crisp as New Jersey’s. I love experiencing mid-autumn here in Ocean City.

  The fall foliage is by far my most favorite part of the season. I take in the red, yellow and orange hues of the leaves that are barely a whisper away from falling off their trees. Some people may associate the fall with death. I associate it with new beginnings that are yet to come.

  With a chill in the air, people pass me with lightweight jackets, scarves, and their boots that have been awaiting the return of cooler weather. Coffee shops, slow and sleepy during the summer months, have awakened from their slumber. The busiest season is approaching quickly because fall turns into winter seemingly overnight here in the north.

  As I make my way down the stairs from my apartment, I only have to take twenty steps, and I’m inside “Frankie’s Tavern”, the bar’s not extravagant by anyone’s terms, but is homey in its own way. With red brick that wraps around the building, it has a 1930s feel to it. In front of the building hangs a worn red and white canvas awning that has seen better days. It hangs over the heavy rustic oak doors that lead into my second home.

  As a bartender, I interact with people from all different lifestyles. With my parents’ success, material things have been easy for me. Material possessions will never fill the longing for a life filled with some sense of purpose, excitement and normalcy.

  Entering Frankie’s, I look around at white brick walls, with sports memorabilia hanging all over the place. Frankie is from New York, and is the biggest Yankees fan that I have ever met. It makes sense that I’ve come accustomed with the “greats” as Frankie calls them, such as Babe Ruth “The Great Bambino,” Joe DiMaggio, and Mickey Mantle.

  I appreciate the fact that Frankie has two prominent loves in his life, the Yankees and his bar. He never had children but always likes to remind me that I’m the daughter that he never had. When I applied here two and a half years ago, Frankie liked the fact that I was “innocent” – if he only had an idea of how innocent I actually am – and that I left home to follow my aspirations of going to college at Rowan University. After graduating, I planned on eventually moving to New York City and starting my career in an advertising firm. I’m pursuing my degree in advertising after all. Selling a fake persona is what I know.

  “Hey Frankie, are you ready for tonight?” Saturday nights are always the busiest. The college crowds like coming up to the coast. Everyone loves bonfires on the beach and live bands at awesome bars.

  “Blake, the best bartender in all of New Jersey, how are you my dear?” Frankie’s thick
New York accent is still appealing to me. I shake my head and chuckle at his choice of words. That’s Frankie for you. He is always trying to get me into a playful mood. Walking back behind the bar, he bumps my hip with his as I pass by him.

  Stumbling over him, I give him an incredulous look and ask, “What was that for?”

  Shrugging his shoulders he says, “I don’t know. I just felt like doing it, and watching you stumble was worth it.”

  With a slight chuckle, I smile at him, shaking my head. His playful banter never gets old.

  Cranking up the radio to my newest favorite song, “One More Night”, by Maroon 5 I begin re-stocking the bar. Swaying my hips in time with the beat, I start prepping for a busy night.

  Dean comes to me right before we open and tells me that we already have a line wrapping around the building. I knew it was going to be busy; “Rude” is playing tonight. They are a local band that’s becoming more and more popular with the college crowd. Their music has an alluring sound between rock and pop, and it doesn’t hurt that they are all ridiculously attractive. Everyone also knows that Saturday is our best night for drink specials. “Blake, I just saw that Ryan’s in line. He waved me over and asked about you. I know he’s going to ask you out again, and you better not turn him down this time.” Dean narrows his eyes at me daring me to argue with him.

  “Dean, I’ll see what I can do as a favor to you, but I can’t make any promises. I know you only want to see me happy, and I appreciate it. Actually, I’m the happiest I’ve been in a long time.” I hope he can hear the pleading in my voice. I’m practically begging him not to make a big deal out of this. I couldn’t be happier when Dean rolls his eyes and walks away from me. I don’t need him reminding me about the one thing that I already know I’m missing.

  I love when it’s busy. The energy pounds through me like the beat of a drum. I also love when it’s slow; the ambiance is completely different. There aren’t a hundred different people yelling drink orders at me, snobby college bitches giving me dirty looks because their boyfriends are flirting with me, and I don’t have to yell over the music to talk to customers.

  As I’m making drinks for the busy crowd, I notice Ryan approach the bar. He comes here every Saturday night. He’s a likeable guy I guess, and attractive, with his dark brown hair, large brown eyes and a build that lets you know he works out. He stands a few inches taller than I do. That doesn’t say much since I’m 5’3. He always dresses like a preppy college boy who attends one too many frat parties. It comes as no surprise that he’s in a fraternity, which definitely makes him not my type. “Hey Blake, you're looking great as usual.” I roll my eyes and wonder if he honestly thinks that line works on women?

  In an annoyed tone and a forced smile I answer, “Hey Ryan, you drinking your usual?”

  “Baby, you always know what I like. There’s this party near campus tomorrow night, and I wanted to see if you would come with me.” He gives me a seductive look and tosses me a wink. I cringe at the thought of going to a party with him. It pisses me off that he had the balls to call me baby. Seriously, he was checking that brunette out on the dance floor who was grinding her ass against some guy a few seconds ago. Okay, maybe he doesn’t take subtle so well. I’ll clear it up for him right now.

  “Ryan, as sweet as that was, I do not want to be nor will I ever be your baby. I do not want to date you. I do not want to go to a party with you, especially when you can't seem to keep your eyes in your head when another female walks by you.” I say this in my best southern drawl, my words dripping with sarcasm while I flutter my eyelashes at him. Maybe that will clue him into my disinterest of him. He just looks at me with his jaw unhinged from his face. He grabs his drink and storms away from the bar. I mentally pat myself on the back for finally getting through to him.

  A couple of hours into my shift, I look up to see Dean approaching me. “Hey, I just got a text from a friend of mine who lives in the city. He wants to come over next Friday. I’m going to ask Frankie for the night off so we can hang out. Are you cool with him crashing at our place?”

  “Yeah, that’s fine with me. Besides, I have to work that night anyway,” I say with a shrug.

  Nodding his head, he gives me a smile that lights up his eyes. “Thanks.” I watch him retreat to the door as one of the sexiest men I have ever seen approaches the bar.

  His denim jeans have that pre-wash effect going on and match perfectly with his white button-up shirt covering his broad shoulders. His rolled sleeves stop at his elbows displaying the corded muscles in his forearms. I know he’s not from around here. Most people in this town do not dress or look like him. He’s tall, lean, and the most attractive man I’ve ever seen. He has dark brown hair, and when he combs his fingers through it, I can see a slight wave in it. A small piece falls forward, resting on his forehead. The slight bump in his nose lets me know it has been broken at some point in his life. His lips, oh his lips, are perfect. The bottom one is fuller than the top, and they look perfectly mesmerizing and succulent. Mmm…I would love to feel those lips on mine. Wait. What? Where did that just come from? I shouldn’t be having these thoughts.

  I hear people calling out their drink orders, but I just can’t look away from him. His long strides bring him closer to the bar. He looks around as if trying to decide if he wants to be here. I silently plead for him to look my way so I can see his eyes. When he does, I’m not disappointed. They are the most intense color of hazel that I’ve ever seen. Deep set into his masculine, handsome face, they aren’t just any hazel color. They have honey-colored flecks and make my damn knees weak.

  Come on Blake, be a professional here. Stop staring at what has to be an Armani model. Shaking my head to clear these thoughts, I try to focus on the other customers. Silently, I pray that he’ll turn around and leave. Frankie’s doesn’t look like a place he would come to normally. When he takes a seat at the end of the bar, I get pissed. I’m not pissed at him; I’m pissed off at myself. Obviously, I have been attracted to other men before, but I’ve never acted on it. He was not going to be an exception or anything; I’ve just never been this physically attracted to someone. Now, I have to serve his ass too.

  The drive from Atlantic City to Ocean City is about thirty-minutes away. I’m so glad the university, where I agreed to lead a seminar, is close by. I’d already agreed before checking into it. The President of the University had said the business students would benefit considerably from my words of expertise. Rowan University offered to put me up in a hotel near the campus when I had agreed to come, but I politely declined. I wanted to stay close to Atlantic Knight’s Resort in case they needed me.

  Sliding the key card into its reader, I push open the door to the penthouse suite. Walking in, the foyer opens up to a large living area. Light blue and grey tones color the walls. The artwork throughout the suite is tastefully decorated. The large L-shaped couch is white and plush. To my left is a full service kitchen with a dining area and floor to ceiling windows make up the entire back wall. Walking over to a set of double doors on my right, I push them open and it leads me into the bedroom. The room is chic and modern with a mahogany four-poster king sized bed covered in black linens and a white duvet. Nightstands placed on each side of the bed hold lamps; one holds an alarm clock while the other holds the phone. On the far wall sits a table with two chairs, an armoire sits in the opposite corner. The bathroom is magnificent, with marble flooring throughout. There’s a jetted whirlpool tub large enough to fit three people, and a large shower enclosed in glass walls sits at the end of the tub enclosed in its own alcove.

  Looking over at the clock on the nightstand it reads 9:00 p.m. Tearing my eyes away from the presentation I’ve been working on, I decide I need a break. Grabbing my keys and wallet off the nightstand, I head out to get a drink.

  Driving through the city, I notice a line of people waiting outside of an old building. I pull in and decide to check it out. Walking towards the back of the line, I can feel the vibrations of the bass pumpi
ng through me. When I finally step up in front of the bouncer, I pull out my wallet and hand him my driver’s license. A chalkboard reads . I’ve never heard of the band, but from what I can tell, they don’t sound half-bad.

  After paying my cover fee, I walk in and see Yankees memorabilia everywhere. Yep, I already like this place. It’s obviously a popular spot for the locals. The small dance floor in front of the band holds people that are dancing; some are just swaying with the beat while others are grinding their bodies together. Only the lights above the bar help illuminate the place.

  This place is packed. Shoulders ram into me as I make my way to the bar. The sexiest woman I’ve ever seen stands behind it and I can’t help but stare at her. Our eyes lock for a fraction of a second, but it’s enough time for me to see an edge of tension around those amazing green eyes. She quickly snaps her attention back to the customer in front of her. Finding an empty seat at the end of the bar, it takes everything I have in me not to stare at her.

  She finally walks over and asks what I’d like to drink. She stands behind the bar in a black tank top, with a natural tan, and long straight blonde hair. She’s simply beautiful. She’s shorter than I am by at least a foot. Most bar owners focus on the sex appeal of their bartenders to help sell drinks. The uniforms they usually have them wear help accent their voluptuous features. Although only a small amount of her cleavage is exposed, this woman doesn’t need to accentuate anything.

  Shaking my head and cupping my hand behind my ear, I yell over to her, “I'm sorry, what?”

  Leaning closer, she yells back, “I said, what can I get for you?” Her tone carries a slight edge to it, and I can’t help but wonder who pissed her off.

  “I'll take a Miller Lite on draft if you have it.” Smiling tightly, she nods and turns around to grab a glass. While she pours my drink, I notice her low riding, hip hugging jeans. Her ass is full, plump and rounded; in other words, perfect. This woman really is the whole package.

  The soft pads of her fingertips brush against mine as she hands me my glass. Surprisingly, those are the softest fingers I’ve ever felt. Electricity moves up my arm, and I would swear lightning just struck me. Her eyes go wide, and she lets out a little gasp; I know she just felt it too. I notice that her breathing is shallower than it should be, and I can’t help but smile at her. I see the corner of her lips tug into a grin, and in a flash, it’s gone.