I don’t want to talk about it.
“The good tippers will more than make up for the bad tippers, I promise,” she says. “Stick with it. It’s going to get better.”
I give her a close-lipped smile.
“On a good note, you did your first table all by yourself, and you did wonderfully,” she says. “You might not even need to shadow me!”
Not like this job is rocket science …
“You want to try another?” she asks. “There’s a table of young guys you can have. They just sat down. Three of them. The younger ones are the better tippers.”
Glancing to the main floor, I watch them. Just a few college-aged buddies sitting down for lunch. One has his nose in his phone and the other two are laughing about something. They don’t look like ass-grabbers.
“Yeah. I’ll take it,” I offer, sucking up my pride and making my way to the guys. “Hi, I’m Halston. I’ll be taking care of you today.”
Two of the guys nudge each other, exchanging looks. I almost wonder if I have something in my teeth when I glance down and see my left breast is almost completely out of my top—half of my nipple is showing.
“Sorry. I was going to say something,” the guy on the left said.
Yeah, right.
“You’re gorgeous by the way,” the middle guy says. “I saw you when we walked in. Was hoping we’d get you. You’re new, aren’t you?”
I nod. “First day. Go easy on me.”
The guys smile and keep their eyes on mine for the time being, though I’m sure they have every intention of checking out my ass when I walk away.
“What are we drinking?” I ask, lifting my pad and pen.
The guys order two beers and an iced tea, and they seem more focused on the TVs above the bar area than scoping out all the beautiful, scantily-clad servers. Maybe it’s enough for them to be in the mere presence of half-naked women? Or they all have girlfriends, budding relationships, and this is the closest they’re going to get to a strip club until their respective bachelor parties.
Either way, I’m content with this table, and when they leave, they each tip me five dollars.
“What’d you get?” Courtney asks. “Damnnn. Fifteen bucks on a fifty-dollar table. That’s amazing. Told you the young ones tip the best.”
Courtney has bottle blonde hair with dark roots, rocks a spray tan, and smells like she showers in Sun Ripened Raspberry body spray, but she spends the rest of the afternoon encouraging me, distracting me from watching the clock.
When the next shift comes in, we head back to tally up our tips, and I walk away with almost a hundred dollars.
Courtney has two hundred and fifty.
“Will I see you back here tomorrow?” she asks.
Staring at her pile of cash, I nod.
I need to take my pride out of this equation and take a page from her book.
The hustle begins now.
Chapter 8
Ford
Absinthe: “Many years have passed since that night. The wall of the staircase up which I had watched the light of his candle gradually climb was long ago demolished. And in myself, too, many things have perished which I imagined would last forever, and new ones have arisen, giving birth to new sorrows and new joys which in those days I could not have foreseen, just as now the old are hard to understand.”
Kerouac: Good evening to you, too.
Absinthe: Reading Proust. Swann’s Way. That really spoke to me. Just wanted to share it.
Kerouac: Melancholy mood tonight?
Absinthe: Lost in thought kind of mood tonight.
Kerouac: Same difference. Either way, don’t linger there too long. It’s not good for you.
Absinthe: Tell me about your day. I need a distraction from mine.
Kerouac: Life isn’t half as bad as you think it is, Absinthe.
Absinthe: Easy for you to say.
Kerouac: How about you tell me about yours first?
Absinthe: Started a new job. Hate it.
Kerouac: What kind of job?
Absinthe: Customer service.
Kerouac: Vague, but okay.
Absinthe: There are customers. And I serve them.
Kerouac: You can say you’re a waitress. There’s no shame in that.
Absinthe: Server, Kerouac. The politically correct term is server.
Kerouac: My mistake. So you hate it?
Absinthe: So much.
Kerouac: So find something else.
Absinthe: That’s the plan. Just have to tough it out a little longer. The money’s not bad.
Kerouac: Christ, Absinthe, don’t do any job for the money. That’s the worst thing you could do.
Absinthe: Not everyone has a choice. Unfortunately, I wasn’t born with a silver spoon.
Kerouac: Silver spoons sometimes rust.
Absinthe: You speak from experience?
Kerouac: Perhaps.
Absinthe: You blow through Daddy’s trust fund?
Kerouac: No.
Absinthe: Then what happened? You can’t make a statement like that and leave me hanging.
Kerouac: It’s a story for another time. Wounds are still fresh.
Absinthe: Whatever. You going to tell me about your day or what?
Kerouac: I went to work. Held a meeting. That’s about it.
Absinthe: What do you do for a living?
Kerouac: That’s private information.
Absinthe: Okay, fine. So you’re the boss of wherever you work?
Kerouac: You could say that. I’m in charge, yes. I run the place.
Absinthe: You like being in control?
Kerouac: Very much.
Absinthe: What’s your favorite sexual position? Since you like being in control so much?
Kerouac: Doggy style. Terrible name. Fucking amazing position.
Absinthe: Ugh.
Kerouac: What?
Absinthe: That’s my least favorite. I don’t like being fucked like a dog.
Kerouac: You speak from experience?
Absinthe: I do.
Kerouac: Then you’ve never experienced it with the right man.
Absinthe: Okay, so how would it be with you? Since you’re apparently the authority on doggy-style sex.
Kerouac: I am. And I’d be glad to share that with you. First of all, I’d place you on your hands and knees, spreading your thighs before tonguing your pussy from behind to put you at ease. When you’re soft and wet, I’d take my position behind you, gripping your hips with one hand and teasing your clit with the tip of my cock before gliding myself deep inside you, one teasing inch at a time. Once your pussy is clenched around my cock, I’d control your hips, making them meet my cock thrust for thrust as you rub your clit. I won’t go fast, and I won’t go slow. I’ll take my time, ensuring you feel every inch of me filling you, rubbing against your g-spot. And when you get close to the most amazing orgasm you’ve ever had in your life, I’d gather your hair in my hand, guiding you closer to me, my body leaning over yours so you can taste yourself on my lips as you come all over my cock as your hips writhe against me.
Absinthe: Fuck. Um. Wow.
Kerouac: Deeper, hotter, harder.
Absinthe: Sold.
Kerouac: Your turn. What’s your favorite position?
Absinthe: Missionary. And before you make fun of me, know that I’m not sorry. That’s what I like. Not fucking apologizing for it.
Kerouac: You’re not very experienced, are you?
Absinthe: I’m experienced enough.
Kerouac: You’re a virgin.
Absinthe: Nope.
Kerouac: I think you are.
Absinthe: You can think that all you want. Doesn’t make you correct.
Kerouac: So what do you like about the missionary position then?
Absinthe: It feels … safe, I guess? You get to look each other in the eyes and kiss and your whole bodies are touching everywhere. It’s intimate. And sweet.
Kerouac: Typical woman. You just need to liv
e a little. Erotic sex can be just as fulfilling as romantic sex.
Absinthe: I’d ask you to teach me some time, but …
Kerouac: Yeah. Not going to happen. Not anytime soon at least.
Congratulations! You’ve earned twenty Karma points! You may now access your Karma email addresses! Karma encourages its users to get to know one another on a deeper level, sending longer messages outside the chatroom setting. You may continue to use the chatroom, but utilizing the email feature will put you that much closer to the next step, which is accessing your Karma phone numbers!
Absinthe: Look at that. Now we can email each other.
Kerouac: I like chatting this way.
Absinthe: Me too. But I kind of want your phone number. What happens if you type it in?
Kerouac: Karma will block out the numbers. Like this: ***-***-****.
Absinthe: So we’re going to have to email each other. Ugh. Who designed this? An AOL developer from 1995? Nobody fucking emails anymore.
Kerouac: For a girl who likes missionary sex, you have a bit of an edge to you. I like that.
Absinthe: Because I say fuck a lot?
Kerouac: Yes. I also have a weak spot for women with pretty mouths who say naughty things. Love a good contradiction. It goes against everything I stand for in real life. Makes me hard as a fucking rock.
Absinthe: You like it dirty?
Kerouac: I do.
Absinthe: And let me guess, you’re a clean-cut, educated professional.
Kerouac: Close enough.
Absinthe: You’re a complicated man, Kerouac. And I happen to have a weakness for complicated men.
Kerouac: Something tells me you’re just as complicated as I am.
Absinthe: If not more so. Goodnight, K.
Chapter 9
Halston
The phone numbers of two men are scribbled across two crumpled receipts as I empty out my pockets. Being hit on at work is flattering, but the last person I’m going to date is some guy who prefers his BBQ wings with a side of tits and ass.
Definitely not boyfriend material.
Sliding my tip money from my other pocket, I count out one-hundred fifty-eight dollars and add it to my secret stash.
Almost five hundred dollars cash rests in an old makeup bag buried at the bottom of my sock drawer. Two weekends in a row waiting tables at Big Boulders has gotten me that much closer to getting a damn car. If I can save up three grand and Uncle Vic matches it, I should be able to get a used Honda or something that’s going to last me for years to come.
I don’t need anything fancy, just something that’s not going to fall apart when I’m cruising down the highway going seventy-five miles per hour leaving Rosefield, Illinois in the dust.
I flip to the calendar, adding up the remaining weekends for the summer. As long as I can keep this job on the down low another month or so, I’ll be golden.
And one of these days, when I finally get my hands on my birth certificate, I’ll head to the bank so I can finally open an account and keep this money someplace safer than hidden under a pile of neon, no-show Nike socks.
There’s a bus stop two blocks down from here, just outside our gated neighborhood, and Vic and Tab think I’m working at the Waterfront Sea Food Restaurant downtown. Heaven help me if my cover is ever blown, but thank God I don’t have to keep this up forever.
Covering my savings with a stack of pajama pants, I head downstairs to Aunt Tabitha’s Sunday supper, though I’m not hungry. We munch on everything between tables, and we’re always hungry because we’re running around like animals. Courtney knows the caloric content of almost all of the entrees, and she’s been happy to point out which ones to avoid.
“We have to maintain our girlish figures,” she said. “That’s how we make the big bucks!”
Taking a seat at my usual spot, Bree’s nose crinkles. “It smells like fried food in here.”
My uniform stays at work, in my locker, but maybe the stench of bar food has seeped into my hair and pores?
“We had a special on fried calamari,” I lie, spreading my napkin over my lap and offering a smart-mouthed smirk.
Bitch.
I’d love to see Bree wait tables anywhere. She wouldn’t last more than a minute.
“How can you just sit there, smelling like that? Don’t you want to shower?” Bree won’t let off.
“Bree.” Uncle Vic says her name and clears his throat. “That’s enough. I’m very proud of you, Halston. You’ve shown real initiative. You’re a hard worker. That’s going to get you far in life.”
“I was thinking of getting a job too.” Bree straightens her posture, staring across the table in my direction. “Maybe babysitting or nannying or something? Something with kids. And it makes sense since I want to go into education.”
Uncle Vic smiles his proud, fatherly smile, reaching over and placing his hand over hers.
“That’s my girl,” he says.
Tabitha places a dish of herbed chicken resting on a bed of garlic couscous between us all before taking her seat.
“Vic, would you like to say grace?” Tabitha asks.
Bree folds her hands and nods her head, and when I peek up at her, I find her staring at me, so I give her a dirty look before kicking her under the table.
Vic and Tab are in their own little world, and by the time they make the sign of the cross, they’re none the wiser.
I choke down Tabitha’s dinner before excusing myself to my room and jumping in the shower—because I want to, not because Bitchface told me to.
When I’m done, I change into pajama shorts and a tank top and check my Karma app. I haven’t heard from Kerouac in almost a week now, but I’m trying not to obsess over it. I’m assuming he’s busy with work stuff, being an “educated professional” and all. Plus, he’s complicated. I’m complicated. Nothing good—or real—is going to come of this anyway. It’s nothing more than a time waster. A boredom crusher.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Where for art thou?
Time: 6:48 PM
Message: I feel like you dropped off the face of the earth this week, and I can’t help but think it had to do with my missionary sex confession. I turned you off, didn’t I? I should’ve said reverse cowgirl. Fuck. What was I thinking? Have I lost you forever, my sweet Kerouac? Will you ever give me a second chance? Obviously, I’m kidding. Kind of. I miss chatting with you. And I had a sex dream about you the other night. I mean, the guy had your stock model’s face and sounded a lot like Ryan Gosling, but it was you. And before you ask, yes, it was “doggy style.” Ugh. But I enjoyed it. Anyway, just thought you should know.
I push my laptop to the side and grab a book off my nightstand. I’m halfway through Daphne DuMaurier’s Rebecca for the fourth time because for some reason I’ve yet to get sick of it. Fifty pages later, Karma dings.
You have an email from Kerouac! Click here to review!
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Where for art thou?
Time: 7:27 PM
Message: Dearest, you could never turn me off. Just the mere idea of fucking you like an animal until you collapse with satisfaction is enough to hold my interest. Okay, enough with the cheese. Not ignoring you. Family’s in town. I hope to resume our virtual fuck sessions in the next week. Feel free to email me still. I’ll respond when I can. In the meantime, I’d like a full detailed report of that dream you had for my records. Also, I thought about you this morning in the shower. Don’t think I’ve ever come so much in my life. What are you doing to me? I’ve never wanted to fuck a complete stranger so badly in my life.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: re: Where for art thou?
Time: 7:33 PM
Message: I was going to make you wait until tomorrow for a response, but honestly, I’ve never been into playing games and it’s getting late and I�
��m tired because I work a soul-sucking job (that’s going to be my excuse for everything from now on, btw). I think I’ve earned it. Anyway, I don’t have time to type up a detailed report of my dream because, quite frankly, I have better things to do with my time and based on previous conversations, your imagination seems to function just fine. Going to bed now. Enjoy family time. Hope you were blessed with a “normal” family and that you’re not counting down the hours until they leave. Later.
Closing the lid, I stick my computer on the charger and climb back into bed. I don’t realize it right away, but my lips are curled at the sides and there’s a faint fluttering in my middle.
What the fuck is this shit?
No.
Just … no.
I’m not falling for some Internet stranger—especially one using a stock photo for a profile picture.
Clasping my hand over my eyes, I exhale, silently telling myself to get a goddamned life.
Chapter 10
Ford
“Hi, Ford! I hope it’s okay that I stopped by.” Melissa Gunderson stands under the stoop of my front porch, another tray of tin foil-covered food in her hand.
“Oh, hey.” I don’t hide my annoyance. “Give me two secs. I’ll grab your brownie pan.”
“No, no.” She waves her manicured hand in front of my face, her hot pink nails a little too close to this chiseled mug of mine. “I brought you a casserole! Hope you don’t think I’m being nosy, but I’ve been noticing you order a lot of takeout, and I thought you could use a home cooked meal. Made you a casserole. I hope you like chicken.”
“Honey, who is that at the door?” My sister Nicolette calls from the living room.
I hide my laugh with my hand, glancing down, and Melissa’s eyes dart over my shoulder, her face falling.
“Hi! I’m Nicolette Hawthorne,” she says, pushing me out of the way. “You must be one of the new neighbors?”
That’s my sister. Sharp as a tack and doesn’t miss a beat.
Melissa’s words must be caught in her throat, and she visually assesses Nicolette the way insecure, lonely women tend to do.
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