“What can I get you?” I’m all business.
“You can help me settle a bet,” he says, staring at my boobs. They’re hardly on display. I’m wearing a black, stretchy turtleneck with my black jeans; the dress code for everyone at One Maple. But it is tight, outlining my Ds perfectly. I stare back blankly, no amusement on my face to invite him to continue. Though this obtuse pretty boy obviously lacks wits because he barrels ahead. “Puerto Rican, right?” I look around his shoulder and notice his friends looking back at me expectantly.
“No.”
“Dimples, you drinking, or is your pretty ass just taking up space at my bar?” Amber shouts from a few feet down the bar. She places two cosmos in front of a group of thirty something, expensively clad women that look like they’re celebrating a promotion, dries her hands on a towel, and lifts her chin at him. Everyone turns to stare at Dimples.
I bite my bottom lip, fighting the urge to laugh at his expression. He’s clearly taken back, and has no idea what to make of this sharp tongued, fiery little blond. Welcome to New York, Dimples. The group of women snicker as they watch pink creep into Dimples’ cheeks.
“Another round,” he finally mumbles.
“Great. Why don’t you take those sweet, tight buns of yours back to your table, and I’ll be right over with your order.” His chocolate brown eyes flicker to me and after a slow two-finger salute, he walks away.
One of the thirty something women shouts, “Come back, sweet buns, we’ll entertain you,” and the rest of them break out in drunken fits of laughter.
For the next hour, we work quickly, cleaning the bar and our stations. I have to admit that keeping busy seems to do the trick. I haven’t had a panic attack since the scene at my house, and memories of Matt are easily kept at bay when I’m running around and physically spent. Sidling up to me, Amber asks, “Taking the bus home?”
I nod and she tells me to get going, that she’ll finish the rest. Without argument, I get ready to leave since I have to be up by seven to make Sam’s breakfast. I see it as soon as I step out the door of the club. White Range Rover, black tinted windows, black hubcaps. The driver side window slides down as I walk up with my hands stuffed in the pockets of my down jacket.
“You ready?” His voice is toneless, his expression bored. It crawls right under my skin.
“How long have you been here?”
“Not long. It’s cold, get in.” I’m sensing this cold thing is a big deal for him. By the time I’m buckling up, he’s already speeding up Sixth Avenue.
“I’m sensing this cold thing is a big deal for you.” This displeases him, my idiocy so egregious it doesn’t even warrant a reply. Instead, he pins me in place with one his signature icy glares. “You can’t keep doing this. I intend to keep working there, and you can’t drive me in every week.” Again, I get nothing. The silence rolls on. “Don’t you have a life? A girlfriend to take shopping or make a sex tape with or whatever it is you people do––” My words are cut short by a sharp, annoyed exhale.
“Don’t you ever shut up?”
Okay, maybe I went a little too far. But his inability to take a ‘no thanks’ from me is making me nuts. We ride the rest of the way in complete silence. Only a few feet separate us, though we may as well be on different planets. Or more precisely, I wish we were.
Chapter Seven
“Who would want to fuck a werewolf?” My eyes are glued to the latest episode of Penny Dreadful. “Ugh, can you imagine the smell? Hold on, don’t go anywhere,” I tell Amber, and rearrange my cell phone on the other shoulder so I can dig into my comfort tub of Ben and Jerry’s cookie dough ice cream.
“I would, that’s who. I would definitely fuck a werewolf if he looked liked Josh Hartnett.”
Leaning against the tufted headboard of my king size bed, correction Shaw’s guest bed, I give her words careful consideration. “Long hair or short?” Always in synch, we both add, “Long hair.”
“I’d fuck a bear too while we’re at it––at least one of those shape shifter type bears,” she continues after a thoughtful pause.
“What about vampires?”
“Sure, why the hell not. How about you?”
“That’s a definite yes. They’re beautiful, sensual and ancient. They gotta have some serious moves in bed. Don’t you think?” In tandem, we say, “Alexander Skarsgård.”
“Did I mention that he has every available channel on the planet? That alone makes up for the verbal abuse.”
“Just mickey his water bottle with a few eye drops,” the lunatic also known as my best friend suggests.