Friend-Zoned (Friend-Zoned 1)

Shit just got serious.

I hate confrontations; they give me hives.

I clear my throat and say, “This dress has been worn ma’am. I can’t give you a refund or exchange. I’m sorry but our policies are clear. They’re on the walls and receipt. ”

Her scowl re-appears. She would be so pretty if she smiled.

She leans forward and hisses right in my face, “This is BULLSHIT! That dress cost me THREE HUNDRED DOLLARS!” I know this. The dress is one of our most expensive pieces and is fab-U-lous. I really want to ask her if her daddy actually bought it but she continues. “It looks like a goddam

n potato sack!”

I feel the flush rising up my neck and I so badly want to scratch at it. I say quietly, “Like I said ma’am, there’s nothing I can do. ”

Her lip curls and she spits, “I wanna speak to a manager. ”

I nod and respond, “I am the manager. ”

She smiles almost cruelly and says, “Then I wanna speak to the owner. ”

I stare her right in the eyeball and I’m thankful none of my girls are working.

I say in a firm voice, “I am the owner. ”

Her face shifts into something even uglier than her scowl. I don’t know how to describe it, but if looks could kill, I’d be six feet under. She snatches the dress out of my hands and storms out of my store.

Rawr Raaawr.

Damn it.

Crap! Forgot to get batteries for the doorbell. Again.

I look out the window past the mannequins, and the She-Devil is walking across the street to a man standing with his back to me. He looks big. Not fat but built. She-Devil talks a mile a minute pointing towards Safira. The man is obviously talking back to her because she stops talking and starts pouting. Then she stomps her foot. Yes, actually stomps her foot and pushes her chest out while pouting up at his face. I can almost hear her whining. She walks off and the man turns towards Safira and shakes his head slowly. What a spoiled brat!

It takes me a second to notice the man.

Oh. My. God.

Angels must have broken out in song when this man was born. I feel like breaking out in song.

He is so handsome.

I’ll admit I can’t see his face very well from across the street but I can see enough of it to see he is hot. As in hawt. And the rest of him is just as impressive. He’s tall, probably 6’2” or 6’3”, and has gorgeous olive-toned skin. He’s dressed in suit pants and a shirt. He has broad shoulders and great arms; I can tell from the muscle definition I can see through his shirt. He has a face made of straight angles and his lips have a natural pout to them. His hair is styled in a masculine faux hawk, shaved at the sides, longer on top, and spiked up and to the left side of his head. I can’t see his eye color from where I am, though.

This makes me sad.

I want to walk up to him and hold his face in my hands just so I can get a good look at him, but that would be rude. And I’d probably get arrested after he called the cops on me.

The only turn off I can see from my vantage point is that he’s smoking.

He looks angry, too. His lip is curled as he looks into Safira’s window.

I’m scared he’ll come in here and yell at me trying to get his girlfriend’s money back for the fabulous dress she’s ruined. I just know my neck is red, I can tell from how much it’s itching.

Please, please don’t come in here and yell at me, Mr. Large Man.

Like an answer to my silent prayer he throws his cigarette butt onto the pavement (another turn off—litter bug), steps on it, and walks into a building I was told by my girls is a very popular nightclub.

From the front of the building it doesn’t look like much. The large double doors are the typical ones you’d normally see at a club. It also looks narrow. Not quite as narrow as Safira but still narrow for a club. The sign atop the door catches my eye.