Dangerous Love

1



Mackenzie was gonna lose her shit. Absolutely lose it. On her ex. Husband. The dirtbag. Scumbag. Asshole.

Bad enough she literally caught the jackass with his pants around his ankles, balls-deep in their neighbor, but somehow he managed to walk away with everything.

Stepping out of the courthouse, the bright noontime sun mocked her. She was officially homeless. With nothing. Zero. Not a dime to her name. No car, no house, not even the cat. He took the goddamn cat. Okay, she hated that feline, but still…the cat?

Numb with a headache about to take residence, she lumbered over to the bench in the courtyard and slumped down. If she could curl into herself on that piece of uncomfortable metal she would. What was she going to do? Her bartending job brought in great money but starting over from scratch? How had she allowed herself to be led down this abysmal path?

Her wayward thoughts were interrupted by the shrill ring of her cell. As of late, when her phone rang it was never good. “Hello?”

“Hey, how’d it go?” her girlfriend Kayla asked.

“He got it all,” she said, choking on the words.

“Fucking…fuck…fuckwad, fucking-tard.” Mouth like a truck driver didn’t come close to describing Kayla's colorful vocabulary. “Do you need someplace to stay?”

“Yeah,” she shamefully answered.

“Don’t worry about it, Mackenz. You stay with me as long as you need to,” Kayla insisted.

“Thank you,” she said, about to breakdown for the first time since she found her husband…

“I hate to ask this right now, I feel like a jerk, but I need someone to work for me tonight. I have to go to my parents. Something about my grandma insisting on a family dinner. Whatever,” Kayla moaned. “I swear, M, these damn relatives of mine.”

Mackenzie wished she had Kayla’s family issues. Wealthy beyond comprehension, politically connected in every way possible, inherited great looks, and every single one of those throng of people were smart as hell. Including Kayla, who didn't need to work but got the bartending job to irk her parents.

“Sure. Clearly, I need the money,” she mumbled.

“Thanks, M,” Kayla said, her sympathetic tone adding to Mackenzie's embarrassment. “I’ll leave the key under the mat. Come over and get situated before work. I have to leave now or I’ll never make it on time. You know how Daddy gets if I’m late,” she griped.

Thank goodness for Kayla. She may be twenty-three, but the girl had a great head on her shoulders and for some reason took a liking to Mackenzie, who was ten years her senior. Currently that gap felt like fifty plus years.

“I’ll talk to you after work,” Mackenzie said.

“Okay.” Kayla disconnected the call and spared her a more humiliating inquiry.

Heaving herself off the bench, Mackenzie glanced around for the bus stop sign. Today was the first day she’d ever utilize public transportation. Joy. He took the fucking car, too. Asshat.



***



Dressed in low-rise spandex, what she referred to as dance shorts, and her top, and she used that term loosely‒it resembled more like a bedazzled black silk bra‒Mackenzie stashed her change of clothes into her assigned locker. Seated on the bench in the employee changing room, she slid her snug knee-high, stiletto boots over her black panty hose. If she worked anywhere else, she'd be referred to as an exotic dancer. At House of Cards she was considered an elite bartender. Complete with a false profile on the bar website. Her size C's practically pushed up to her neck, long, auburn hair cascaded down her bare back, she had quickly become a patron fave. Apparently, men love splashes of freckles across a woman's chest and shoulders. Well, every man except her dickhead ex-husband.

Once booted, Mackenzie stood, took one final glance in the mirror and headed to the bar for the six p.m. to two in the morning shift. Really, she didn't mind the hours. Working in the evenings kept her from crying into a depression over how idiotic she felt. How had she ignored the obvious signs?

At Cards, each of the three different bars was spacious and usually three to four girls worked at a time. Weekends, six bartenders graced the floor. Each part of the bar was sectioned off so customers weren't passed over. Since it was a Tuesday−the slowest night of the week−only three bartenders worked.

Time to earn the Benjamins.

Punched in and about to step behind the main bar, a firm hand grasped her bicep and spun her.

"Mackenzie, there's a couple jackasses seated at the other end of the bar and they lit up. I told them to put out their cigarettes but they refuse. The big brutish one laughed at me. I need you to handle it. Security knows them and won't do a thing about it," Jennie, the token blonde, tan bartender spat.