I started my shift expecting the usual uneventful chaos, and I wasn’t disappointed.
“Two margaritas, a stout and a Jamaican lager.”
“Two Mexican beers, sex on the beach, fuzzy navel and a Seven and Seven.”
“Three shots of tequila, two more Mexican beers and an apple martini.”
I fell into the rhythm of a typical Friday night. I kept the alcohol flowing, sidestepped drunken come-ons and kept the chips and pretzel baskets full at my end of the bar.
The music got louder, the dance floor had a steady stream of participants and people had to yell to be heard above the music, making intelligent conversation impossible. Not that people were here for anything other than hooking up. It was a meat market at its lowest, though it kept from being a dive bar by playing live music on Friday and Saturday nights and by running sports of all kinds on the different TV screens around the bar.
At a distance, I caught sight of Cynthia making her way through the sea of people. She looked predictably gorgeous in a sexy slip of a pale blue dress that reached midthigh and outlined her shapely bod. Her blond hair was long and straight, reaching the middle of her back, and it was like she was the new swimsuit cover model the way eyes were watching her progress across the room, but then I saw the look on her face.
She was pissed off.
I noticed a big blond Adonis wearing a nice white button-up shirt following behind her, grabbing at her arm to stop her from walking away. She spun around to confront the guy, and then I couldn’t see any more because a large body cut off my view.
“Marry me, Taylor.” I recognized the Mr. Vodka–Cranberry Juice slur that was coming across the bar as I did a quick swipe with my moist towel and tried to see around him to whom Cynthia was talking to. I was sure I’d never seen him before, because I would definitely have remembered that guy, as hot as he was. She was standing there, listening to the guy, with body language that told me quite clearly she knew him.
Wasn’t this an interesting development? We were going to have a lot to talk about later on, when we got home.
“Be careful, Chuck,” I finally responded, and I washed some of the glasses that were piling up in my station. “I just might take you up on that offer one of these days.” He was wasted and it wasn’t even ten o’clock, his brown hair looking as though he’d been running his fingers through it, his teddy-bear eyes looking squinty. He usually didn’t propose until well after midnight on nights he came to the club. It made me wonder if something bad had happened.
“Taylor, honey, I would be so good to you. You could be my queen.” To accompany his slow speech, he gave me a little-boy grin that likely worked way back in his day on coeds in college, but now only emphasized the beginning of his double chin. Week after week, he reeked of desperation, unable to maintain his fit body with the amount of alcohol he consumed. He was finding it harder and harder to attract the same girls who used to vie for his attention when he was twenty pounds lighter on his college football team. I know all of this because during his various drinking binges (yes, he’s an ex-frat boy turned alcoholic—surprised?), he shared his stories. More than once.
“Be good to yourself, Chuck.” I stacked the newly washed glasses on a rack to dry. “Drink some water.”
“Ouch.” He clasped his chest, pretending to be in pain. “You’re a cold-hearted woman, Taylor.”
“Back off, Chuck. She’s my property,” Cynthia growled mockingly, pushing her way up to the bar. I automatically poured a glass of water, popped a lemon wedge in it and slid it across the wood bar to her.