"Dillon cut it for me. Evan, this is my friend, Dillon."
"Hello, Friend Dillon. I'm Friend Evan."
"Then I guess we're friends too," Dillon said, taking his hand.
"What can I get you guys to drink?" He smirked at me. "Vodka?"
"Not tonight. I'll have an Amstel Light, please."
"Make it two," Dillon said, "and bring me the bottle caps, please."
"You want the bottle caps?"
"If you bring him all the bottle caps, that would be great," I said so Dillon wouldn't have to explain. He was itching to build something.
Evan paused for a second before he nodded. "Sure, we can do that."
"I'm glad you came back," Evan said, opening up three beers.
"Me too."
"Did you ask her?" Tilla said, coming behind him.
"Not yet," Evan said, a flicker of annoyance on his face.
"Ask me what?"
"I'll do it," Tilla said, sighing impatiently. "Evan said you lost your job. Are you looking for another?"
"I found one."
She looked disappointed. "That's too bad, because we sure could use some help around here."
"That's sweet, Tilla, but I don't know the first thing about working in a bar."
"We could teach you that part," she said. "You have a passion for music and you're a lost soul. You're one of us."
"That's true," Dillon interjected.
Thanks for making it easier, bro. "This is too far. I don't have a car." I had no idea why I continued to make excuses after I already passed on the job. Who was I trying to convince here?
"We have a spare apartment upstairs," Tilla said. "The rent's reasonable and there's a discount if you work here."
"There are apartments upstairs?" I knew the brick building was two stories, but I'd figured the top was office space.
"There are two, actually."
"Do you and Mike live in the other one?"
Tilla scrunched her nose in distaste. "Please, I spend enough time at this joint without living here too."
"Who lives in the other one?"
"I do," Evan said. "For now."
"This isn't the best area, but the bar is doing phenomenal business. The tips are amazing," Tilla said.
I swallowed down my agitation because even the thought of living next door to him made me both uncomfortable and excited at the same time.
"It's a generous offer, but I don't think it's for me."
Tilla nodded and grabbed a bar napkin. "If you change your mind, here's the number."
"The number for the bar?"
"No, Evan's number. You can call him," she said, sliding the napkin with a flourish. I pocketed it before Dillon could make origami out of it. He'd almost finished building the most impressive bottle cap tower I'd ever seen.
Evan leaned in. "In case you didn't figure it out, she's trying to make something happen between you and me, but the job is real. They do need extra help around here."
"I got that."
"I'll make sure Tilla understands."
"Understands what?"
"That I'm not your type and we're friends."
"Good," I said in a way that made good sound bad.
"Out of curiosity, what is your type, Price?"
"I don't have one."
"Everyone has one." He held his beer, gesturing to the crowd. "Show me who does it for you. Who gets top billing in your fantasies?"
What would he think if I told him he was the star of my show?
I swept my gaze across the room. This bar attracted a real mix of people … young and old, from every walk of life, yet they all looked like they belonged.
"There isn't anyone here." Save for the guy asking me the damn question.
"That guy at the pool table," Dillon said, jerking his head in the general direction. I would have been mad, except Dillon had pegged me. The guy was someone I would have gone for. Why did I think that in past tense?
"That guy? The one is the suit who looks like he has a pool stick up his ass?" Evan asked.
I shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "I prefer a professional. What about you?"
"What about me?" Evan asked.
"What girl interests you?"
"The one I'm looking at," he said, staring at me so intensely my skin prickled.
I chugged back my beer, wishing to God I had some clever comeback, but this boy did things to me that weren't normal.
"I don't buy that," I finally said. "I'm not your usual type. I know that."
"Change is good."
"Answer the question."
He looked around the room. "Ten o'clock in the white dress."
I followed his direction. The heavily made up, raven-haired girl wore a skimpy spandex dress, and was suffering from a serious case of side boob. Looking at her sharp stilettos made my feet hurt.
"She looks like a hooker."
Wow … when had I become such a bitch?
He clinked his bottle against mine. "I too prefer a professional."
Chapter Eight
I started working for Rick on Monday. Rick helped troubled businesses by sharpening their strengths and eliminating their weaknesses. In fact, that's where Marley and he had met. She often said he saved both her job and her life. He had saved her company, the same one she worked at today, just as he had many businesses. He was in high demand and had a long waiting list of clients.
I learned all sorts of new skills, like creating pivot tables, flow charts and visual presentations. And in the end, it wasn't so bad. The work kept me busy. It took me a while to get used to all the new tasks. By Friday night I was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to chill watching a Netflix romance with my best pals Ben & Jerry, two boys who clearly recognized my needs. I took out my knitting supplies, deciding to finish the blanket I was making for Marley's baby.
Unfortunately, my family had other plans for me.
"We're going clubbing tonight," Stevie announced, throwing a pink chiffon halter-style shirt at me. I had to admit it was pretty. "You can have that. I can't quite fit into it anymore. Get dressed."
"I don't feel like it."
"You can't spend your weekends cooped up in the house."
"Why not?"
Marley grabbed the afghan off me. "How many of these have you made?" she asked.
"Mrs. Garcia and I work on them together. That's number four."
"Shit, you're quilting afghans? How old are you?" Stevie threw the questions like they were darts. "Mom doesn't even quilt."
"I'm knitting, Stevie. There is a difference."
"Well, I think they're lovely. Really, sweetheart," Mom said, shooting Stevie a warning glance.
Stevie pointed to the gauzy pink fabric in my lap. "Yeah, well you're not wearing an afghan tonight, you're wearing this."
Marley folded up the blanket. "You don't want to be here anyway, Billie. The boys are having Friday night poker and they're watching all the kids."
Before the words were even out, the front door opened and a tornado swooped right before my eyes as four little men screeched in excitement and four big ones chased after them. They managed to take up all the oxygen in the room.
"I'll get changed," I said.
"I don't think you should go, Marley," Rick said, sitting next to her, rubbing her tummy.
"Rick, I'm pregnant, not an invalid."
"Should I come with you?" he asked.
"No, this is girls' night. Not even Dillon is coming. He's hanging out with you guys tonight. I'll have my mom and my sisters with me. We'll be fine."
"Call me when you get there and before you leave."
"Rick, stop it. They're going to my club," Damien said. "I run a very nice establishment and I'll make sure they are taken care of."
It was adorable how all three of my little brothers clung to our mom. Damien practically had to pry them off.
"I packed chips for the boys to snack on," Mom said, kissing each of them.
"You packed chips?" I asked, surprised she'd packed them anything that might be labeled ‘J' for junk food.
"They're kale chips," Damien explained, shaking his head. "They can have real chips once in a while, Jessie. Ice cream and cookies, too. I'm not a vegan and I turned out all right." Damien called mom Jessie even though her real name was Emmie. It had something to do when they first met and she gave him the wrong name. There was something sweet and romantic about it, but that's another story entirely.
"You turned out better than all right. They can have that stuff one day, but not today. They don't know the difference. Why spoil this? It's the only time in their lives we get to dictate what they ingest. I just want it to be perfect. Do you understand?"