“Regardless,” I say. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about going out and getting laid. How do you even do that?”
“Put on a slutty dress and smile at every guy who looks your way. If a guy buys you a drink, it’s his way of saying he wants to fuck you. It’s not rocket science, Calypso.”
“It just feels . . . unnatural for me.”
“I know you grew up in a hippie commune where everyone ate unicorns and shat rainbows and everybody fucked everybody all the time, but . . .”
Something like that.
“What about your neighbor? The Jackhammer?” Presley laughs, but I know her well enough to know damn well her suggestion is serious.
“Never.” I roll my eyes. “Plus, I’ve never even met him before, and if I did, I’d give him an earful. He’s number one on my shit list.”
“Didn’t know you had a shit list. Who all is on it?”
“Just him.”
Presley rolls her eyes and raps her fingers against the glass countertop.
“Hm. Okay. So you’re going to have to go to an actual bar. You know, one where they don’t have books and fancy wine glasses.”
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“Or I could order a vibrator online and take care of everything myself?”
“Sweetie, plastic is no substitution for some real D. Now . . .” Presley stares up at the ceiling, her fingertip grazing her bottom lip. “Okay, some pointers. Don’t fuck the first guy who buys you a drink. Bring condoms. Shave your lady village. Better yet, get a wax. This isn’t Shiloh Springs. This is Vegas. Natural doesn’t cut it here.”
Well aware.
I’ve stood out since the day I left the commune and planted roots in the city of sin. It was partly an act of defiance and rebellion at the time, but mostly an act of courage and blind trust.
Ever since I was a little girl, Father Nathaniel Shiloh would preach that the universe would catch me if I fell.
At nineteen, I fell hard for his son, Mathias, and he dropped me at my most fragile two years later. No one was there to catch me. The everlasting love and abundant happiness Shiloh Springs promised was a façade. Nothing was more abundant in that community than deception and lies.
At twenty-one, I left under a midnight sky and hitched a ride to the nearest bus station with a hundred dollars in my pocket that I stole from a jar in the main kitchen.
Father Nathaniel could preach love and forgiveness and togetherness and sharing to the ends of the earth and back, but none of it mattered. It was all a bunch of bullshit he said to shove hope down the throats of the hopeless in order to keep them around. As long as there was hope, people stuck around, and as long as people stuck around, Father Nathaniel’s ego stayed nice and fed.
“Feels like a lifetime ago.” I gaze out the window.
“What?”
“Oh. Sorry. Just thinking about Shiloh Springs.” Gathering my long, wavy hair, I sweep it over my shoulder and weave a braid, letting the ends hang loose.
Presley scoffs. “It was a lifetime ago. You’re not that hippy dippy girl I met wandering the Vegas strip barefoot anymore, but you’ve come a long way, friend. And thank God for that.”
I pull at the fabric of my long skirt and stare down at my tan Birkenstocks.
The bells on the door jingle, jerking our collective attention to a tall man in a faded gray t-shirt and dark jeans coming our way. He pulls off a pair of mirrored aviators that, on anyone else, would elicit an eye roll from Presley. Instead, she clears her throat with clear intention and wears the smile of a lioness two seconds from stalking her prey.
He’s so her type.
Thick, chocolate hair. Hooded blue eyes framed with dark lashes. Full lips made for all kinds of naughty things. A cleft in his chin to accent the manliest jawline this side of the Rockies.
He’s striking. The kind of striking that makes you forget to breathe for a minute.
I glance at Presley, who doesn’t so much as attempt to stifle the ridiculous grin capturing her pretty face. When she thinks I’m not looking, her dark eyes scan his broad shoulders and dip slowly down toward the hint of a bulge in the front of his jeans.
I can’t have her ogling my customers like this, but lucky for her, I’m months away from closing up shop. Nothing matters anymore. Some junior high punk ran in here last week and shoved a Harry Potter book under his jacket and sprinted off. I didn’t even try to stop him. May as well let them steal it if I can’t even give it away.
“Welcome to The Tipsy Poet,” Presley says. “May I help you find something today?”
His eyes squint as he scans the shelves behind her, scratching the side of his brow.