Switch: A Bad Boy Romance

by Michelle Amy

  I looked up from my mat and called for the next customer after I handed a long island iced tea off to a girl with a drunken sway in her step. My eyes fell upon a man of medium build and exceptional height. He leaned an elbow on the bar as his green eyes scanned the menu above my head and slightly behind me. He ran his thumb and forefinger over the stubble on his jaw and I shifted my weight to my right foot to stop my knees from aching. I hadn’t seen a man who looked like him before.

  He had a presence. I wasn’t used to being intimidated by my own customers, but there was something about him that demanded respect. His eyes were still scanning the menu board behind me. I let myself stare into their sea of green, flecked with streaks of gold. His dark hair nearly grazed the top of his eyelashes as he looked up from under his brows. Finally, he settled his intense stare on me.

  “What’s good here?” He asked, raising his voice over the chorus of one of my favourite songs of all time.

  “Uh,” I stammered, “isn’t anything with alcohol considered good wherever you are?” Smooth Alice. Very smooth. My first attempt at small talk was the same line I used when I was using fake I.D.’s to get into bars when I was seventeen.

  He cracked a smile and nodded. “‘Suppose you’re right. Just a rum and coke will be fine.”

  I found myself disappointed that the drink he had ordered was so quick to make. I made it nonetheless, throwing it together in a quick fifteen seconds. “Don’t like to take chances?” I asked.

  He paid me with a twenty and dropped the rest into my tip jar. “Not so. I just don’t want to trust the new girl with something complicated. You know, in case you mess it up.” He took a sip of his drink and nodded his approval. “Not bad. Next time I’ll shoot for something a bit more complex.”

  As he turned away from me I thanked him, even though I was sure he had just insulted me. He waved over his shoulder before vanishing into the crowd. I stretched up to my tiptoes to try to spot him through the swaying dancers and intoxicated gossipers who stood on the outskirts of the dance floor. I looked for his dark messy hair and gray T-shirt, but as my eyes scanned the bar more patrons swarmed me with drink orders and I was forced to submit to their requests.

  By two in the morning the live band had vanished and the DJ was playing a smattering of pop hits and old dance songs from the nineties. It seemed that this was always a sure fire way to get those who leaned lazily in booths against the wall out on to the dance floor.

  The last call for alcohol announcement came on and I was swarmed with a last minute rush of people wanting to cram in one more drink before they headed home. It’s funny how the people who flock to the bars for last call are usually the folks in the room who should have stopped drinking six shots ago. I whipped up vodka crans and screwdrivers and a smattering of all kinds of drinks in a fifteen-minute whirlwind before collapsing against the back counter and rolling my wrists. Bartenders can get carpel tunnel. Just saying.

  One of the girls who worked on the other side of my bar slid up beside me and smiled. I couldn’t remember her name, as I was still pretty new in this place. She was shorter than me by about half a foot, and she had bright blue hair that was cut in a cute pixie cut that framed her face. She leaned on the counter beside me. “So,” she said, her voice raised even though the music had long since stopped, “you’re kinda killing it here.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “That’s good to hear.”

  She nodded. “Yep, been watching you the last couple nights. I think you’re a good fit. I wasn’t too sure at first, you know, ‘cause you’re kinda…” her eyes swept up my body from my shoes to my hair. “You just don’t look like the rest of us. Not that that’s a bad thing.” Her tone immediately turned apologetic and I could see she was afraid she may have offended me.

  I laughed. It was true. I didn’t really fit in. I was lean and tall with long brown hair that was a stark contrast to the colourful dye jobs hosted by most of the other employees of The Red Rose. I was also the only person without a piece of metal in my face. “I like it so far,” I said. “It’s a lot different than the other place I worked at.”

  “That’s good.” We stood awkwardly for a moment, neither of us knowing what to say next. Then she groaned beside me and pushed herself off the counter to stand in front of me. “This is super embarrassing but I totally forget your name, new girl.”

  “It’s Alice.” I offered her my hand as if we had never met before, and I was delighted when she shook it and didn’t call me a weirdo.

  “Alice. Awesome. I’m Claire, just in case you forgot to.” She nodded at the bottles stacked neatly on the wall behind us. “Want a drink? Max doesn’t care if we treat ourselves at the end of a busy night.”

  I felt that there was a high chance that she wasn’t telling the truth. But, I wanted to make friends with the people I worked with, and the fastest way to do that was to sit down and share a drink. Or two. Sometimes more. Don’t judge.

  We sat at one of the booths once we had closed the place down. Claire had poured us each a vodka water and brought out a small bowl of peanuts from the kitchen. I popped one in my mouth and leaned my elbows on the table while she gave me the rundown of all the things I needed to know about the Red Rose.

  “Max is a great manager,” she said. “He’ll always help you out of a bind. He’s given me an advance on my rent before when my roommate up and bailed on me. It’s just the kind of guy he is. He cares about us, you know? He always wanted to own a place like this, and now that he finally has it he treats us all like family. Best job I’ve ever had.”

  She was being sincere. I could tell by the way she looked me in my eyes as she talked. I took a sip of my drink. “There are definitely good vibes to go around here.”

  She smiled. “Definitely. So, tell me about you. Who is Alice?”

  I cocked my head to one side. “Um, I don’t know-”

  Claire giggled. “Come on, don’t be shy. Do you have a boyfriend?”

  I shook my head. “No. No boyfriend. Kind of trying to take a break from the whole dating scene.”

  “Ah. Somebody did you wrong, hey?”

  “Something like that.” I took another mouthful of vodka water and swished it around my cheeks before swallowing. “I just have other priorities right now.”

  “All good,” Claire chirped. “Don’t mind my curiosity then… but I saw you talking to Jack at the bar earlier.”

  “Jack?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “You know, tall, handsome? Broody. Everything a girl wants but knows she should stay away from?”

  The man with the green eyes. I tried to hide the flush of pink in my cheeks, but Claire spotted it right away. She lightly slapped a hand on the table. “Girl, you can’t blame yourself. He’s sexy as hell, and he knows it. He’ll be curious about you, too. You’re new meat around here.”

  “Is he someone I should be careful of?”

  “He’s his own breed. Gets into trouble, sometimes. He’s definitely not Max’s favourite customer, but he spends a lot of money here so he is still welcome- for the time being at least.”

  “What has he done?”

  Claire shrugged. “The odd fight, here and there. Nothing too crazy.”

  A fight at my old bar would earn a customer a permanent ban. “Max is tolerant of fights in his bar?”

  “Not really. He’s tolerant of Jack fighting in his bar. There’s a difference.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  Claire polished off her drink and leaned in closer. I could smell her perfume and strawberry lip gloss, and the vodka on her breath. “You will, when you see it.”

  This statement was a trigger to a cacophony of questions in my mind. What did she mean when she said that? “Is he a good fighter, or something?” I asked.

  “He likes fighting. He’ll sit at the bar and you can tell he’s just waiting for something to go down, sometimes. Helps him blow off steam, I think. Anger issues, or something. The guy needs to join a sport.”

  “He likes
it?”

  Claire nodded. “Yep. Loves it. As soon as a guy in here sets a toe out of line with one of the waitresses, Jack is there. At first, it’s a little flattering. You think he’s fighting for your honour. Then, after it happens a couple more times, and you see the look in his eye, you see it for what it is. Pure enjoyment.”

  “Um… That’s a little messed up.”

  Claire snickered and leaned back in her booth. “For sure. But it doesn’t change the fact that he is exceptional eye candy. Just you wait; you’ll get your chance to see him in action. Maybe it will be for your sake. Who knows?”

  I didn’t like the idea of that. I didn’t like violence. I didn’t like drama. I felt as though I had finally managed to put that part of my life far behind me. If something like that did happen, I would have to make it very clear to Jack that I could take care of myself.

  I didn’t need a stranger fighting my battles for me.

  But then again, there was something about him that stirred a curiosity in me. There was something that encouraged me to find out more about him. There was a chance that I was simply falling victim to his good looks. It had happened to me before.

  Chapter Three

  I stood at the foot of my bed and stared down at the mess I had created. When I got home from my shift at The Red Rose I counted out my tips. I had just cleared two hundred dollars. It was less than half of what I was used to making on a weekend shift. Realizing I wasn’t going to be able to afford my half of the rent for the apartment I shared with my friend Brooke had elicited panic. So I went into my closet and pulled out nearly everything I owned and started sorting through it all.

  There was a soft knock on my door and I called for Brooke to come in. I heard the door open as I pulled a rubbermaid container full of boots towards me. I heard Brooke take a deep breath and mutter under her breath.

  “I don’t need your criticism,” I snapped, “I know it’s chaos. I know it’s bad. I’m selling it. This stupid job is going to be the death of me.”

  Brooke was looking for a place to sit. When she came to the conclusion that there was no bare surface she sat on the floor and crossed her legs. “Alice, it’s four in the morning. Is it entirely necessary that you do this now?”

  I rolled my eyes at her. “There will never be perfect timing to part with my beautiful clothes. And my shoes. And my purses.” I groaned and threw my head back. “Why must they all be so pretty!”

  Brooke chuckled behind me. “They’re just things. Trust me. You won’t feel any less worthy if you don’t have them.”

  “I know,” I said, “but my butt won’t look as good as it does when I’m wearing these.” I held up my best pair of jeans and pointed at the pockets.

  “Then keep those. You can’t get rid of all your clothes. You can’t go to work naked. I mean, you’d probably rake in some crazy cash, but then you’d be fired and arrested and wearing an orange jumpsuit, and we both know that orange does horrible things to your complexion.”

  “Wow. You sure know how to boost a girl’s spirits.” My voice was as monotone as I could possibly make it.

  Brooke rubbed her hands together. “So, you want help?”

  Brooke was my roommate and my closest friend. Her uncanny ability to see when I was about to unravel had saved my sanity numerous times, and this was most definitely one of those times. The stress of trying to decide what to keep and what to toss was eating away at me, and I hadn’t even started yet. All I had managed to do was make a mess and stare at it for almost forty five minutes. I looked over my shoulder at her as I lifted up a pair of beautiful knee high black stiletto boots. “Yes please.”

  She offered me a gentle smile and nodded. “Okay. We need three piles. One is a definitely selling pile. One is a definitely keeping pile.”

  “And the third?”

  “The third is the ‘not quite willing to part with it just yet’ pile. That’s where those boots should go. They’re sexy as hell. But. If you don’t wear them in the next two weeks, you have to sell them. Fair?”

  “Fair.” I handed her the boots and she tucked them neatly against my wall by my door. Then she nodded for me to keep going. I was so grateful for her. She guided me through the process effortlessly. She knew exactly which items I couldn’t part with on an emotional level- like my one pair of Jimmy Choo’s and my first designer bag that I had ever purchased for myself. She also knew which items were frivolous purchases and gave me tough love when I fought her on them. Like my Louis Vuitton bag that had been sitting in my closet for three years.

  At the end of the process I had six garbage bags full of stuff to bring to a consignment store. We had calculated out that it would earn me a pretty penny, and greatly reduce the level of anxiety that was consuming me about earning significantly less money.

  “How’s the new dentist office?” I asked as we sat ourselves down in the living room with bowls of pralines and cream ice cream.

  She shrugged one shoulder and licked her spoon. “Not too bad. A bit of an older crowd but the other hygienists all seem really nice. We are going for drinks next Tuesday night after work. Want to join?”

  “No, that’s okay. You should have some one on one time with them.” I pushed the back of my spoon into the ice cream and mixed it all around to create a soup-like texture. “I’m sorry you had to start all over. New jobs suck. Meeting new coworkers sucks. It all sucks. I’m really, really sorry.”

  Brooke put down her bowl and tapped me on the knee. “None of this was your fault, Alice. Seriously. The guy was a nut case. What was I supposed to do? Let you move out to Chicago all by yourself? What kind of friend would that make me? Besides,” she picked her bowl back up and shimmied back into her corner of the couch, “how could I pass up the chance to help you get rid of all your shit? I’ve been wanting to go through your closet for years. My OCD is so happy right now.”

  I laughed and let myself be reassured by her words. She was right; of course, none of it was directly my fault. But I knew she missed New York. I definitely did. I thought about it every day. I missed our loft apartment and my old job. I knew Brooke missed her old dentist office as well. But she never spoke a word of it. When I told her I had to leave the city to get away from my ex, she hadn’t thought twice about coming with me. We broke our lease agreement and paid the penalty with many apologies to our landlord and had arrived in Chicago less than a week later.

  But some of it was my fault. I had gotten involved with the wrong guy. I had done it several times with different men, over and over, before falling for someone who could have been the end of me. I met him at The Wallflower, where I had met most of my many suitors. He had dazzled me with his white smile and square jaw and big brown eyes. He showered me with compliments and came to sit at my bar every night for two weeks before I agreed to go out with him.

  We had only been dating for a couple months when everything unravelled. He had an angry streak that frightened me. He never hit me, but I didn’t trust him enough not to. He tried to force me to quit my job because he didn’t like other men looking at me. He tried to make me wear clothes that covered me up when I refused to quit.

  He terrified me. And when I left him, he stalked me. I tried to play it cool and keep my chin up, but his surprise appearances left me unsettled and anxious, and eventually Brooke talked me into getting a restraining order. He couldn’t come within a hundred feet of me. That eased my mind until he started going to the bar across the street from The Wallflower and watching me through the window. He sat at the same table every night and I could see him sipping on his gin and tonic, leaning back in his chair with one arm resting casually on the table. And he would just watch.

  So I left the city.

  I packed up my boots and my bags and everything that I could fit in my Audi, and my best friend hooked her arm in mine and we drove to Chicago.

  We made sacrifices. Our incomes were cut in half. We didn’t have a dishwasher, balcony, loft, or pool in our building. We couldn’t afford to eat ou
t at swanky restaurants on a weekly basis. I was losing half my wardrobe. Brooke had to facetime her sister back in New York because she couldn’t hop on the bus and meet her at a coffee shop anymore. I traded my Audi for an older silver Civic that didn’t have air conditioning.

  But I felt safe. And I was willing to give up anything to feel safe.

  Chapter Four

  He showed up again at The Red Rose two weeks after the first time I met him. He was wearing a suit that set him apart from every other man in the room. It was navy, and underneath he wore a white shirt tucked into his pants. His dark brown belt matched his shoes and the brown leather watch around his left wrist. His hair was slicked back off his face, and as he floated through the bodies in the bar he shrugged out of his suit jacket. Even from a distance I could see the tightness of the white shirt on his muscular shoulders. I spotted him as soon as he walked in, and his eyes went directly to me after he handed his jacket over to the girl working the coat check booth. I held his gaze and smiled before returning my attention to the girl before me who had ordered twelve lemon drop shots. By the time I had placed them on a tray and handed them to her, he was standing at my bar, and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to expose strong forearms. On the right arm, just beneath the rolled up sleeve, I could see about half an inch of dark ink from a tattoo.

  I really liked when he stood at my bar. I could smell his pine and rain water scented cologne, and the view, of course, was exceptional.

  “Hi,” I chimed, plucking a bottle of rum from the top shelf behind me. I held it out and wiggled it a bit.

  He nodded and slid on to a stool slightly to my left and out of the way of the line up. “How’ve you been?” He asked, watching me pour his drink.

  “Good, I’m finally falling into the swing of things here. And I think I remember all my coworkers names now, which is a bonus. I don’t have to refer to them just based on their hair colour anymore.”

  That comment made him smile and I set out on a mission to see how many times I could make his dimples show like that during the evening. I handed him his drink and he took a mouthful, nodding his approval. “So, should I call you Brown Hair then, or are you going to tell me your name?”