by Alexa Martin
And now, not only do we watch reality shows, HERS is a regular fucking setting for one. It just started to air, but the increase in customers is already noticeable. And people tried to tell me my love of trash television was a waste of my time. To that I say, HA!
“Speaking of the show, that’s what we’re doing here.” I push a much lighter and brighter (hot-pink) cocktail down to Jacqueline, who, even though she’s always with us, is still the quietest person I know, and I’m pretty sure she thinks we’re all in need of serious therapy . . . which might be accurate. How Aviana talked her into starring in Love the Player is still a mystery. “I want to have a few cocktails named after the show ready.”
“Great, now the show gives me alcohol poisoning too.” Charli lays her head on the bar.
“You’re giving yourself alcohol poisoning.” Poppy pushes a glass of water to her and starts mixing up a drink of her own. “I know you and Shawn are smart with your money. If he gets cut, it won’t be the worst thing in the world. TK loves not playing anymore.”
I watch Jacqueline take a small sip of the drink, and almost do a happy dance when her eyes widen. She looks at the drink as if the recipe’s written in the cocktail, and takes another sip.
“Success, Jac?” I ask, even though I already know her answer.
“So good, Brynn,” she says in her usual, muted voice.
“Yeah it is!” We do an air high five. “I’m naming that one Peter’s Angel. Wait . . . no!” I shout like she’s not right in front of me. “Fuck Peter. This is your drink. Model Behavior!”
“Oh my god.” Poppy jumps up and down, almost spilling her creation all over my potion recipes. “Do you remember that movie? You guys have to come over later and we’ll watch a young Justin Timberlake be bamboozled by an artsy high school student!”
“If there were a game show that revolved around random shit, you’d be the fucking queen,” Vonnie says to Poppy, tossing a couple of cherries into her Shirley Temple.
“Do you not remember Marlee? She’s a trivia freak. The two of them together could rule the world.” If world domination were dependent on Disney original movies and pointless trivia.
“Please warn me if they are getting together. I’m not sure I could handle that.” Vonnie laughs, but I can see it in her eyes that she means it. “Anyway, the bar looks great. You can’t even tell anything happened.”
And there it is.
The thing I wanted to avoid for the rest of my life.
“It really does,” Poppy pipes in, admiring the handiwork my dad and Mr. Harper spent all night doing.
“Thanks. I’m lucky my dad lives around the corner and that Marlee’s will do anything to get an inside scoop.”
“What even happened?” Charli sits up, miraculously cured from her earlier bout of drunkenness and gloom. “Max is legit the nicest person I’ve ever met, and I’m including you bitches and Shawn in that statement. Something had to have happened.”
“I don’t know and I don’t care.” I put my nose in the air. Hoity-toity is my go-to attitude for things that make me uncomfortable. “There was a check under the door the next morning and I cashed it before he could change his mind. Plus, because I had free labor, I now have enough to take a trip to the Container Store.”
And I don’t feel the littlest bit guilty about not giving him the leftover funds. I mean, I had to open late while everything was being finished, so I’m calling it even.
I still don’t understand what happened. I thought we were finally getting to the place I’d been fantasizing about for years, and then, bam! A glass whizzed past my head.
Whiplash and rage don’t go well together.
“The Container Store? I’m coming!” Poppy invites herself. “Ace and TK have started collecting football and baseball cards, and if I come home to my dining room table covered in them again, I’m going to scream. Plus, I saw some blogger organize her pantry and I want to try.”
“Look at you, Holly Homemaker, being all domestic and shit,” I tease, and duck to avoid the piece of ice she throws at my face. “What? It’s cute.”
“I can’t stand you. I don’t know why I still come here.” Her eyes narrow. Someone who doesn’t know her as well as I do might be intimidated, but Poppy is all bark and no bite.
I open my arms wide and make my way toward her retreating, giggling form when synchronized gasps pull my attention. I look at my terrible taste testers to see them all staring at the door with their jaws on the floor. I follow their eyes and when I see what they see, my vision swims in front of me and my fingers go numb.
“Speak of the devil and he shall appear.” Vonnie breaks the silence first. “You have to give it to him, that’s a brave-ass man.”
I won’t give Maxwell Lewis shit.
Brave? My ass. A jerk? That’s closer. A thoughtless psychopath? Spot on.
All these years, I thought he was sweet and shy. While all along, he was probably just hiding his asshole tendencies.
I don’t have to do anything to secure the scowl on my face, just the thought of him makes it appear. Seeing him has my blood boiling and fists clenched. I thought I never wanted to see him again, but maybe what I really needed was a satisfying face-to-face. I brace and start to mentally prepare my most vicious tongue-lashing yet, but then, in true Maxwell fashion, he doesn’t say anything. Instead he makes eye contact and quickly moves to occupy one of the few empty tables I have left in the very back.
What. The. Actual. Fuck?
“What the fuck?” I say to the confused and possibly relieved (Jacqueline is just pure relief) faces staring back at me. “What just happened?”
Charli opens her mouth to talk, but before the words come out, the front door crashes open and Aviana glides through in her five-inch pumps, a small camera crew trailing behind her.
“I’m here, bitches!” She pulls her glasses off in a way I thought was only possible due to movie magic and flips her long, glossy, advertised-on-Instagram hair over her shoulder, finally taking in the expressions of her “bitches.” “Oh shit. What did I miss?”
Nobody says a word, but four fingers point to the table in the back occupied by one stupid, but still hot, jerkface.
“Oh shit,” Aviana breathes, then turns to the camera crew. “Start rolling, this could get good.”
Fucking Lady Mustangs.
Three
Stalker.
Merriam-Webster defines the verb “stalk” as “to pursue quarry or prey stealthily.”
I wonder if the behavior of the mopey, annoying, but still-hot guy ruining the entire vibe of my bar for the last week fits under that definition.
“Are you going to say anything to him today?” Paisley whispers into my ear as she passes behind me.
Paisley has worked at HERS since it opened. She said she applied because she was in desperate need of a job, and she stayed so she could watch Real Housewives on big screens at work. Now she works here because the football player drama is better than Jersey season one and New York season nine combined.
She thinks I’m next.
She’s wrong.
“Nope.” I don’t look up and it’s not because my stupid, traitorous eyes will find Maxwell Lewis no matter how hard I try to avoid him. I’m just really focused on putting the limes in the cute new acrylic bins I bought at the Container Store.
I mean, it’s not like I have some secret love for him or anything.
Not at all.
I hold a mean grudge; it’s gonna be a while before he’s off my shit list.
But even my hatred can’t change the fact that he’s smokin’ fucking hot. And him showing up and rubbing his biceps and really nice ass in my face at work is just another thing for me to hold against him. As if trashing my bar wasn’t enough for him.
I don’t have kids, and as long as my trusty IUD stays where it’s supposed to, that won
’t ever change. But I’d imagine mothers love their kids almost as much as I love my bar. I mean, it’s my baby! I conceived it. I labored it. I birthed it. Plus side, HERS doesn’t pee on me and I don’t have to worry about sending it to therapy in twenty years.
Just financial ruin.
But, you know, can’t win everything.
“Well . . .” Paisley’s voice is closer and way too peppy for me to ignore her. “I hope you’ve worked on your silent treatment, because he’s coming over now.”
She claps once before shoving her hands into her pockets and skipping—yes, skipping—away from me.
Unlike my head that’s snapping back and forth between Paisley’s retreating form and Maxwell’s incoming hard body encased in perfect-fitting jeans and a black tee that might be too tight—but nobody is complaining—my feet are rooted to the tile beneath me.
Fuck.
“You can go back to brooding in the corner.” I keep my eyes focused on the task at hand, afraid that direct eye contact will cause a lust-colored haze to fog my wits.
“I’m not brooding.” Maxwell almost whispers the words. And since I still heard them, I take that to mean he got closer instead of retreating to the back of the bar like I’d hoped.
The limes are inside their new acrylic home, and Paisley—curse her helpfulness—wiped the bar down with such precision that it’s damn near sparkling. All of that is to say I have nothing to keep me from putting my focus on the man in front of me. I contemplate the “stop, drop, and roll” technique to escape, but I know that will blow my “play it cool” act. So on a deep sigh and a very dramatic neck roll, I look at Maxwell.
And fuck me.
Why does he have to be so freaking hot?
“You do brood. You sit in the corner looking all sad and depressed. I don’t know if you’re here to annoy me or to try to see how many women you can get to approach you every night.” He’s up to six tonight . . . not that I pay attention or anything.
“I just . . .” He shoves his hands in his pockets and glances around like someone will save him even though he’s the one who approached me. “I want to apologize.”
Flutters.
NO! Stop it, butterflies. We do not get warm and squishy over a long-overdue apology.
“Cool.” I reach for a glass and start making his old-fashioned. Once I’m finished, I push it across to Maxwell. “No need. You paid for the repairs. We’re square.”
“But—” he starts but is almost instantly interrupted by a brunette in cutoff shorts and a plaid button-up. I had no idea it was Dukes of Hazzard night.
“Aren’t you Maxwell Lewis?” She giggles even though literally nothing she said was funny.
I fight—and lose—the battle not to roll my eyes, and turn to leave. Even though I think I hate her, I make a note for Paisley to give Daisy Duke her next drink on the house for providing me with my out.
I try my hardest to keep my steps slow and steady, but once the door to my office is close enough, I do a little skip-hop and push the door open. And I swear, I only look back because of . . . whatever, never mind. I look back to see Maxwell. When I do, his focus directed at me and only me is enough to cause me to jump and trip into my office.
Smooth.
“You okay?” Paisley grabs my hand and pulls me off the ground.
“I mean . . . I just ate shit because a guy was looking at me, so I’ve been better.” My cheeks are on fire and I have no doubt I look like a tomato right about now.
“Oh shit.”
“Basically.” I wipe imaginary dirt off of my pants. “I’m probably going to spend the rest of the night hiding in my office of shame, but when you go out there, the girl flirting with Maxwell gets a drink on the house.”
Laughter dances in Paisley’s eyes and she bites her lip, no doubt trying to fight back the statement that could put her job in jeopardy. Luckily for me, because I hate interviews and hiring new people, she contains herself.
“Do you want me to pass her an origami-folded note with the drink?”
Never mind. She almost contains herself.
“I hate you.”
“You love me.” She shrugs and pushes the door open, blowing me a kiss before the door shuts behind her.
“Bitch,” I say to nobody, but feel better getting it out.
I take a moment and look around my office. My desk is littered with papers, pens, and personalized stationery I might not need but that I don’t regret spending too much on. There are too many coffee cups from Fresh in my trash can, and there may or may not be two opened bags of chocolate in my drawer.
But there are also pictures of me standing next to Marlee in my blush, floor-length bridesmaid dress and of me hugging Ace tight while he’s clutching the trophy from the soccer tournament he won.
HERS started as a business, but it became my family.
The door opens and startles me, causing me to almost lose my balance . . . again. I guess, unlike my friends, athletic coordination hasn’t been passed on to me by osmosis.
“What the hell, Pais?” I yell, blaming her for my inability to stay upright.
“It’s not origami, but it’s still a note!” she screams, bouncing from foot to foot.
I feel faint and queasy. “You did not give him a note.”
“I didn’t.” She waves the folded napkin in front of my face. “He gave you one after he paid his bill.”
I grab the note from her hand and toss it onto the pile of papers I have yet to get to.
Her jaw falls to the floor. “You’re not gonna read it?” she asks, her eyes never leaving the note.
“Maybe later.” I ignore the crestfallen look on her face and walk back into my Maxwell-free bar.
Now, if only he would get the fuck out of my head.
Four
Soon.
That’s it. The entire note. One fucking word.
What the hell?
That one word tainted my mind so hard, I messed up three drinks and two food orders before I tapped out.
But instead of hopping in my SUV—yes, I know I’m single and they are bad for the environment, but I’m a Denver native and when ski season comes around, it’s where I spend all my free time—I start the short walk to my dad’s house.
I didn’t tell him I was coming, but when I round the corner, the porch light is on. I would say it’s because he’s super thoughtful, which I guess is part of it, but mainly it’s because I’m a grown toddler and most nights I crash in my childhood bedroom instead of the condo across town I just had to have.
My dad is like the polar opposite of me.
I’m five foot eleven. My dad is five foot seven. I was taller than him in seventh grade. I have blond hair, my dad has brown . . . well, gray now, but you get the picture. I’m loud and in your face and speak before thinking. He’s quiet and kind and contemplates his every word before it leaves his mouth. Even though, when it comes to me, he’s still a dad and is quick to call me on my bullshit. Which is probably why even though I’m grown as fuck, I still get scolded for how often I say “fuck.”
My dad is a saint, and to keep the metaphor going, my mom is definitely a sinner.
Mom also took off when I was fifteen, not a critical time in a girl’s life or anything, because she needed some “excitement” and decided to find that by chasing after every dickhead in the Denver metro area before taking her act cross-country.
So you might see why I find it so shitty that every time I look into the mirror, I see my mom’s face. Now, my mom has not held a job in seventeen years because of her looks, so I’d sound like an asshole not to be grateful to inherit them, but when you hate the person whom you are almost a carbon copy of, it causes some serious issues and a lot of time spent in a therapist’s office.
I grab the Tiffany keychain I got for my sixteenth birthday and find the same purple, sp
arkly key I never took off.
“Daddy-o!” I yell, pushing the door open. “Where you at?”
“In the kitchen,” he answers unnecessarily. The house smells so good there’s really only one possibility.
I toe off my tennis shoes and drop my purse onto the floor—a habit I’m not sure I’ll ever kick—and damn near skate across the hardwood floors he must’ve had polished in the last twenty-four hours. If I fall again, I’m gonna be so pissed.
Luckily for my dad and my backside, I manage to stay on my feet. It seems my coordination only takes flight when I have the attention of attractive men.
Well, one attractive asshole.
All thoughts of scolding my dad for what feels like a slippery setup flee when I get to the kitchen and he’s plating his world-famous Maryland crab cakes.
“That smells amazing.” I close my eyes and inhale as deep as I can without passing out. “Why so fancy?”
“No reason,” he says into the oven, pulling out a cookie sheet with two giant baked potatoes with his oven-mitt-covered hand.
“Umm . . .” I look at the set table and the amount of food he has prepared, and my stomach knots up. “Am I interrupting something?”
Don’t get me wrong, I want my dad to date. I have for years now, but he’s always blown off my requests. Either he’s happy doing his own thing and not having to share his time or space, which is relatable, or my selfish mother ruined him for life—also relatable.
“No.” He rolls his eyes like I’m crazy for assuming the single man cooking for two might have a date. “I just had a feeling you might need some comfort food tonight.”
“You ‘had a feeling’?” I don’t doubt my dad’s super-dad powers often, but this seems a little far-fetched . . . even for him.
