by Lexie Ray
Mama took a long drink from her cocktail and nodded. “You might be a little thicker around the middle, but you’re prettier than ever,” she said. “People deal with things in different ways. You’ll get past this, honey.”
She patted my hand and made her way back to the office, cocktail in tow. The moment she closed the door, I threw up in the trashcan behind the bar. I realized that it hadn’t been the vodka that bothered me. This was legitimate morning sickness. I was screwed.
Wandering back into the kitchen, the hotdogs in their plastic packaging disgusted me. Hotdogs? How had I ever wanted hotdogs?
Pizza was what I’d obviously been craving.
What was I doing? I asked myself as I retrieved a microwavable individual pizza from the freezer. There was no way I could sustain this. I was right on the edge—soon, I wouldn’t be able to get an abortion, even if I wanted to. Mama would be furious about me lying to her and I wouldn’t be able to stay at the nightclub with a newborn infant.
A newborn infant whose father was in no way interested in being a part of the baby’s life—or mine.
That night, I worked through my shift, numb and confused. The DJ who had replaced Jake was playing tonight, and he wasn’t half bad, but it was hard to appreciate the music when I didn’t care about the person who was playing it.
Part of me wanted to crawl up to my room and call Jake, but the rest of me knew it would destroy me to have him ignore another one of my phone calls. The best thing to do was stay busy, distract myself from my pain—and the reality of what I’d have to do.
I’d have to get rid of this baby—as soon as possible. In the morning, even.
My misery tripled when a customer sat down at the bar. I really couldn’t flirt with someone right now, not with the state I was in. I couldn’t.
I thought about Cocoa, and about how she was able to turn it on and off like a switch—the personality she tapped into for working at the nightclub. Maybe it’d been actually useful, allowing her to put on a mask and costume in order to get away from whatever real problems she’d been battling. I could do that, too, just for tonight. After tomorrow, my problems were going to be resolved. I needed a distraction to get myself through tonight.
“Howdy, baby,” I said, mustering a smile and leaning over the bar. “What can I do for you tonight?”
I looked up and my smile faltered. This customer was handsome—dark hair styled carelessly but nicely, just a light dusting of gray at the temples, warm eyes, and an easy smile. He was completely hot, in fact, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I knew him somehow—or had seen him before.
“I’d like to see about what I can do to keep that smile permanently on your face,” he said, holding out his hand.
I took it and shook it, wondering at what this could mean. I was more likely to get fondled while working at the nightclub than to shake hands politely, but his grip was strong, and something resonated in me long after I let it go.
“You’ve caught me on a strange night, baby,” I said, grinning for him. “Pick your poison.”
“Vodka sour,” he said, his eyes so kind it hurt me a little.
“My kind of man,” I said, grabbing a bottle of vodka and triple sec, spinning them around on my fingers, and transferring them both to one hand so I could grab a tall glass.
He raised his eyebrows and started applauding as I juggled the bottles again, pouring them into the glass before twisting in some lime juice. I bounced the mixer on my elbow and snagged it out of the air with one hand, pouring the concoction from the glass into it with the other. I capped the mixer and started shaking it as I scooped ice into the glass and then poured it with a flourish, garnishing the glass with a lime wedge before stabbing a straw into it and sliding it over to the customer.
“Very impressive,” he said, taking a sip. Those wonderful eyes widened even more. “And perfectly made. I ask for vodka sours all over this city and this has been the best one yet.”
“Now you’re just blowing wind up my skirt,” I teased, smiling. It was getting easier by the moment to smile. That was encouraging.
“It’s the truth,” he protested. “I’m always in search of the perfect vodka sour, and I think I’ve finally found it.”
“You want me to believe that you’ve been crusading around the Big Apple, trying to find the best cocktail?” I raised my eyebrows to make sure he knew how ridiculous that sounded.
“Believe it,” he said, shrugging and toasting me. “Can I know the name of the bartender who has finally won over my taste buds?”
“It’s Blue,” I said, sticking out my hand before withdrawing it, laughing at myself and feeling stupid. We already shook hands.
But before I could draw it all the way back, he seized it again, shaking it firmly, slowly, lingering.
“Dan,” he said. “Dan Fraser.”
My heart hiccupped at that last name. Fraser? Why did his last name have to be Fraser? It was common enough, I guessed, but it booted me right back into my despair. Couldn’t I escape thinking about Jake for one single moment?
Nothing got past Dan, apparently. “I’m sorry,” he said, cocking his head at me. “Did I say something wrong? Was it Dan that you didn’t like? Or Fraser? You can call me whatever you want.”
I laughed at that. “Neither of them bothers me,” I said. “Like I told you earlier, you caught me on a strange night.”
“Hope everything’s okay,” Dan remarked, sipping on his drink.
“It will be,” I said, smiling. “But until then, I think you’re the perfect distraction.”
And he was. Throughout the night, I continued making vodka sours for Dan, ordering a selection of tapas for him, and chatting over the blare of the DJ. It was almost a relief when the first set was over and the pop songs came on.
Dan revealed that he worked at a marketing firm, helping companies decide on what advertising approaches to use and who their most likely customers would be. The more he talked about it, the more fascinated I was.
“So, how does a company not even know who’s going to buy their stuff?” I asked. “That seems like it would be the first thing they’d hammer down.”
“It should be, but it often isn’t,” Dan said, putting his fork and knife down on his empty plate. I whisked it beneath the bar and propped my chin up on my fist. “Most of the time, a company simply starts with a product.”
“A product that they don’t know how to sell,” I said dubiously.
“Unlucky for them,” Dan said. “Lucky for me and my business.”
“Oh, your business?” I said. “Do you own it?”
“Several shares,” he said casually. “I’m one of five partners. We started it right out of college.”
I could be going to college right now, I thought glumly as I poured a tray full of shots for one of the girls. Instead, I was bartending at a brothel and was pregnant to boot. As nice as he was, the man in front of me could very well pay for the pleasure of my body at any point—whether I wanted to have sex or not. What was I doing with my life? Even the best-laid plans went to shit, I was starting to realize.
Dan’s hand covered my own and I looked up at him.
“Sometimes, you look so sad that it squeezes my heart,” he said, his eyes so kind that my heart gave its own little squeeze. “You know, the bartender/drinker relationship can go both ways. I’ve been yakking on and on about my life. You can talk about yours, too, if you want.”
I laughed and patted his hand. “My life is nowhere near as exciting as yours,” I said.
“Oh, come on,” Dan complained. “Try me. I basically ride a desk all day. What’s the most interesting thing about yourself?”
The most interesting thing? I was currently growing a baby inside of myself that belonged to a DJ who should be starting his second set right about now. The reason I was such a good bartender was because my parents had been both drunk and absent. I’d picked caring for my younger siblings over furthering my education and ending up squandering what c
ould’ve been a successful future.
Somehow, none of those things seemed appealing.
“I can draw,” I said finally.
“You’re an artist,” Dan said, clearly delighted.
I laughed and shook my head. “I said I can draw, not that I’m an artist.”
“Anyone who has artistic ability is, by definition, an artist,” Dan maintained. “Well, let’s see it.”
“Now?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “Here?”
“Yeah,” Dan said, nodding emphatically. “I’d like a portrait of myself, please. I’d pay you, of course. I’d never ask an artist to give me their artwork for free.”
“It’s not going to be artwork,” I said, smiling as I pulled a marker and a pad of order tickets from beneath the bar. “It’s just going to be a crappy marker drawing on an order ticket.”
“Art comes in many different forms,” Dan said stubbornly. “Who knows? We could have a Picasso on our hands.”
“Very funny,” I said, my voice dry. “Strike a pose, then.”
Dan extended one arm up into the air and curved the other behind his head, looking absolutely ridiculous. A couple of Mama’s girls serving tables nearby covered their mouths to hide their laughter at the sight. I laughed outright.
“Is something wrong with my pose?” Dan said, staring straight up in the same direction of his outstretched arm.
“Nothing wrong with it at all,” I said, chortling as I sketched the outline of his body as lightly as I could. When I got the shape right, I laid in the details a little more surely—the buttons on his shirt, the spikes in his hair, all the way down to his kind eyes and clean fingernails.
“Here we are,” I said. “You can stop doing that pose now. Please. People are looking at you.”
Dan relaxed his arms and took the pad as I handed it to him. I thought it was a fair sketch, realizing that I needed to practice some more, but he was thrilled with it.
“Blue!” he exclaimed. “This is great! And it took you like, what? A minute?”
“Oh, stop,” I said, wrinkling my nose. “It’s not that good. I’m out of practice. You should’ve seen me a few years ago.” Never mind that a few years ago I was still in high school and struggling to raise my brothers and sisters.
“I’m being serious,” he said. “This is a great sketch. How much will you sell it to me for?”
“Sell it?” I snorted. “I’ll give it to you.”
“Nope,” Dan said adamantly, shaking his head and getting his wallet out. “I told you that I’d be paying for your art and I intend to. Name your price.”
“A dollar?” I said uncertainly.
Dan clucked at me. “Take some pride in your work,” he said. “This is great stuff we’re mining, Blue.”
“Two dollars?”
“I’m giving you twenty,” he said, peeling the bill from his wallet and holding it out to me.
I recoiled. “The sketch isn’t worth that,” I protested. “It’s not worth the paper I drew it on, or the marker I drew it with.”
“I insist,” he said. “I want to buy this artwork from you for twenty dollars.”
“Fine,” I scoffed, snatching the bill. “But you’re crazy. I could do better.”
“Then do another one,” he said. “I’ll even do a different pose.” He propped his chin up on both fists and gave a big cheesy smile, batting his eyelashes at me.
I cackled at how ludicrous he looked.
“Here’s an idea,” he said, dropping out of his pose and leaning forward earnestly. “Let me give you a taste of the marketing firm where I work.”
“Okay …”
“A client comes in,” he said, walking his fingers across the bar to the pad of paper. “We have a meeting with them to talk about their product or company or whatever.” He sat his fingers down at the edge of the paper, treating it like it was a conference table or something. “We have graphic designers sitting in on the meeting, taking notes and doing sketches.” He tapped the marker with one of his fingers. “After that meeting, and deciding on what kind of campaign we want to move forward with, the graphic designers will start putting together promotional materials or ads or whatever.”
He’d had my rapt attention the entire time. “Give me an example,” I said. “Anything. You’re the client. I’m the designer. Go.”
Dan pressed his lips together, thinking, and then lit up. “Okay,” he started. “I own an adult novelty store. Not only do I stock the regular items—sex toys and the like—I’ve also started stocking regular items that would appeal to the same clientele, like crayons with naughty names for the colors, card games with sexual twists, and coloring books with nudity. I’m trying to branch out, expand my merchandise and boost my sales, not alienate my regular customer base, and draw in new customers.”
I’d filled several sheets of order tickets with the notes I’d taken, then made a couple of sketches based on some of the products he’d told me about. One was a simple drawing of a naked woman posing, but the majority of her boobs were missing. The crayon apparently drawing her had just paused on that part. I’d also jotted down some catchy phrases that had sprung to mind.
“All right,” Dan said. “Let’s hear the pitch.”
I showed him the pad, not sure what a pitch was. “It sounds like you want to bring more people in with more normal merchandise,” I said. “Not everybody needs a new dildo every day, after all.”
“True,” Dan remarked, flipping through the pages on the pad.
“So you have this new merchandise that might be a little more socially acceptable, but it’s still edgy,” I continued. “You don’t want to weird out your regulars by them thinking you’ve gone mainstream, but you want to draw in new people—people who don’t regularly go out and buy a dildo, but who might like to buy a gag gift for someone or a conversation piece for themselves.”
“Go on.”
“So maybe the way you sell it is to have these sexy little ads,” I said. “They’d remind people that all of us are a little dirty on the inside—somewhere, there’s still a kid who snickers at the most inappropriate times.”
Dan turned to the page on the pad that featured a little group of doctors—grown men and women—covering their mouths and holding their bellies in mirth at two scientific posters of male and female genitalia.
Dan grabbed my hands, making me jump, and stared at me.
“Have you ever been in marketing before?” he asked, his face serious.
“No,” I said, wondering why he was holding my hands so tightly.
“I wasn’t just giving you a random example,” he said. “That was the client we’re trying to figure out how to handle right now. Nobody’s come up with anything the client’s happy with, yet, and no one’s come even close to what you’ve done here—in five minutes. This is incredible work.”
I flushed with pleasure at his praise. People praised my sexiness and my ability to sling a drink together, but it’d been a long time since I’d been paid a compliment about my art.
“Thank you,” I said shyly. “If you think it’d help, you can take the pad to your designers.”
“I’m going to take you to my designers, if you agree to it,” Dan said, releasing my hands. “This is incredibly inspired work, Blue.”
I laughed, suddenly uncomfortable. “Just take the pad,” I urged, “if you want to take anything. I’m not going to be able to contribute to your firm. I don’t even have a college degree.”
“There are things you can learn in college, that’s true,” Dan said thoughtfully. “But there are other things that just come naturally. Blue, you’re one of the best natural designers I’ve ever seen. These things that you came up with—they’re incredible. I can’t gush enough about it. Are you ever free during regular business hours? Would you even be interested in coming to the firm? I could offer you a freelancer’s fee.”
The price he quoted next made my eyes bug out. “Seriously?” I asked. I thought about the wad of money Mama had
given me for the abortion, then thought of it doubling and tripling. If what Dan was saying was true, I could make all that money with my art.
But then, my heart sank. Who would ever want a woman of my profession coming into their legitimate place of business?
“No, no, no,” Dan said. “It’s that sad look again. I hate that look. I’d do anything to keep that look from your face. What’s wrong? Do you not want to go to the firm?”
I sighed. “It’s not that,” I said. “Of course I’d want to go. But you do know what we do here at Mama’s nightclub, don’t you Dan?”
There were very few people who didn’t know exactly what was what before strolling in to enjoy a night in here.
Dan shrugged. “I hear catchy music, I see beautiful women, and I taste the best vodka sours in all of New York. Whatever you’re doing here, you’re doing it right.”
I pointed at Shimmy, who was currently leading a customer to the stairs to go up to the bedrooms. “And what do you think happens upstairs?” I asked.
He smiled. “I’m not ignorant to the little quirks of your nightclub,” he said. “If it bothered me, I wouldn’t come here. As long as it’s two consenting adults, I don’t know why prostitution is even illegal. Oldest profession there is.”
I shook my head. Full disclosure, I told myself. It was best to be honest at the get go. It saved so much heartache at the end.
“I’ve taken paying customers up there, too,” I said, indicating the stairs. “I’m a part of this entire thing.”
If Dan was shocked by my admission, he didn’t show it. “I would expect that,” he said. “You’re one of the most beautiful girls working here.”
I flushed at that. Okay, time for fuller disclosure. “And one of my recent customers put a baby in my belly,” I said. “So, there’s that. I don’t think you want this hot mess in front of you anywhere near your marketing firm.”
Dan’s eyes flicked down to my flat belly and up to my face. Long seconds passed before he smiled.
“A baby on the way,” he said. “Congratulations. I’d imagine you were looking for a way out of the nightclub life, to try to raise your son or daughter in the best environment possible. If I were you, I’d leap at a chance to get out of here. For your child’s sake.”
