My Mind's Eye (Pub Fiction #1)

by Gillian Jones

  After rooming in a small dorm for what seems like forever, I enjoy retreating to my private space to read, do homework, or to simply relax in peace. I’m still super social with the other girls, but to be honest, there are times when I long to bail and just hide out in my room. Deciding I really do need to focus and get ready, I jump to it. Lord knows, I don’t want to be late on my first day; definitely not the impression I’m aiming for.

  I grab my new uniform off my favourite black and purple armchair; the one my mom insisted would just “make my space.” You’d think she hosted her own show on HGTV. I slip on the uniform Claire picked up for me last week, look down, and end up doing a double take. After putting it on, I stand staring, a bit in shock to be honest, at the very barely there shorts, which I’m to pair with the seriously small and low-cut matching V-necked shirt.

  Oh, shit. I move to stand in front of the mirror. I stare at my reflection, trying to convince myself there must be some mistake as I stare at the way they mould to my body like a second skin. This can’t possibly be mine. There is no way Levi wants us to wear this? I quickly duck my head out and yell down the hall.

  “Claire! I think you have my shirt, or you grabbed me the wrong shirt size, for sure, ’cause this shit is tight. Way too tight!” I wiggle around, trying to stretch it out.

  “Oh.” She laughs, coming into my room, staring at me in my tight-ass outfit. “I assume this is the first time you’ve put them on, then?”

  “Clearly,” I say, waving my hand down the length of myself. “I’ve just been too busy unpacking and spending time with the other girls, trying to get to know them better. It just completely escaped my mind,” I explain, knowing what she’s thinking—it’s really unlike me to leave stuff like this to the last minute. But, honestly, I wasn’t expecting the clothes to be this tight.

  “Yes, uh…sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but there is no mistake, my friend. That is definitely your top. Mine’s just as bad, if it makes you feel any better. Well, my boobs are smaller, so mine isn’t as tight, but these shirts sure do hug the girls, better get used to it.” Claire shrugs like it’s no big deal. “You actually lucked out by getting those shorts you have on there because the other choice for bottoms was a skirt that would make a stripper blush. You’re probably going to be more covered than some of the others, though, so that’s good news.”

  Awesome. Leave it to Claire to always try and find the bright side of things. I laugh at the visual of her stripper comment, but I’m still not impressed. How did I miss that this was the uniform?

  “Kat, you should be thanking me. After all, it’s your fault. It was you and your lazy-ass who decided to sleep in rather than pick up your uniform. And you should have tried it on. Who waits until the day of to try their uniform on, anyway?” Claire adds, in a mockingly bitchy tone. “I’d go as far as saying you owe me. You almost got stuck with the shortest skirt I have ever seen, and you know me, I like my stuff short, but I can admit they were way short. But seeing as I’m the best person you know, I saved your snatch from being on display during work hours.”

  At that, I have no choice but to bow down to her. “You’re right. My apologies, oh Great One. I definitely owe you, and shall it be my first born? Or is me paying for our next mani-pedi enough? I mean, after all, it’s not like I get a ton of regular sleep. But yeah, yeah, rub it in. You’re my snatch-saving hero.” I move my arm across my forehead and feign a dramatic sigh.

  Claire snorts. “Well, if it means your tight ass will get laid, then I choose your first born. Yes, yes, that’ll square us,” she says, tapping her finger to her chin as if in contemplation. “Best get on that right away, like, tonight. I’ve got no immediate plans after this year, so, yup, mom it is.” She beams.

  “Oh, sure, Claire. I’ll get right on it. How about this, think this will work? Hello there, my handsome. My name is Kat; it’s my first day. You’re hot. Wanna fuck and, hopefully, impregnate me to pay off my snatch debt to my asshole of a bestie?” We both laugh and quickly continue getting ready, despite how reluctant I may be about it.

  I decide to make the best of what I’ve got, despite knowing it’s never going to be enough to make me comfy. I throw on the shorts and top over my black lace bra, trying my damnedest to tuck in all my ladybits. God, this shit is tight. I glance at myself one last time in the full-length mirror. I note that, despite being tight, it’s very flattering actually, hugging me in all the right places. Places I’m not used to having hugged, I guess. That’s the part that makes me nervous the most. I just don’t want people thinking this is me. I’m definitely more of a jeans and t-shirt kind of girl.

  I move to my dressing table to put on some makeup. I’m not a huge makeup fan, not because I don’t like it, but more because I don’t really know what the hell I’m doing. I mean, I can do the basics, but getting all dolled up isn’t really my forte. My mom doesn’t wear it; therefore, I missed out on that whole makeup bonding experience where she might have taught me Face Applying 101. According to my mom, we Rollins ladies just don’t need it, which isn’t really too far off the mark. I have to admit, I’ve been blessed with a clear complexion, rarely having breakouts, allowing me to usually get away with only a tinted moisturizer.

  I’m a ‘dab of foundation and lip gloss’ kind of girl, but seeing as my goal is to make good money in tips, I decide on working nights, I’ll go into ‘full face’ mode. I smooth on foundation and cover-up, brush on powdery pink blusher, and smudge on some grey eyeshadow and dark eyeliner, which helps my green eyes stand out. I finish off with some mascara and lip gloss, then spray on a bit of my favourite Viva La Juicy perfume. I give my hair one last look over in the mirror as I make my way to the door, shutting off my light before heading to see Claire in the living room.

  “Jesus, Kat, you’re gonna make a killing in tips tonight! That shirt sure shows off your best assets. Those other waitresses are going to hate you!” she says.

  “That’s perfect, just what I needed to hear. Way to help me squash my already fluttering nerves, chick,” I reply, giving her a dirty look. “I’m already feeling super awkward, like I’m showing off all my wobbly bits. I don’t think I can handle worrying that I’m overstepping or anything with the other girls.” I sigh, dropping my hands to my sides in defeat. “Do you think they’re going to think that? Like I’m there to poach their tips and stuff?” I’m starting to ramble now, my nerves getting the best of me. “I’m not like that, though. Oh, maybe I can’t do this; maybe working in a bar isn’t for me…” I trail off, pacing the living room now.

  “Kat, calm down—” Claire starts but is interrupted, thank the stars.

  “Wow, Kat,” Beth say, coming into the living room with a bowl of ice cream. “Don’t panic; you look very pretty all done up. I agree, you will definitely stand out, but I do think it’s a bit sexist you having to wear that, to be honest, especially in this day and age,” she quips. “Please don’t get me wrong, though, you look amazing, and that seems to be the norm for bars. Tight and sexy. As for the other girls, they will love you. You’re too sweet for them not to. Don’t listen to Claire,” she says, sticking her tongue out in Claire’s direction.

  “Thanks, Beth.” I let out a relieved breath. “I’m glad you think I look okay. I’m just nervous. It’s not what I’m used to wearing. Tight clothes aren’t really my thing,” I say while tugging the shirt out from the inside, trying to stretch it again. She smiles.

  “Just leave it; it’s not as bad as you think,” Claire assures.

  “I do have one question, however,” Beth begins. “Do the guys at least walk around shirtless to make up for your uniform? Like, will I get some man-candy when we all go there drinking?”

  I laugh at her question because I doubt it. “I don’t think they do, but they should, shouldn’t they?”

  “Hell yeah they should, especially if the guys are haw-t.” Beth drawls, making me laugh. I’m really loving this girl so far. She’s a perfect mix of level-headed with a side of spunk.<
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  “You’re too sensitive, Kat. Please don’t worry,” Claire interjects. I think she realizes I took her comment about the others hating me the wrong way. “I know they are all gonna love you, trust me. It’s impossible not to. Beth is right. It’s just you look slammin’. Your makeup looks great, those beautiful green eyes of yours are popping, and your hair looks fab. I’m just stating the obvious. Take a compliment, would ya? All I’m saying is, with you in that outfit, those other shooter girls might as well go home, though, for real.” She laughs. “No dude is gonna want a shot from them with you in sight.”

  “Oh man, you’re hopeless. I give up.” I wave my hand flippantly in the air. “I’m gonna be late if I don’t get out of here. This conversation is over, lady. You’re lucky I love you,” I say, patting her head, before making my way down the stairs.

  Despite knowing I need to get going, I can’t help but get in one last comment, feeling like I need to get a last dig or two in. “Maybe it’ll be you who causes the biggest stir?” I shout up from the landing. “I mean, between that pretty face, those longs legs, and of course, the winning personality to go with it,” I deadpan, pausing for reaction. After a beat, the sound of Claire’s fake laughter is all I get. “And just maybe the other bartenders will hate you, seeing how cute and oh-so-lovable you are. I’m sure the customers will be flocking to your end of the bar.”

  “Looks like Pub Fiction is in for a little double trouble, if you ask me,” she hollers, her tone cheeky. Dammit, of course she takes it as a compliment.

  But then, I hear a loud thump from where I’m standing by the front door, looking behind me I see Claire. “Oh God.” She’s standing at the top of the stairs and it surprises me. I look toward her and see a worried look on her face. “I sure as shit hope we’re working on the same nights, or that will really suck. I didn’t think we might not be. I mean I knew we were training on opposite days, but I didn’t once think we might not be working together.” She’s all but yelling now, waving her hands all around as she talks, and I can’t help but enjoy her and her little panic attack.

  “What if we’re not on the same shift pattern? If that happens…how often will we get to go out on the odd times you do let us party together? Or catch up on all our shows? You know, hang out Claire Bear and Kitty Kat style.” At this, I let out a full-blown belly laugh.

  “Kat, I’m serious. Don’t laugh at me.” Claire crosses her arms. “You need to look at your schedule when you get it and call me ASAP, so we can check them. I mean it, lady. I will be expecting your call, text even…well, if your phone isn’t dead.” I can’t help but shake my head at her last little dig; she knows me too well.

  “Oh, my goodness, Claire, relax, we’ll have a ton of time for that stuff. It’s not like either of us have late night classes. I actually thought something was wrong there for a minute. Besides, I’m sure we can swing a few weekends off together, so really, calm your farm. You’re starting to sound like me, stressor. Maybe I’ll start calling you Stressossaurus if you keep that shit up.” At that, she shoots me a dirty look.

  “Hmph, no you re-lax,” she enunciates slowly, pointing her finger up and down at me. “You will manage fine at work. You’ll see, sooner than later, my beautiful friend; there will be plenty of time for normal, stuffy clothing on school days. For tonight, embrace your assets. Go forth and be sexy!” she shouts. Then, with a small curtsy, she turns and walks away, surely thinking she’s so damn smart.

  I know I’m pretty, but I’m not a super-confident person. I have insecurity and flaws just like everyone else. I like to think that, despite being a bit high-strung, I do have the ability to be easy going, well sometimes anyway. I’ve really been trying to be more social and laid back since the fire. It isn’t always easy, but I am getting better. I’ve missed out on too many opportunities by being a chickenshit. According to my younger brother, being able to “go with the flow” is a must-have quality in a chick, and high-maintenance girls are a turnoff. According to Mr. Chick Magnet, Wes, this is a trait I really need to work on. Not that I would ever listen to a thing he says about relationships, but I do smile when he gives me advice. He’s too cute thinking he’s the bomb. He and Claire have no qualms about giving me advice on how to loosen up.

  Wes calls me at least once a week, making sure I’m not being a societal troll. Seeing as I do easily get attention from the opposite sex, they both think I should be serial dating my way through university, “living it up,” they say, but just because I happen to get male attention, does that mean I should think I’m God’s gift? Absolutely not. Do I enjoy getting male attention? Of course, who doesn’t? Does that mean I want to flaunt myself or my goods for the world to see? Ah, no. Does it mean I have to date the male population to be considered fun and going with the flow?” Hell no. Needless to say, I hate it when Claire and Wes chat. I do just fine on my own.

  Annoyed by my thoughts of Wes and Claire, I slip on my black ballet flats before putting on my jacket. It’s summer, I know, but I’m trying my damnedest to cover my chest, which I feel is on blatant display. Despite how sticky and hot it may be outside, I opt for the little grey jacket. I’m willing to suffer through the heat if it means I can keep my modesty for a while longer. I also make one last attempt to pull the shorts down over more of my ass. It’s no use. I sigh before grabbing my keys and cell phone and heading out the door.

  Walking to my car, I check my phone. I have to admit, I am the worst person when it comes to having a cell phone. I’m constantly losing it or letting its batteries die, without noticing until days later. Like I said, not being a tech-savvy person, I’m not really dependent on my phone like some people. I really only bought it in case of an emergency while away at school. My friends and parents are always giving me the business for being a cell phone dud. Once Claire and I replaced our phones, I agreed to put more effort into checking it, as well as to responding, especially since we both got iPhone 6s with the insurance money. Wes told me if I didn’t actually use mine, he’d take it and give me his crappy outdated one, which he still has a year’s contract on. Apparently, I don’t deserve this kind of phone, according to my little bro.

  Glancing down at the screen, I notice I have a text message. I stop in my tracks when I realize it’s from Seth. Groaning, I slide my finger across the screen to see what that son of a bitch has to say. I know I’m most definitely going to regret this already. Texts from the ex are never good, especially ex-boyfriends turned annoying like mine.

  Seth: Kat doll, I miss you. Please call me. We NEED to talk. X

  Reading this just pisses me off. The guy is relentless. It’s his fault we broke up in the first place. He made it clear I wasn’t enough. I roll my shoulders, trying to relax, letting out a sigh as I begin to text back.

  Me: No, stop texting, don’t call me…we are over, Seth.

  I make a mental note to call my provider and get my number changed during my break tonight. See why I don’t care for cell phones?

  Dropping my cell into my oversized purse, I continue to walk to Bertha, my red Beetle Bug. She was a hand-me-down from my mom that I love, one she opted to trade for another model; ergo I gladly adopted my wee car. Settling in, I take in the scent that lingers in the air. Nothing beats the smell of old leather and patchouli. The combination always reminds me of my mom, the little hippy, and I take in a deep breath and relax. Thoughts of Seth suddenly dissipate with what I think is a fantastic idea to rectify my shirt problem. As soon as I get to Pub Fiction, I’ll simply exchange my shirt for a bigger size, claiming I was given the wrong one. With this plan fresh in my mind, I start to relax and smile, pleased with myself. Well, at least I think it’s a good excuse. Now to convince my new boss, Levi.

  Chapter 4

  Ryker

  I knew coming back to campus early was going to be a fucking mistake. Not even back a full day, and here I am, already headed to help out my older brother, Levi, with his club. I know I get paid to work there, but times like this I feel is more a favour th
an part of my job. It’s not like I could tell the fucker no, especially after all he’s done for me. Levi bought and opened Pub Fiction three years ago, right out of university, his business degree in tow. Our mom, Patricia, agreed to co-sign a loan for him, and already he’s managed to pay her back along with a hefty bonus for believing in him and his dream.

  Luckily for me though, he hired me as a part-time bartender. The gig gives me enough money to pay for tuition and living expenses while I get my degree. I’m studying sports medicine here at Brock; it’s one of the best programs in Canada. I know Levi was hoping I’d partner up in the club with him, but at the end of the day, he knows that lifestyle just isn’t for me. Don’t get me wrong, I love the bar scene, but dealing with the day-to-day operations is not my thing.

  I don’t believe in handouts, the idea that things happen for a reason, or any of that other karma bullshit. I know it’s me who will make my dreams come true, not some bullshit called fate. Me. It’s all ME. Like my job at the bar, sure, Levi gave it to me, but I have worked my ass off both to maintain it and to be good at it. I took mixology classes and Smart Serve training, not only to show people that I’ve done my time, but that I deserve the job on my own merit, not just on kin. I’m keeping my options open, and it helps Levi too.

  One day, I’d like to open my own sports clinic, called The Locker Room. It’ll offer a wide-range of sport-related therapies, as well as a variety of medical services ranging from ortho care to strength training and recovery options. Although Levi is willing to share his dream with me, I’m going to chase my own.

  I do have to admit, though, that bartending at Pub Fiction is the best job I could ask for as a student. On top of my hourly wage, I bring in a shitload in tips. I think the good tips come from the fact I give extra attention to my customers, especially the hotties.