“Then we should be fine.”
“I will say, though. You’re going to be hit on,” he says. “Men of all ages, social classes, and backgrounds frequent this pub, and they come here because they want good food, pretty girls to look at, and someone to fantasize about when they’re lying next to their old ball and chains that night. That said, show them a good time. It’s okay to flirt back. It’s okay to let them think that maybe they have a chance. But our girls aren’t allowed to go home with the men or give out their numbers. We keep it professional.” He leans back in his chair, studying me. “How does that sound? You think you might be interested in something like that?”
“Absolutely. When can I start?”
It’s not like I have a choice. I need a job so I can get a car so I can get the hell out of here the second I graduate from Rosefield. There’s not much I won’t do at this point.
“Tomorrow?” he asks. “Can you start tomorrow? We’ll have you shadow someone for a week, but then you’ll be on your own. Shifts are eleven to five and five to eleven. You have a preference?”
“Eleven to five is fine,” I say. Vic and Tab would freak if I came home after eleven every night.
“Perfect. Let me grab your paperwork here. We’ll need a copy of your Social Security card and … well … everything’s outlined here. Take it home, fill it out, bring it back tomorrow, and we’ll get you suited up. Maybe get here about ten-thirty?”
I rise. He rises.
It’s done.
I have a job.
“Thank you, Todd,” I say.
I feel the weight of his stare on my ass as he walks me out.
Lying in bed, I double click on Karma and send Kerouac a message. I haven’t talked to him since I ended the conversation several days ago. Sure, I could’ve made up a story about the way I lost my virginity … saying it was some high school boyfriend and we were madly in love and it was sweet and romantic and perfect.
But my mind kept playing the real scenario, and my instinct was to shut down and walk away.
“You there?” I send him a message, biting my thumbnail as I wait.
Five minutes pass, then another five, then ten.
I watch some music videos on YouTube to pass the time.
Kerouac: I’m here. What’s going on?
Absinthe: What’s the most desperate thing you’ve ever done for money?
Kerouac: That’s random.
Absinthe: Just answer it.
Kerouac: I’m not a desperate man and I’m good with my money, so … nothing?
Absinthe: Bullshit.
Kerouac: I’d need to think on this a while. Can I get back to you?
Absinthe: I guess.
Kerouac: What’s wrong? Thought it was weird you went silent on me for a week.
Congratulations! You’ve reached ten Karma points! You may now view the photograph of the Karma user you’re chatting with!
I have no idea how they dole out points, if it’s based on how long you chat or how many messages are sent, but a flashing blue icon in the upper corner blinks at me, begging to be clicked.
So I click it.
And an image fills the screen.
It’s a man, late twenties, with brown hair, hazel eyes, and a perfect smile. He’s incredibly handsome and clean cut, and he wears a navy sweater over a gingham tie. He belongs on a Ralph Lauren billboard. Grabbing a screenshot of the image, I pull up Google and do a reverse image search, which leads me to a stock photo website.
Kerouac’s photo is stock. Not him.
Shaking my head, I’m imagining some beer-bellied pervert sitting in his mother’s basement trying to hook up with people on Karma, lying about his good looks and making himself seem more charming and intelligent than he actually is.
Fucking jackass.
Closing out of Karma, I clap the laptop lid shut and shove it to the end of the bed.
Chapter 6
Ford
“Thank you all for coming here,” I say Monday morning, though I shouldn’t have to thank my teachers for making it to a mandatory mid-summer meeting.
A row of women, all in their mid-forties and sporting suntans, shorts, and t-shirts, are talking amongst themselves, ignoring me. I’d expect this sort of behavior from students. Not seasoned teaching professionals.
“Let me know when you’re finished, ladies,” I say into the microphone.
They glance up, startled, and all eyes are on them. The woman on the far left mutters an apology.
“Yes. That’s better.” I stand before the podium in the Rosefield Performing Arts Auditorium, which is high tech and state of the art, having just been remodeled last year. The first several rows are filled with teachers, secretaries, guidance counselors, and maintenance staff. “I wanted to introduce myself.” A group of young teachers to my left are whispering, giggling. One of them nods, another practically wipes the drool off her chin. I get that I’m young for a principal, that I’m educated, intelligent, and professional, and that I’ve won the genetic lottery in the looks department, but I can assure each and every one of those teachers that I have no intentions of so much as thinking of hooking up with them. “My name is Ford Hawthorne. I’m originally from Connecticut, though I attended college in New York City and subsequently taught there as well before coming to Rosefield.”
The auditorium is finally quiet.
“A little about me, I’m a straight shooter. I don’t sugarcoat. I have ridiculously high expectations for my students, teachers, and staff, and if there’s anything I’ve learned in my career thus far, it’s that in the education system, reputation is everything,” I say. “The reputation of the school, the reputation of the students and staff, of the leadership … it’s all paramount. And everything we do, day in and day out, contributes to that reputation.” I glance at one of the younger women, who instantly blushes. “The second your name or your school’s name has been destroyed, it could take decades to be repaired.”
Moving on.
“A little about me personally? I’m an avid runner. I enjoy classic literature, travel, and I hate small talk.” I smirk. “Over the coming weeks leading up to August 1st, I plan to call you in for some one-on-one meetings, just so I can put your faces with your names. That said, I wanted to keep this short and sweet. I’m sure you’re anxious to get back out there and enjoy your summer break. If you need to reach me, I’ve left a stack of business cards on the table in the back with my contact information.”
The buzz of conversation fills the auditorium once more, and I step down from the stage, heading up one of the aisles. I linger at the back table for a bit, watching as one out of every five people passing by takes a business card, and I sigh.
These people are checked out, but I don’t blame them.
Teaching is one of the toughest, most draining and challenging careers.
“Mr. Hawthorne?” A woman’s voice fills my ear. I glance over the desk to see a petite little thing with a pale blonde pixie cut, a purple dress, and teal earrings. “I’m Sara Bliss, the art teacher at Rosefield.”
She extends her hand.
“Lovely to meet you, Sara,” I say.
“I just wanted to introduce myself.” She fights a smile, her eyes lighting in my presence as she fidgets, and I wonder if everyone makes her fidget or if it’s just me. Either way, it doesn’t matter. I don’t get involved with my teachers. “Rosefield is a good school. Our students are maybe a little more privileged than the average student. And most of them drive nicer cars than the teachers.” She chuckles. “But they’re good kids. At the end of the day, they do what they’re told to do, and they’re so focused on getting into the best colleges that they’re all little overachievers. Even in art class.”
“I see.”
“Anyway, I didn’t know if anyone had told you much about our school … you know, outside of the hiring committee. Thought you might want to hear this stuff from someone who sees it all firsthand.”
“Of course. I appreciate tha
t.”
“Well, I guess I’ll see you around?” She shrugs, flashing a sweet smile.
“Yes, enjoy the rest of your summer, Miss …”
“Bliss,” she reminds me. “Sara Bliss. If you ever need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
A man with gray hair and a faded white t-shirt emblazoned with the school’s mascot ambles toward my table.
“Bernie,” he says. “School custodian. Been here over thirty years.”
“Bernie, nice to meet you.” I extend my hand.
“This is a good school,” he says, his chin jutting forward as he answers a question I didn’t ask. “Think you’ll really like it here.”
“That’s what I hear. And I certainly hope so.”
“If you ever need anything …” He points at himself before nodding and walking away.
When the last person has left the auditorium, I grab my cards and head to my new office. It’s empty save for a couple of plants the last principal left behind. And a Mac computer sits dusty and untouched on the center of a desk.
Taking a seat in the chair, which is painfully uncomfortable and going to have to be replaced, I stare out the window that overlooks the commons, an open air, upscale food court type of place that wraps around a courtyard filled with picnic tables.
I envision the students filling the area, their little Louis Vuitton backpacks and MacBook Airs in tow as they ask the food service workers if the apples are organic or farm fresh. Students at a school like this are no doubt going to be spoiled and entitled.
My only hope is that I can make a difference, instill a little humility in them so they can grow up to be good people, not just smart people. I hope that long after they’re gone, and even long after I’m gone, they’ll still remember me.
If I can make a lasting impression, I’ll have done my job.
Chapter 7
Halston
My stomach is in knots as I sit on the lid of the toilet in the staff restroom. Today’s my first day at Big Boulders, and Courtney, my mentor, handed me a uniform and told me to get changed. At first, I figured it wouldn’t be a big deal. I wear bikinis all the time at Uncle Vic’s pool. But knowing that I’m wearing this skimpy outfit for the sole purpose of letting men stare at my tits and ass … almost makes me want to throw up.
Courtney knocks on the door. “Halston, you okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Almost done. Just … touching up my makeup.”
I need a distraction, something to soothe my nerves, so I retrieve my phone and pull up one of the many time-wasting websites I have bookmarked. I’m halfway through the front page of BuzzFeed when I get a notification from Karma.
Kerouac: What happened yesterday? Everything okay?
Kerouac: Also, can I just say, holy fucking shit, you’re beautiful.
Shaking my head, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. No one’s ever called me beautiful before. Pretty? Yeah. Sexy? All the time. But beautiful? Never.
I so badly wish Kerouac was real.
Absinthe: Wish I could say the same about you, but you decided to use a stock photo as your profile pic. That’s cheating, Kerouac. Not fair.
Kerouac: In my defense, the stock photo guy looks a lot like me … if you squint. We share a lot of the same features.
Absinthe: You expect me to believe you now? After you pulled that stunt? I should block you.
Kerouac: Don’t block me. I’m sorry. I wish I could show you my face, but I’m not in a position to risk that right now. I’m starting a new job soon. A public sector job. I can’t be that guy hooking up with random women on dating apps.
Absinthe: But you are that guy. That’s exactly what you’re doing.
Kerouac: We’re just chatting. I’m not going to hook up with you.
Absinthe: We had chat sex. Did you forget about the chat sex?
Kerouac: Again, that’s not hooking up.
Absinthe: I have to go.
Kerouac: Chat later?
Absinthe: Maybe. Still mad at you.
I turn my phone off and give myself one last look in the mirror. My full lips are slicked in fuck-me red. My tits are pushed up to my chin thanks to the standard issue push-up bra Todd assigns to his wait staff, and the little skirt I’m wearing barely covers my ass cheeks, but I’m doing this.
Yanking the door open, I catch Courtney off guard.
“There you are,” she says, her mouth pulling wide. “I was beginning to think you were having second thoughts. Happens all the time.”
She loops her arm around mine and pulls me to the bar. It’s barely eleven and the place is already beginning to fill. Climbing on a stool, she stands on the bar before motioning for me to join her, and the bartender hands her a megaphone.
Oh, god.
What have I gotten myself into?
I take my place at Courtney’s side as she lifts the loudspeaker to her mouth. “Heyyyy, guys! We have a new server starting today! Let’s give a warm Big Boulders welcome to Halston!”
All eyes land on me, men hooting and hollering and clapping and grinning.
It’s a feeding frenzy, and I’m dessert.
We climb down a second later, and she pulls me to a little galley just off the kitchen, handing me a pen and notepad along with an apron.
“You won’t need those today since you’re shadowing me, but those are yours to keep. You can put them in your locker or you can wear them.” She ties her apron around her tiny waist, her grin falling. “What’s wrong? You look scared?”
I shake my head. “I’m fine.”
“You’re going to make so much fucking money here, Halston. I promise you. When you count your tips at the end of the night, you won’t even remember the guy at table five that slapped your ass earlier.”
“That happens?” I ask. “Todd said the customers aren’t allowed to touch us.”
Her eyes grow round. “They’re not. But it doesn’t stop them from trying.”
“Do you get them thrown out?”
She waves her hand, pressing her lips flat. “If we did that to every customer who slapped our asses or brushed their arms against our boobs or whatever, we’d be out of business. None of them would come back.”
I think I’m going to be sick.
“Oh, hey. First table’s ready. Come on.” She motions for me to follow her, and we head toward a half-moon shaped booth in the far corner where four men in business suits order beers, wings, and cheeseburgers.
They’re nice.
And this isn’t so bad.
They look at us, but they don’t make it obvious. Three of them have wedding bands on.
The hostess tells Courtney we have two more tables, and she asks if I’d be comfortable taking drink orders from one of them.
“The longer they have to wait, the lower your tip will be,” she tells me.
Nodding, I make my way toward a table with an older gentleman with lonely eyes and a Ron Jon t-shirt.
“Hi, sir,” I say. “I’m Halston. I’ll be taking care of you today. Can I get you started with something to drink?”
This reminds me of playing restaurant as a kid.
Piece of cake.
“Dr. Pepper, no ice,” he says. “Then a stack of onion rings and a cowboy burger, no pickles.”
Oh.
Scrambling to grab my pad and pen, I jot everything down before it leaves my memory, and then I repeat it back to him. When I glance up, his eyes are on my breasts.
“You’re new here,” he says, his gaze still below sea level.
“I am. It’s my first day.” I force a smile. “Go easy on me.”
I’m teasing, but he doesn’t laugh.
“Let me go put in your order and grab your drink,” I say, trotting away from him.
I find Courtney in the galley where she’s frantically scooping ice and filling cups.
“He gave me his order. What do I do now?” I ask.
“Put it on the line,” she says, pointing back toward the kitchen. “Left is ne
west, right is oldest. Put it on the left. The cooks will take it from there.”
“How do I know when the food is ready?”
“They’ll slide your ticket down. Food will be under the warmers,” she says. “Just check back here every so often. We don’t like to keep customers waiting longer than ten minutes. If it’s been longer than that, check with the kitchen to see what the holdup is.”
She carries a tray of drinks to the second table before retrieving the beers from the bar for the first one, and I fill the lonely guy’s Dr. Pepper. With ice.
Shit.
Dumping it out, I pour another one without ice, and take it to him.
“Here you go, sir.” I place it on a napkin in front of him.
“Where’s my straw?” he asks.
“Completely forgot. I’m so sorry.” I begin to run back when he stops me, placing his hand around my wrist.
“It’s a good thing you’re pretty,” he says.
“Excuse me?”
“You’ve got looks but not brains. I can tell. It’s a good thing you’re pretty.”
I’m speechless, utterly speechless. And while I’d love nothing more than to rip this saggy-balled geezer a new one, it’s probably not the best idea with this being my first day on the job and all.
He releases his hand from my wrist, letting it fall down the side of my hip, grazing the outside of my ass.
Completely intentional.
Returning to the galley for a straw, my body burns, my skin on fire. That sorry excuse for a man made me feel less than human all in the span of a handful of seconds, but I’m too pissed off to cry about it.
Glancing around, I wonder what the chances are that I could spit in his food and no one would notice?
I drop the straw off at his table in passing, not stopping. I just toss it toward him. When his appetizer comes out a few minutes later, I ask a food runner to handle it for me. When he leaves, he tips me two dollars on a twenty-five-dollar check.
Eight percent.
“You okay?” Courtney rubs my back when she sees me examining the man’s signed receipt. “Did he stiff you?”
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