What’s the difference between me and the rest of the women that now swoon over Mr. Hottie-pants who leans casually against the bar? I know damn well that I don’t have a chance in hell. Girls like me? We’re meant for the background. Meant to fade into it and go without notice.
I continue on with my job like any other night—a night where some Adonis doesn’t ooze sex appeal that wafts around like a pheromone-filled cologne. I sneak a peek at him while I bring the zillionth tray to my disorderly customers and he catches me. Shit, he’s hot.
I grab the final glass to fill the small drink tray in my hand (again). My table is a rowdy bunch of college morons and to say they’re drunk is a gross understatement. They’re so drunk that they begin to worry me. After this round I’ll have to send Danny over to cut them off. I don’t get paid enough to do that shit.
“Hey—” a voice slurs as an audible slap sounds. He. Did. Not. Yep—he did! This guy seriously just grabbed my ass. “Put the pitcher here.” He laughs at his own drunken rudeness.
I know that I shouldn’t do anything, but I can’t really stop myself. “I’m sorry.” I say sweetly. “Where did you want this pitcher?” The fucker points to the table in front of him with a smile on his face…a smile that quickly changes to a look of shock when I proceed to pour the entire contents of the pitcher over his head.
“You bitch!” The guy screams and flips the table as he stands with more speed than someone as drunk as him should.
Uh-oh. See—this is why I’m not supposed to do this. Danny (aka my boss/bar owner/bouncer) is busy across the bar. The drunken beer-covered fool in front of me is hella-pissed and towers over me. Whoops!
You think that’s enough to give me pause, make me back down or shut the fuck up? Nope, not me. See, that makes sense and I’m not a fan of that at all. “I’m sorry!” I say brashly. “I assumed when you grabbed my ass you wanted to wear your beer.”
The man raises his hand high above him and I know what comes next. I don’t flinch though—instead I stand my ground. The group of friends behind him splits. Half of them try to calm him while the other half eggs him on. Maybe a second before the drunken asshole’s fist crashes into me an even larger more impressive hand shoots out from behind me. I expect to see Danny behind me so I’m quite speechless when I see the gorgeous piece of man from the bar instead.
“I’m not sure how things work around here,” God, even his damn voice is sexy as hell. “But where I come from we don’t raise our hand to a lady.”
This gives the drunk asshole pause. Mr. Sexy-pants is a whole lot of man and I doubt the asshole can take him on sober much less in his current inebriated state. “Whatever.” The douchebag says as he throws some cash on the table. “She’s not fucking worth it anyway.”
His group of friends follows suit. A few give me apologetic glances as they pass. Some glare instead. Next week they can be sure to sit in Holly’s section or go to the next town to act like assholes. When the last one leaves through the door I breathe a small sigh of relief…until I realize I actually have to talk to the sexy fuck that still stands behind me.
“Um, thanks.” I manage. It’s a good thing I say this before I face him because when I do something in my brain fries and any hope of articulation flies right out the window.
“Not a problem.” He rumbles—actually rumbles. Fuck me six ways ‘til Tuesday.
I stand and gape at him like an idiot for a second when an arm wraps around him from behind.
“Don’t mind Jordan here.” A voice purrs. Ugh. Great. Marilyn’s here. “She’s not important enough to worry about. Why don’t you come back over here with me? I can use another drink.” Marilyn tugs on his arm, but he doesn’t budge.
My head drops and I examine my shoes closely. I know way better than to bother arguing with Marilyn. She’s always been hot shit to my complete nothingness—thus my complete shock to the sex God’s reply.
“The bar looks to be in working order to me. If you’re thirsty then go get yourself a drink.”
My jaw drops again as my gaze meets his. Marilyn no longer touches him. Did he seriously just blow off the hottest girl in town? From the look on Marilyn’s face, I’d say he did.
“What?” She sputters. “You can’t be serious. You’re going to choose this piece of shit over me?” I feel my cheeks warm because I know she’s right. I’m not fit to be the dirt on her boot.
“Listen Miss—I’m not sure how y’all treat people around here, but it doesn’t seem very pleasant.” Something about the calm way he says this makes me look up to see Marilyn blush and actually look at him in embarrassment. That’s definitely a new look for her.
The man’s green eyes bore into mine now. Not once does he look back to Marilyn as she huffs away. My spine tingles under his gaze. This is just a little too awkward for my taste.
“Um, like I said—thanks. I need to get back to work.” I say quickly in a voice that’s two octaves too high. I even manage to stumble when I spin around. Smooth Jordan, really smooth.
The remainder of the night is much more uneventful—with the exception of my savior who parks his fine ass back at the bar and stays there. He does something no one else in this shit town does. He watches me. He notices me. What the fuck’s going on?
I use my time to act like I ignore him, but I feel his gaze follow me. I sneak glances to see how his chocolate brown hair falls messily across his forehead…or how taut his navy blue shirt pulls across his muscular chest and clings to his biceps. He has a sinewy look about him, a lean lengthiness that makes me begin to imagine just what lies under those clothes…
Bam! That’s the mental slap I have to give myself. I’m not one of those girls. No way, I’m a ridiculous twenty-three year old virgin who never gets noticed by anyone—much less someone like this. All that road can lead down is a world of hurt. I may not have any experience, but I’m not stupid. A man like that is trouble with a capital T. No. Thank. You.
My shift ends at one in the morning. I take my time in the back before I return to the bar to cash out the remainder of my orders and notice my hero isn’t there anymore. A mix of relief and disappointment washes over me. I try to remind myself that it’s better this way.
What does my Dad think when he moves me here? This is something we do a lot. We go where the work is. He drills it into my head since childhood.
A lot of people in this small town appear to be assholes—so much for small town hospitality. The people here are vicious.
I don’t know why I feel such a pull to Jordan. Why she stands out among a roomful of people or I can sense her before I see her. Jordan’s proximity does something to me and makes me want to know her. I’m never serious about girls, but this one…
I reach into the closet and pull out a bottle of whiskey. I keep a bottle or two on hand for times like this. They don’t come around too often, but something about those hazel eyes haunts me. I take a few swigs to take the edge off before I fall asleep, but still I dream about her.
I pull my 1994 Plymouth Colt down the bumpy road that leads past all of the other shitty trailers to my shitty trailer. Well, not mine—my step-mom’s. Since my Dad went away it’s just been us. She’s no fun to live with, but I don’t exactly have a lot of options. I cut the engine and can hear the music blast inside. It almost makes me turn the car back on and look for a nice parking lot to sleep in for the night. Loud music at this hour means only one thing: Shirley’s drunk…again.
This can go one of two ways. Either Shirley will be a happy drunk or a mean one. Happy Shirley will mean lots of dancing about while mean Shirley will throw shit at me and belittle me. I can’t even really say that one is more fun than the other.
It’s inevitable that I’ll find out as I shut the door and move towards the rotting plywood porch. The bottom of it has some time left, but the top leaks. A hole gapes precariously and I always wonder whether it’ll be me or Shirley who catches it when it finally caves.
It appears I’m in luck tonight. The
music blasts, but Shirley lays on the couch—down for the count. A wave of relief washes over me. I check to be sure she’s alive (she is) and turn the music down most of the way.
When I make it to my broom closet of a room I notice just how lucky I am that Shirley runs out of steam. Often when she goes into a rage my room is her first target. Tonight’s no different. I scoop up some clothes and jam them in the washer. It takes almost an hour before I’m finally able to go to bed.
It doesn’t bother me that Shirley hates me so much because nobody can possibly ever hate me more than I hate myself.
I manage to wake up before Shirley which rocks because the less time we spend together the better. I take a shower and begin to put my clean clothes away (again) when I hear movement. Shit. This won’t be good. Cranky hung-over Shirley is almost worse than drunk Shirley…almost.
“Jordan! Why didn’t you make any damn coffee?” Shirley screeches. “Shit, why didn’t you buy any coffee?”
I know I better get out of here quick and jam the rest of the clothes into the drawer. Chances are I’ll just have to put them away or wash them again later anyhow. I throw a few things into my ancient fraying messenger bag before I carefully slip into the hallway and out the back door of the trailer. I feel like an idiot while I crouch down and run around to the front, but I make it to my car without further incident.
Two dollars and change buys me a medium coffee and a bagel at the gas station. I sit in the car and eat before I turn the engine over. Almost every day I sit here and contemplate driving my car as far as it will take me before it dies. The only thing that holds me back is that there’s no way to run from my past. I know I deserve this life so why bother?
I don’t have to work until four so I have a few hours to kill. The options for entertainment are few and far between in this town. I drive down to a local trail and grab my latest library paperback and a blanket I keep for times like these. It doesn’t take long to park and to hike down my favorite trail. It’s chilly—fall begins to take hold of our Northeast town, but I have faith in the warm sun overhead so I plop down on the blanket rather than wrap myself in it. Soon the sun burns off the last of the fog. After a while the sun hangs high above me and I finish the paperback. It’s warmer now so I tie my hoodie around my waist for the walk back to the car. At least I can hit the library and grab a quick bite before work.
I park in town and take my time as I walk to the library. It doesn’t take long to swap out my books for new ones. The billboard catches my eye on my way out the door. I see an ad for a part-time cleaning person during the day. It’s not like I can’t use the extra money (or the distraction) so I grab the little tab with the phone number and tear it off.
After a quick lunch I pull out my flip phone and dial the number. I leave a brief message and wonder what the hell I should do for the next hour and a half. I just settle into my driver’s seat with the intention to read until work when I hear my phone go off.
“Hello?” I answer.
“Hi, I’m looking for Jordan?” A male voice responds. “I’m returning a call about her interest in a cleaning position.”
“Yes, hi—I’m Jordan.” I answer quickly.
“Hi. I guess the first step is to ask your experience.” The man sounds unsure.
“Well, when it comes to cleaning I only have domestic experience, but I do cleanup at my night job as a server, too.” I explain.
“Hmmm. Are you sure you’re able to work more than one job?” The man asks me.
“I’m sure.” I quickly assure him. “Both would be part-time and manageable.”
“Alright. I suppose we should set up an interview. When are you available?”
“I could come now,” I say after a quick glance at the time. “Or any time before four during the week.”
“Now could work.” The man says and rattles off an address.
“Great. I’ll see you in about ten minutes.” I tell him and disconnect.
It’s a short drive to the other side of town. The address leads to an older Victorian house—one that appears to be in the process of restoration. An older man sits on the porch and stands as I approach.
“Jordan?” He calls out.
“Yes, sir.” I answer with a smile. It’s odd because he seems familiar, but I know I’ve never seen him in town before. He’s definitely a new resident.
“Welcome. I’m Jesse. Thanks for coming by so quickly.”
I shake the hand he offers before I answer. “Not a problem.” My eyes inadvertently move to the house behind him. Through the window I see box after box. The idea of cleaning that overwhelms me slightly.
Jesse must notice this because he glances behind him and laughs. “Don’t worry—that’s my mess to worry about, not yours. We just moved in three days ago. I’ll have some sense of order in place before you start.” He holds open the front door. “Please, come in—take a look around.”
I follow him through the door. “Is it just you?” I ask in an attempt to make conversation. It’s an awful large house for one person.
“It’s me and my son. You’ll see him here and there, but he mostly does his own thing.” Jesse laughs. “He’s not too happy with me for moving him up here, but he came with just the same.”
“He’ll like it here—the schools are really great.” I comment.
“Oh, no! He’s way beyond school aged. He’s old enough to go off on his own, but he decided to help out his old man instead.” Jesse says proudly.
“That’s nice.” I say and take in the big space. Even underneath all of the boxes its size impresses me.
“Okay, down to business.” Jesse says. “I need someone to handle the basic domestic stuff around here. See me and Binx, we’re not all that tidy. We can gussy the place up—sure, but keeping it that way not so much. Kitchen, bathroom, dusting, vacuuming…maybe some light laundry and cooking...”
Nothing he says sounds like anything I can’t handle. “I draw the line at windows and gutters.” I smile when I say it. I like Jesse already.
“Of course not!” Jesse laughs. “We can handle that. We just need—well, we need a feminine touch around here. Someone to knock some of the manliness off of the place.”
“Okay,” I agree tentatively.
“Pay’s fifteen an hour—on the books. I imagine it’ll be a few hours each weekday. If you’re interested you can start on Monday.” Jesse offers.
I smile broadly as I answer. “Deal.”
“Great!” Jesse says happily. “It’ll give me the push I need to finish unpacking.” He holds out his hand again. “Thanks a lot, Jordan. I’ll see you on Monday.”
I give his hand one last firm shake before I go out the front door. “Take care.”
I pause for a second in the front yard and glance back at the house behind me. This is all kind of perfect for me actually. No more boredom and some extra cash. A funny feeling washes over me and I shake it off. This will work out. It just has to.
Work is about as uneventful as a Friday night can be at a bar until a little after nine. That’s when the hottie strolls in again. He saunters up to the bar and orders a burger and a beer. I try not to notice, but his presence is sort of impossible to ignore. I keep myself busy and am overly attentive to my section (blessedly the furthest section from the bar). I manage to avoid the sex-god all night, but again can feel his eyes bore into me the entire time. It’s a relief to get into the back and get my apron off. I do menial tasks—like polishing silverware for tomorrow—in hopes that he’ll leave and I can cash out in peace.
I sneak a peek out the small window of the door that leads back out to the bar and see that it’s empty. I ignore my utter disappointment and remind myself it’s relief that I should feel instead.
It doesn’t take me long to tally the tickets and enter the appropriate cash into the register. My tips aren’t half bad tonight (yay Friday!) and the register drawer closes with a ping. I recount my tips and jump when a voice says my name—not just any voice either—th
at deep rumbly voice that causes my spine to electrify.
“Jordan, right?”
Holy. Shit. It takes a second before my mouth begins to work again. “Yeah…hi.” I say cautiously. Why does his close proximity have such an effect on me?
“You’re here late.” He says in an obvious attempt at small talk.
“It kind of comes with the territory.” I answer. At least my brain is back to normal…even if my body is frozen in place.
“I guess it does.” He chuckles. “You need a ride home or anything?”
“Um, no thanks. I’m good.” What the hell is this? “I should get going actually.” If I can get my legs to work.
“Oh,” Is that a look of disappointment on his face? No. Fucking. Way. I need to get over myself. He continues. “Well, have a goodnight.”
“You, too.” I watch him leave before I find the ability to move myself.
It’s always tough for me during the day. I don’t have any real friends left here—the few acquaintances I did have left for college after high school. We lost touch and now they’re just a distant memory. Any time I spend with Shirley is derogatory to my well-being so that’s out. It makes me feel out of place—everywhere.
This Saturday morning I do something that I never do. I stay in bed. I sleep in for me, but then I just lay there. It lasts for a little bit before I remember why I don’t let my mind wander if I can help it. Idle thoughts always come with the price of memories.
I get up reluctantly and shower. I focus hard on soap and shampoo until I can push the memories back where they belong. I do it, but not before the fluids that run down my face are more tears than water. Then I do what I do best when this happens. I throw on clothes and rush out the door before Shirley can say a word.
Is it Monday yet? At least I’ll have the distraction of cleaning. Today will be much more difficult to fill. I check my wallet and see a few bills in it. What the hell? I drive to the movie theater and spend the rest of the time until work in an attempt to lose myself in the silver screen.
The One Thing Page 26
