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I’m officially four hours, or ninety poured beers, into my shift. I ended up only being twenty-five minutes late, and, so far, it’s been an uneventful night. There are four men at the bar rail and three tables on the bar floor. One regular has been shamelessly flirting with me despite the wedding ring adorning his left hand. I can tell by the way he shakes his almost-empty beer glass at me he wants another. I smile, but really, I want to flip his pervy ass off. One of my biggest pet peeves as a bartender is a guest waving their glass instead of using their words.
“Alana, when are you going to let me treat you to dinner?” the disgusting regular asks. I give him a once-over and roll my eyes. He’s in his early fifties, balding, and you can tell by his gut he drinks one too many Bud Lights throughout the week.
“Actually, Shane, I don’t date men I meet at work. Haven’t you ever heard the expression ‘don’t shit where you eat’?”
The regular sitting next to Shane chuckles. I turn away from both of them toward the ticket printer. Shane is harmless, but his relentless pursuit of a date is tiresome. I haven’t even been here a month, and he’s asked to take me out no less than thirty-seven times. The man sitting next to Shane always pays with cash and isn’t talkative, so I haven’t learned his name yet, but he seems nice enough. He comes in for at least an hour every time I work but is always on his computer, so I leave him be.
I excuse myself and escape to the bathroom. A once-over in the mirror makes me realize the enormous bags under my slate-gray eyes. I haven’t been sleeping well in my new apartment. The bedroom is small, and my bed sits directly beneath the vent. It blows in my face all night, waking me up with a dry mouth every hour.
Other than the obvious traces of tiredness, I look alright. My braided hair is tied up into fun buns, and my eyeliner has stayed intact despite the heat in my car. My pale blue work shirt with the bar logo written across the chest is a size too small, accentuating my boobs nicely. The shirt and the skin-tight black jeans I’m wearing may be why Shane keeps trying to take me out, but they also get the lonely old men like him who frequent the bar rail to tip me thirty percent. It pays to have a supple ass and a nice rack, I suppose. It also helps that this Hometown Wings and Beer location is in an affluent neighborhood—the clientele has more money than they know what to do with.
I head back out to the bar and go about diligently slinging beers, chatting with regulars, and complaining to my coworkers. My smart watch keeps buzzing to let me know there’s drama in the group chat. CHC (Coat Hanger Club, don’t ask, it’s a long story) comprises myself and my two best friends, Ashley and Ricole. We’ve been friends since elementary school, and leaving them was the most challenging part of moving away. Thankfully, we text from sunup to sundown every day.
RICOLE ANDERSON:
I’m GONNA HAVE A MENTY B. ? Please, tell me why AHMF keep fucking texting me? Does he think I give a fuck what he has to say after I caught him cheating on me? He’s deplorable. Remind me to NEVER again waste ten years of my life on a dude who wouldn’t be able to locate a clit if it were six inches long.
I laugh aloud. AHMF, or Matthew, is a trash goblin. I’m so thankful Ricole finally dumped his troll ass. They were together for years, and he always treated her like dog shit. He’s a typical southern Indiana good ol’ boy. You know the type: drives a jacked-up truck to overcompensate for his tiny dick, only listens to country music, and thinks his shit doesn’t stink. Ricole is gorgeous, and Matthew looks like a redneck version of Uncle Fester fromThe Addams Family.
ALANA MEYER:
I’m sorry honey, please don’t text him back. He’s only texting you because he realizes nobody else is ever going to put up with his shit like you did. You should block him.
ASHLEY MILLER:
Yeah, block his ass. Then he can just live with his mother forever. You know that’s what he wants anyway. I swear they fuck each other.
Again, I laugh. We’re always wildly inappropriate and judgmental in the group chat. It’s a safe space for us to let loose and say things that would normally have us ostracized from society. As the text messages continue, I buckle up for the last three hours of my shift.
Fuck me, I hope it goes by fast.
2
Chapter Two
Alana
Saturday has arrived. Normally, if I were in my hometown, I’d be gearing up to go to a shitty local bar and get drunk with Ricole and Ashley. We’d do karaoke, eat shitty bar food, then pass out in a pile in one of our beds. Instead, I’m stuck working a shift in Disneyland.
I hate it here. It’s only been three hours, and I already had to clean up spilled mac and cheese three times and clotheslined a kid running rampant through the dining room. I glance down at my beer-stained shirt, still wet from the clotheslining incident, and cringe.
The night couldn’t get any worse, right?
I peer around the dining room and examine my surroundings. The color scheme here is primarily gray and yellow. The booths are plastic but made to look like granite. It’s cheap, and it looks cheap, yet people flock here for the cheap beer. People are lingering by the host stand waiting to be sat by Katie, the grump. A half-wall divides the dining room and the waiting area.
The old black carpet sticks to my shoes as I run to the outside expo area to check on the food that I’m waiting for. Mine isn’t ready yet, so I run out a tray for Trent. He sees me drop the food and shoots me a wink. At six feet tall and lean like he runs a lot, he’s attractive enough. He has perfectly coiffed blonde hair, dark brown eyes, and straight white teeth. However, if I have one rule, it’s never fuck a coworker. I learned from my last relationship that nothing is worse than going through a painful breakup, only to have to come in daily and see your ex and his new girlfriend dry humping.
Before I moved, I was working for a newspaper local to my hometown. I was a junior editor and LOVED my job. That’s where I met Greg. His incessant wooing started my first week, but I didn’t take him up on his offer of a date until almost a year later. It was instalove, which, in hindsight, should have been a red flag. Two months later, we were moving in together.
One Sunday morning, I came home unexpectedly. When I walked into our bedroom, I saw him balls deep in our coworker, Vivian. Vivian, the twenty-year-old new hire.
I’m pulled out of my self-induced mental flogging when the hostess tells me she just sat me with a one-top. I grab a refill for one of my tables and head over to greet my newest guest. As I walk toward the booth, I almost audibly groan. Of course, after I have sworn off men and sex, the man sitting alone at my table has to be a fucking god.
Mr. Table of One is wearing a white V-neck shirt that makes his tan skin pop and a pair of distressed blue jeans showcasing his powerful-looking thighs. He has black tattoos going up his arms, and when I drag my eyes from his chest to his face, my long-dormant vagina almost weeps.
He has jet black hair and a five o’clock shadow that would deliciously chafe my inner thighs. It’s during this particularly inappropriate line of thinking that I notice his eyes are the same clear blue color as the ocean off the coast of the Maldives.
Right as I approach Adonis’ table, I stub my pinky toe on the corner of the booth next to his and yelp. “FUCK!”
