Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 55860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
I’m not sure what’s going on—heartburn maybe? I haven’t eaten in hours, but the feeling I got in my chest is a burn like I’m dying. Something itches below my collarbone, a tug that takes me off guard. I finally put a name to it but wish that I hadn’t. I want to protect her. She’s in a goddamn cesspool dressed like that and no idea what she’s got herself into.
Every man in here would like to slide that dress further up her thighs, bend her over that bar and rail her without saying a word. I know because I’m thinking about it myself. There’s no way she can sense that or she’d run for the hills and never look back. She really thinks she can come in here and talk to someone about a payment schedule like we sell used cars. I’d chuckle but my mouth went dry a while back.
“That’s not how it works around here,” I say.
“How does it work then?” she challenges.
“It works however I want it to,” I can’t resist saying. “We’re down a waitress tonight. You can fill in while I think of some way for you to pay off his debt. How much did you say it was?” I prompt.
“I didn’t,” she says a little miserably before she straightens her shoulders again. “Sixteen. thousand,” she says clearing her throat. “I’ll need some time to come up with the money. And if working a few shifts here will help, I’ll do that. I don’t have much waitress experience. I work on the stepdown unit from ICU at St. Anthony’s as a CNA. Or I did before I had to leave work early again. I can provide medical care. You know, on the DL.” She drops her voice to a whisper conspiratorially.
I chuckle, “I haven’t heard anyone say ‘on the DL’ in a long time, Serena Mayfield,” I tell her. “Maybe I’ll keep you around cause you’re funny. Get an apron and Foz’ll tell you what’s what. Come see me at the end of your shift. I’ll draw up papers on his debt, figure out some installments for you,” I say.
I’m not sure why I offer it. We don’t do financing plans for eligible losers. We just take the money or the merch we can sell to get the money. It’s simple really, until somebody walks in with long legs like that and makes me damn near forget my name.
Even though I should go back in the office to look over the delivery invoices, I stay out front. I’m watching her work. Red dress, red lips, the coltish tremble of her ankles as she rushes on those silly high heeled shoes. She may have tried to dress up like she belongs in this crowd, but she stands out way too much.
For one thing, she’s all business. I can see her briskly striding from hospital room to hospital room, doing whatever needed to be done, efficient and precise. For another, she’s not at home here. She tries to lean on the bar waiting to pick up an order, but she’s in nonstop motion. Picking at her nails, stealing a look at the exit. Everything about her telegraphs how uncomfortable she is and also how brave.
It never ceases to amaze me how many girls throw themselves away on misplaced loyalty. Any man who can live with himself knowing his wife or girlfriend or daughter had to make a deal with the devil to save his ass doesn’t deserve the oxygen he uses as far as I’m concerned.
I know what the barmaids earn at this joint. At the current wage, it’ll take her over two hundred shifts to earn back what he owes before interest. Not to mention that we don’t make a habit of waiting ten months for payment. It stops people taking us seriously with respect to terms of collection.
The question I ask myself as she offers to refill my glass is this: Would I rather extend a special payment arrangement to that garbage just to keep her around for months hustling drinks in this hell hole?
When I look up to tell her I don’t want another drink, our eyes meet and there is pure steel in her gaze. Nothing vulnerable, no trace of a woman who’s willing to walk away or let this go. Serena Mayfield has a stubborn look to her, and that unbending determination hits me in the gut.
“How long you think you’ll have to sling drinks to pay off his debt? And what’s to stop him from running up a tab somewhere else while you do?” I ask, laconic and challenging.
“It takes as long as it takes,” she answers me, lifting her chin. She doesn’t sound resigned, she sounds like she could plug two bullets in my forehead and then fix her ponytail and walk away. I smirk despite myself.