Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 26563 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 133(@200wpm)___ 106(@250wpm)___ 89(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26563 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 133(@200wpm)___ 106(@250wpm)___ 89(@300wpm)
I don’t bother taking off my clothes while heading into the kitchen to prepare myself a bowl of off-brand corn flakes. I fill the bowl with milk, a few blueberries, and a dash of cinnamon, humming while preparing the food. But before long, my humming turns into full blown singing of a song by ZZ Ward. What’s the name of this ditty again? I forget, but my enthusiasm continues undimmed as I belt out the words.
“You broke right in, yeah, you stole, you took, with dirty fingerprints, you no-good crook!”
I dance around until I’ve finished the song, and then sit at the table with my bowl and my laptop. Hmm, is there anything funny to watch? It may sound bad, but I always watch TV while I eat. It’s something that started when I was young, and when I feel bored or sad, I always make cornflakes and watch a show on-line. But I’m not sure that this snack and The Office can save me tonight.
After all, I’m really bored. My day ended uneventfully. Most of the customers at the Salty Lagoon tonight were older men, and not even attractive or unmarried ones. I even had on my signature sexy outfit: a tight, shimmery black vest that showed off my shoulders (and the watercolor flower tattoos decorating them). The vest is a winner because it pushes up my large breasts tantalizingly, making customers stare, and they go well with my skintight leather pants.
It’s not completely my idea to dress like this. Chet, the manager at the Salty Lagoon, likes his female bartenders to dress sexy, so I generally don’t wear anything underneath my vest. It’s scandalous, I know, but it’s in keeping with the overall vibe of the place. The only thing holding my nipples in is the fashion tape on the straps of my vest. To be honest, I’m lucky I haven’t popped out … yet.
But what’s the point of being sexy if there aren’t any hot, single men in town anyway? I get it: tips. Still, the money tastes stale in my mouth sometimes. I’d give anything to find a hot man to date, but it seems most of the best ones have already been taken. My friend Pepper’s got Rob, a hot paramedic, and her friend Mindy got Jake, a sexy fireman. Even my co-worker Arnold, who’s a bit too stoic for my tastes anyway, is taken. Who else is left?
Well, there might be one person left.
A while back, I went to Rob Trainor’s 44th birthday party, and let’s just say my mouth went dry when I saw one of his friends. This guy was a god: he had blonde hair, blue eyes, and a physique that puts professional athletes to shame. He must have been at least six three, with an easy smile, and bronzed skin too. Pepper said his name was Sam, and promised to introduce me to him, but things just got too busy and the introduction never happened.
I close my eyes and shiver. Holy hell, I can imagine that blond hunk bursting into my apartment with his shirt off and muscles flexing. I can almost feel his strong arms wrapped around me and ripping off my outfit as he corners me against the wall. It’s been a year since that party, but I can conjure up an image of him easily. Sam Nelson is that memorable.
But isn’t it so sad that I’m dreaming of someone I’ve never really met? From a year ago? Plus, even if I had the opportunity to meet someone like Sam, I doubt he’d want to date a bartender in a dead-end job. Sure, I make good money tending bar, and sometimes I even have time to pursue my passion: I sing at different venues around town. But my vocal career hasn’t exactly taken off, so really, I sling drinks for a living. Meanwhile, Pepper told me that Sam is an EMT, just like her boyfriend, which means he has a worthwhile career where he actually saves lives. Meanwhile, I’m putting on slutty outfits to try and get money from old men. Yech.
I blow out a stream of air. Who am I kidding? A small-time wannabe singer doesn’t have a whole lot to offer a man like Sam. He’d be better off with a gorgeous glamazon, or at least a woman with a real job like a teacher or nurse. Me? Well, I can only hope and wait.
2
Sam
* * *
It’s half-past ten at night when we arrive, sirens screaming, at Chester’s Bowling Alley. I’m on shift with Rob, a co-worker and friend. We leave our ambulance at the curb and rush inside with our medical bags in hand. It’s cold enough that goosebumps spread over my arms, but once indoors, the bowling alley is warm.
A middle-aged waitress meets us at the entrance. Her name tag says her name is Maggie. Her face is pale, and she wrings her hands as we get closer. To be honest, I’m a little worried she might faint, which means we’d have a second emergency on our hands.