We had just opened, so the bar was practically empty. Slow nights were pretty much the only time Maya and I could talk on the job.
I loved being a bartender, but weeknights were the absolute worst. Barely anyone came to the hotel bar during the week. We got a few guests, but most of the clientele worked nearby, so it was large groups coming for our Happy Hour deals. That meant a rush of people ordering before seven and then standing around nursing their $5 beers while they caught up on work gossip. Drinking was more perfunctory during the week, which didn’t really equal a flowing tap or chatting up the bartender. Everyone would be driving home afterwards and no one wanted to stay downtown too late. For me, that equaled a lot of time alone at the bar, standing on my feet and waiting for them to leave.
I lived for weekends, the bar filled with the crush of crowds from the hotel, convention center and all the nearby date joints. The air was always filled with excitement and sex, and the adrenaline could carry me all the way past closing and beyond. On a night like that, I might have held eye contact with Mr. Gin-and-Tonic for a few seconds longer. Direct eye contact was usually all it took to get him to book a room in the hotel.
And all my relationships were one night stands. I wasn’t interested in relationships and even if I was, my life just wasn’t set up for them. There were too many other things in my life that were way more important than coddling some man’s ego. Because that’s what relationships seemed to be. I had learned that the hard way. Some guy who had found my sexuality and sex appeal exciting until we started dating – then it had become a liability. Something to be guarded and monitored. And if that wasn’t bad enough, I found there was no room in those relationships for the person that mattered the most to me – my brother.
Not a lot of people understood that Mikey needed stability and routine. That he wasn’t your average twenty-year old. My brother had a form of Down syndrome, which manifested in a lot of obsessive behaviors, most of which centered around his favorite show, Doctor Who. There weren’t a lot of people who could tolerate his single-minded focus on the Doctor and his companions. So there weren’t a lot of people that I allowed to participate in that part of my life.
My brother was precious to me. My best friend, my biggest cheerleader. And he came first. Always and forever. I had yet to find a guy who understood that. A guy who could put his own needs aside to support me once in awhile. So I said goodbye to being a girlfriend and embraced sluthood fully. And never looked back.
But I was a responsible slut. One who had strict rules for one night stands. Use protection, obviously. I was on the pill and always had condoms in my purse. Never go down on a guy unless he went down on me first. You could tell a lot about a guy by his expectations of foreplay. The guys who weren’t interested in my orgasm were ones that didn’t get the pleasure of experiencing theirs with me. I didn’t do selfish sex. And last, but not least, I never went to their house and never, ever stayed the night, no matter where we were. I was very much a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am and damn proud of it. It was a policy that worked out well, though I still joked with my fellow slut, Maya, that we should get a commission from the hotel for how much extra business we gave them.
For the most part, there was nothing better than a round of good sex to end your evening, but tonight just wasn’t the night. I caught Maya’s gaze as she was taking orders at the other end of the bar. With one single raised eyebrow, I could tell she was feeling as bored as I was, though she angled her head towards a guy in the corner indicating that she definitely wasn’t going to end her night bored. She wasn’t as strict as I was with her one night stands, when she made them book a room at the hotel it was because she wanted to stay at a five star hotel and order something off the room service menu.
“Lawyer?” I asked when she came back to my side of the bar. The guy was wearing an expensive black suit, probably handmade, maybe Italian. That meant money. In Los Angeles that could mean lots of things, but despite the obvious quality, it was still a pretty simple, serviceable suit, which usually was reserved for attorneys.
“Good guess,” she leaned down to grab a bottle of seltzer. “Agent.”
I let out a whistle. “Suite or penthouse?”
“Suite,” she pulled back the collar of her shirt to show me the room key tucked into her bra strap. “He’s only a junior agent. But I’m still ordering the waffles.”
“You’re obsessed with those waffles,” I poked her side playfully. “How many times have you had them this month?”