Take Me On

The door to the bathroom rattles, followed by three knocks. “Occupied!”


I undo the strings of my red half apron and wash my hands in the sink. The scent of pizza and pasta smothers me and my hair is horrifically frizzed from waltzing in and out of the steamy kitchen. This is not how I want to look or smell when I hop into West’s SUV. I comb my fingers through my hair and it does nothing to tame the wild monstrosity.

The door rattles again. There’s one bathroom each for men and women and someone obviously has to pee. The outfit isn’t so bad: my best jeans and a dark blue button-down shirt, but the hair...the lack of makeup...the fact I’m pathetic enough to care...

It’s not like West and I won’t be sweating, sweltering messes in an hour. But still, the past couple of weeks with West have been...well...nice. Last Friday night, West backed me up against the cage, he kissed me, made my body come alive, and now...he’s letting me be yellow.

I barely recognize the silly grin sliding across my lips. Somehow West is reducing me to giggles and grins and butterflies. There’s hope for me being a girly-girl yet.

With a deep breath, I leave the bathroom and ignore the long line of angry-faced women doing the I-gotta-pee dance. It’s not my fault they sucked down gallons of Diet Coke. It’s Friday and the restaurant is packed.

I walk out into the cool late March night and glance around the parking lot for West’s SUV. My sigh materializes into a white mist and quickly evaporates. He’s not here. I’m a few minutes early, but my tables paid and were out the door. If I stayed inside, my boss would have stuck me with more tables and then I would have been trapped for a minimum of thirty minutes, maybe longer.

To my right, a girl’s shrill laughter echoes from the back of the building. A crowd lingers there and my stomach sinks. It’s been months since they’ve hung out here—honestly since our breakup—but I have no doubt the back-alley loiterers are Matt and his crew.

I pivot on my heels, willing to take my chances on another table, when Matt emerges from the shadows.





West

I finished the last item on my thin to-do list for Denny a half hour ago, but for the fourth time today, I sweep the stockroom. Guess with moving home, I could have quit, but I’ve stayed on as Denny’s monkey for multiple reasons.

One, I need the money in case Dad changes his mind and throws me out again. Two, oddly enough, I like what I do here. I fix things. I’m useful. For once in my life I actually do something right. But the last reason, the most important reason, deals with Mom.

It’s the fourth Friday of the month and six-fifty in the evening. Rachel had surgery last Friday and Mom was chained to her side. If life goes on as normal, I’m betting Mom pushed back the visit by a week, and all I want for my birthday is to discover why she visits.

My cell buzzes and I ignore it. My mother whispered a happy birthday to me this morning from the door of my bedroom when she left at five to see Rachel. Dad mumbled something as he left for work that sounded like an acknowledgment of my existence while I ate breakfast in the kitchen. My brothers and friends have texted their birthday wishes and the continuing texts have been from my closer friends—friends from my old life.

Most of the messages say the same things. Where have you been? There’s a party tomorrow night. You’ve gotta come. It’s been too long. Weeks ago, I would have, but with the fight looming a month away, my nights belong to Haley.

The door to the bar opens and Denny sticks in his head. Johnny Cash sings about a ring of fire and a woman’s drunk laughter drifts with him into the room. “Have you become learning impaired or crippled since I last saw you?”

I continue to sweep the nonexistent dirt. “Got a point?”

“Yeah, you should have been done a half hour ago.”

Our eyes meet and my heart beats once. Denny has never pushed me out. He has to be in on the secret. “I get paid by the hour.”

The Vin Diesel stunt double shakes his head and widens the door. “He’s not coming out so I guess you’re going in.”

My hands freeze on the broom handle and for a short second I expect my mother. Instead, Abby walks in with a Hostess CupCake on a plate and a single lit candle.

“Don’t get delusional and think this means I like you,” says Abby. “Because I don’t. I’m being blackmailed and I don’t appreciate it. I do the blackmailing, not the other way around.”

Denny leans against the open door with his arms crossed over his chest and a smirk planted on his face. “You have the rest of the night off with full pay. Get the hell out of my bar.”

“How did you know?” I ask.

Denny gestures toward Abby and Abby holds up a cell. “Rachel.”

Rachel. The two of them might as well have used razor blades against my soul. I take the phone and a moment before saying, “Hey.”

“Happy birthday!” I can hear Rachel’s smile. “Did Abby give you a piece of cake?”