She rattles it off.
I immediately feel annoyed. “Look, kid, you live six blocks away, and you were gonna walk home in this temperature, this late at night?”
“Yes,” she answers, rubbing her cheeks with my gloves.
I force myself to look away. I am seeing a porno in my head that started with this, then her touching herself in other places, followed up with me busting her little twat apart. I have to shake the thought from my mind.
I don’t like this shit. I don’t fixate on a chick. This confuses the hell out of me and why I’m so drawn to crazy fucking Livi. I don’t want to just fuck someone anymore. Now that my mom’s gone everything is different. I have felt dead inside until quirky Livi has been around. Before, I just fucked around, ‘cause, let’s face it, they wanted to fuck me, too.
Once I pull out onto the road and make another u–turn, we pass my place and travel north.
“You just move here?” I try making small talk.
“I went to college here.”
“What’s a college girl doing working at my bar?” I ask, keeping my eyes on the road.
“Well”—she hesitates—“I need the money.”
I have to laugh to myself. All those people preaching ‘get a college degree,’ and here I have a college graduate working at my dive. “You finish?”
“Yes, I’m a social worker,” she answers, finally settling in and sitting back in the seat.
“Doesn’t pay enough for a car?”
“I have a car.” She doesn’t elaborate.
“But you like to live on the edge and walk the streets of Detroit alone when it’s freezing out? What are you, an adrenaline junky penguin?”
She laughs and shakes her head. “It’s not running at the moment.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Not sure,” she says, looking down.
“What’s your mechanic say is wrong?”
“Um, I’m not sure.”
Okay, something is off with this chick. She doesn’t answer questions. She doesn’t seem to know or care what’s going on around her. She changes her demeanor. She’s evasive. She acts lost or confused. I just don’t get her.
I know she’s intelligent, but I can sense there is a fight inside her about answering questions. She marches to the beat of her own drum. Fuck it. Maybe she is fucking crazy … crazy could be fun. I ponder that thought just long enough to feel the discomfort of denim rubbing my dick. Well, it would be fun if she didn’t work for me.
“Care to explain?”
“Not really,” she replies softly.
“Olivia, let me ask you another question.”
“Go ahead,” she dryly responds while looking out the window.
“Are you fucking crazy?” It’s a serious question.
She laughs again and shakes her head.
“I mean, we’ve established that you aren’t an adrenaline junky penguin. You say you aren’t crazy, yet you walk six blocks with no mittens covering your little paws, and you have a broken down car that isn’t running, but you have no idea what’s wrong with it.”
I look out of the corner of my eye to see she is smiling.
Well, hell, maybe she is fucking crazy.
“I can take a look at it.”
“Um—”
“I know cars, Olivia. Rebuilt this one myself.”
“It’s just…” She pauses.
“Just?”
“It got towed,” she blurts out.
I pull up in front of her building, stop, and then throw the car in park before turning toward her. Her face is red from either shame or embarrassment as she takes a deep breath.
“It got impounded, and I used all the money I had to get it towed to my building’s parking lot. So, I don’t have the money to get it fixed yet. That’s why I applied for the bartending position. I’ll figure it out. It’s just gonna take me a little time.”
“I can look at it.”
“I’m not asking for a handout.” She looks up at me, scowling a little. “Just an opportunity to make the money I need to get caught up.”
I stare back at her, a little floored. She is a little worker. Bat shit crazy, but in a world full of entitled fucks, Olivia is a breath of fresh air. Not only that, she is hot as hell. Her pale skin contrasts with the deep brown locks of her hair. Her curves are tighter than I’m used to, but like an hourglass I wouldn’t mind tipping her over and shaking her in a little less invasive manner than I’m used to.
“Not gonna allow you to walk home from my bar.”
“I’ll take a cab.” As her eyes narrow, I can see the wheels churning in her head.
“I’ll give you a ride.”
Her features slowly start to soften. “I’ll pay for gas.”
I don’t accept. “Tuesday nights are slow. Thursday nights are no place for a lady behind the bar; I think you see why.”
“It’s ladies’ night.” She smiles and looks down again, hiding her face from me.
“Did you see any ladies in there tonight?” I laugh.
“I made fifty dollars.” She is bargaining with me.
“On a Friday night, you can make three times that in tips. On a Saturday, when we have entertainment, four or five times that.”