Don’t ever let anyone tell you that you could meet hot chicks at an economic summit in the middle of winter in fucking Overlook, New York. Or anywhere else for that matter. There were no hot and horny economics groupies. The only women who attended these things were old, dried up academic bitches who looked down their noses at me as if I were a five-year-old trying to sit at the grown-up table.
I was sure that if I plied them with enough booze and blew the dust off their rusty old cunts, we might have had a good time. But that was not going to happen, especially since I was in a mood that the word “foul” did not begin to describe.
Nevertheless, I tried to push through my speech for the good of the summit and Kosnovia. I had not been invited to this summit because I was a handsome prince. I had a masters in economics from one of the most prestigious universities in the world. I probably knew more about Eastern European economics than anyone else in the room.
But as I stood at the podium sharing my thoughts on the potential effects of Brexit on the Russian economy, all I could think about was the night I’d spent making love to Rebecca.
Thank goodness I was standing behind a podium, because my cock chubbed a bit at the thought of seeing her lying beneath me, pushing her pussy into me as she came the third of fourth time.
I forced the image of Rebecca’s face from my mind and managed to make it through my talk unabated.
The audience offered polite applause that I barely heard.
I left the papers for my speech on the podium and walked off toward the bar.
I needed a drink.
I needed lots of drinks.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: Rebecca
“Penny for your thoughts, Becca Boo.”
I looked up to find Carl smiling at me. He’d finished his burger and fries and his mug was empty. He picked up the mug and shook it at me. “Can I get one for the road?”
“You do know that you shouldn’t drink and drive,” I said, holding the mug under the tap to fill it with beer. I set the mug in front of him and removed the empty plate and set it on the pass-through.
“My dear, I have built up an immunity over the decades,” he said, holding up the mug and smacking his lips. “I haven’t been legally drunk since 1982.”
“What happened in 1982?” I asked.
“Divorced my third or fourth wife,” he said, giving me a wink. “I came in here to celebrate, as a matter of fact.”
“I thought you might have been celebrating my birthday,” I said with a sigh. “I was born in ’82.”
“I know,” he said, nodding with the beer mug at his lips. “I was here the night your mother went into labor right about where you’re standing.”
I frowned at him. “You remember my mother?”
“Course I do,” he said with a wave. “I knew your parents even before they opened this place.” He tapped the side of his nose. “Plus, this old nose can sniff out a bar within fifty miles. I was probably one of the first customers in the door.”
I leaned over the bar and rested my chin on my fist. “So, do you know why my mother left?”
Carl’s weathered face seemed to sag at the question. His forehead wrinkled. His bushy eyebrows twitched above his eyes. “I don’t like to get in anyone’s business, Becca Boo.”
“Bullshit,” I said, giving him a look. “You’re in everybody’s business.” He smiled and rolled his eyes. “Tell me about my mother, Carl. I don’t even remember her.”
He took a long sip of beer and licked his lips. He spoke quietly, reverently. “Your mother was a beautiful girl. She worked her butt off behind the bar while your daddy manned the kitchen. You remind me of her. Blond hair, green eyes. She also had your sadness.”
I frowned at him. “My sadness? I have a sadness?”
He shrugged. I’d never seen Carl more serious. “Maybe sadness ain’t the right word. She’d get this longing in her eyes sometimes, like she was dreaming of some faraway place.”
“Did she ever talk about leaving?” I asked.
He looked around the room to make sure no one was listening. He shrugged. “She might have said something about leaving, on occasion.” He cradled the beer mug between his bent fingers and glanced up at me. “You’re asking me why she left, ain’t you?”
“Yes. I’d like to know,” I said with a sigh. “I have no clue why she left. I’m just wondering if it was because of me.”
“Let me ask you something first,” he said, staring at me from beneath his eyebrows. He tapped a fingertip on the bar. “Why are you still here?”
“I don’t understand the question,” I said, scowling at him.
“It’s a simple question. You’re pretty; you’re smart; you got a good head on your shoulders. What the heck are you still doing here? In Snowcap, behind that bar?”
I thought about the question for a moment. The only answer I could come up with was the one I gave myself every day when the question came to mind.