Chapter Two
The dream was the same as always.
Shifting shadows. Stale beer mixed with the coconut undertone of sunscreen. Giggles and shuffling and weird voices slowed from normal. That odd split second when I parted ways with my brain and began to simply observe what was being done to me in the name of “partying with the guys”.
Guys I had the serious misfortune to call friends, to trust, to think were not base, disgusting animals.
Guys who’d invited me and a few other girls out for an afternoon of water skiing on the lake. Nothing that much out of the ordinary. I’d gone with them before, enjoying the attention, flirting, preening, wearing a skimpy bikini—all the things a girl does when she feels safe amongst a group of friends.
Big mistake, as it turned out.
I yanked myself up and out of the nightmare by the sheer force of my conscious brain. I’d gotten pretty darn good at this little trick over the years. But the smells, sounds and pain—most especially the pain—lingered for an hour or more, driving me to the couch and Netflix at two a.m. for the third night in a row.
Not great for my workday frame of mind. But I’d gotten used to coping and had my methods—four cups of strong coffee, a decent, but not too heavy, breakfast and a super-hot shower. That would get me all the way to about three p.m. when I’d pound a couple of cups of tea in the breakroom, then bend over so my head dangled between my feet. The blood would rush to my sleepy brain and I’d be good to go for the rest of the afternoon.
Luckily, this afternoon was one of the very few I could enjoy with an eye toward going home and not to my second of three jobs—as bartender at a trendy beer bar downtown. Between office grunt work at the beer distributor, tips at the bar during the week, plus the diner on a few weekends a month as a fill-in for the regulars, I may not be considered a fun party-girl but for the first time in my life I had money. And a fair bit of it. All tucked away safely in an interest-bearing savings account.
As I stood, waiting for the afternoon rush of caffeine to take effect, I lifted one foot and rotated my ankle, then put it down and did the same with the other. Thanks to being on my feet almost every single night slinging either overpriced booze or coffee-flavored water, my hips, legs and feet were in a constant state of achiness.
I was a barrel of fun, really. Not that it mattered. I was exhausted, and a date with my pillow, the TV and a pint of ice cream beckoned. Besides, unless they were asking me for more coffee or for the latest sales data for their weekly reports, men were of little use to me.
No. Scratch that.
I was of no use to any man. And I planned to keep it that way.
Head down and work. Make money and put into my savings. Eat enough food to keep the machine going. Take advantage of the opportunity to drink great beer at one of my jobs. Avoid flirting at all costs. Sleep. Rise. Do it again. I was an automaton, according to my friend, Evelyn. But what did she know?
You should open up and tell her why you’re such a wet blanket sometime.
Stuff it, I reminded myself. It’s nobody’s business but mine.
“Hey,” a familiar voice punched through my three-p.m. sinking spell. I blinked, forcing myself to smile. “Let’s go out tonight, chica.”
Evelyn, my work friend—my only friend—flopped onto the fake leather couch in the break room next to me. I glanced at her. She had her long blonde hair up in a messy bun. The sleeves of her work blouse were rolled up to her elbows. Her long, bare legs ended in a pair of sky-high patent leather heels—her “selling shoes” as she liked to call them.
“No thanks,” I said. My typical response and she knew it.
She leaned forward and grabbed my hand, startling me a little. “I’m serious, Melody.”
“So am I,” I said, letting her grip my hand a bit longer before I pulled away from her. Being touched made me nervous, even when it was just a friendly hand-holding thing by a colleague.
“No more excuses,” she said, rising to her full, impressive height and towering over me as I sat curled up on the couch with my second cup of hot tea. Her eyes sparkled with something I thought might be mischief. I immediately felt defensive. “It’ll be fun. We’ll go to Top of the Hops and you can give me a tasting lesson.”
I sighed and sipped, forcing myself to be calm. It’s okay. It’s Evelyn. She’s your friend, remember?
“Okay, I mean, maybe.” I winced when she pumped her fist and held up a hand for me to high-five. Glancing around, worried we were making a total scene, I touched my palm to hers.
“Super! I can drive if you want. I could pick up you up—”
“No, no, I’ll meet you there. Seven okay? It’s Tuesday so it shouldn’t be too crowded.”
“Perfect.” Evelyn finished the water bottle she’d been holding and tossed it into the garbage then tugged at her skirt and pulled her hair out of its bun. “I’ll be all over the west side this afternoon so I may go early and eat something before you get there.”
“Try the Portobello burger,” I said. “It’s really good. They use locally sourced goat cheese.”
“Will do.” She smiled at me, flapped her fingers at the other people in the room—all of them men except us—and flounced out, pretending to be unaware of the way they stared at her ass and hips in her short work skirt. When a couple of them let their gaze wander back to me, I shivered and looked down into the remains of my tea, willing them to leave me alone, wishing I were normal, cursing the assholes who’d ruined me for the millionth, zillionth time.