Halston

I’m not sure what I expected from a restaurant called Big Boulders, where the woman on the sign is standing in front of two giant rocks that, I guess, are supposed to represent her breasts? But after filling out a dozen job applications over the past week, this is the only place that called me back.

“How many in your party?” The hostess, wearing a low-cut top that barely covers her nipples and leaves her belly exposed, gives me a dazzling smile.

“I’m here to see Todd Chadwick,” I say. “I have an interview.”

“Oh, yes, right this way.” She leads me to a back room before knocking on a door with a “manager” plaque taped to the outside. It smells like fried food and spilled drinks in here, and all of the girls are dressed in such a way that invites blatant ogling from the male patrons. “Todd, your one o’clock is here.”

The door flings open a second later, and a generic-looking white guy stands before me. Before he extends his hand, his eyes drag the length of me, lingering on my breasts, and then he invites me in, telling me to take a seat on a blue chair with a questionable white stain on the fabric.

“So you’re … Halston,” he says, grabbing my application from a stack on his desk. “What kind of name is Halston? If you don’t mind my asking?”

“I guess my parents named me after a perfume,” I say, monotone and repeating the answer I give everyone else who’s ever asked me the same stupid question. Supposedly it was the perfume my mother was wearing the night she met my father, when they were a couple of innocent high school kids with their whole lives ahead of them. But I don’t share that story. It romanticizes them, and they’re selfish assholes. “Anyway, your ad said you offered on-the-job training. Is that right?”

He nods, his hand partially covering his mouth as he rests his elbow on his desk. Todd can’t keep his eyes off my breasts for more than a few seconds, and I’m just now realizing his shirt says, “Get Your Rocks Off at Big Boulders!”

“Do you understand what kind of restaurant this is?” he asks.

I nod. “Yeah. Like Knockers.”

“We’re better than Knockers.” His voice rises. Must be a hot button topic for Todd. “Anyway, we’re classier. Our women don’t look like ex-strippers and our food is all hand-made, nothing frozen.”

Because I’m sure that’s what’s bringing their customers here night after night.

“You’d be a server,” he says. “But we have a strict dress code. We provide the uniforms. I’m sure you saw some of the girls. Just think of it as a bikini. It’s no different. In fact, it hides a little more than a bikini would.”

Way to justify it, Todd.

“If there’s any doubt in your mind, any part of you that thinks you’d be uncomfortable in this kind of setting, I want you to get up right now and walk out of my office,” he says.

“I can handle this,” I assure him. “They can look, but they can’t touch, right?”

His eyes widen. “Absolutely. If anyone so much as puts their hands on you, you let me or one of the guys at the bar know. They’ll be shown the door immediately. We do not tolerate that.”

“Then we should be fine.”

“I will say, though. You’re going to be hit on,” he says. “Men of all ages, social classes, and backgrounds frequent this pub, and they come here because they want good food, pretty girls to look at, and someone to fantasize about when they’re lying next to their old ball and chains that night. That said, show them a good time. It’s okay to flirt back. It’s okay to let them think that maybe they have a chance. But our girls aren’t allowed to go home with the men or give out their numbers. We keep it professional.” He leans back in his chair, studying me. “How does that sound? You think you might be interested in something like that?”

“Absolutely. When can I start?”

It’s not like I have a choice. I need a job so I can get a car so I can get the hell out of here the second I graduate from Rosefield. There’s not much I won’t do at this point.

“Tomorrow?” he asks. “Can you start tomorrow? We’ll have you shadow someone for a week, but then you’ll be on your own. Shifts are eleven to five and five to eleven. You have a preference?”

“Eleven to five is fine,” I say. Vic and Tab would freak if I came home after eleven every night.

“Perfect. Let me grab your paperwork here. We’ll need a copy of your Social Security card and … well … everything’s outlined here. Take it home, fill it out, bring it back tomorrow, and we’ll get you suited up. Maybe get here about ten-thirty?”

I rise. He rises.

It’s done.

I have a job.

“Thank you, Todd,” I say.

I feel the weight of his stare on my ass as he walks me out.

* * *

Lying in bed, I double click on Karma and send Kerouac a message. I haven’t talked to him since I ended the conversation several days ago. Sure, I could’ve made up a story about the way I lost my virginity … saying it was some high school boyfriend and we were madly in love and it was sweet and romantic and perfect.

But my mind kept playing the real scenario, and my instinct was to shut down and walk away.

“You there?” I send him a message, biting my thumbnail as I wait.

Five minutes pass, then another five, then ten.

I watch some music videos on YouTube to pass the time.

Kerouac: I’m here. What’s going on?

Absinthe: What’s the most desperate thing you’ve ever done for money?

Kerouac: That’s random.

Absinthe: Just answer it.

Kerouac: I’m not a desperate man and I’m good with my money, so … nothing?

Absinthe: Bullshit.

Kerouac: I’d need to think on this a while. Can I get back to you?

Absinthe: I guess.

Kerouac: What’s wrong? Thought it was weird you went silent on me for a week.

Congratulations! You’ve reached ten Karma points! You may now view the photograph of the Karma user you’re chatting with!

I have no idea how they dole out points, if it’s based on how long you chat or how many messages are sent, but a flashing blue icon in the upper corner blinks at me, begging to be clicked.

So I click it.

And an image fills the screen.

It’s a man, late twenties, with brown hair, hazel eyes, and a perfect smile. He’s incredibly handsome and clean cut, and he wears a navy sweater over a gingham tie. He belongs on a Ralph Lauren billboard. Grabbing a screenshot of the image, I pull up Google and do a reverse image search, which leads me to a stock photo website.

Kerouac’s photo is stock. Not him.

Shaking my head, I’m imagining some beer-bellied pervert sitting in his mother’s basement trying to hook up with people on Karma, lying about his good looks and making himself seem more charming and intelligent than he actually is.

Fucking jackass.

Closing out of Karma, I clap the laptop lid shut and shove it to the end of the bed.