"Thanks for stopping by," I say flatly, staring past her and motioning at the door. I can't make eye contact with her right now without exploding into pieces of insecurity.
My mother sighs in exasperation. "Little peanut," she mutters almost silently, before I hear the door shut.
Chapter Five
“Two margaritas and four cosmos coming right up,” I yell from behind the bar to Bree, the waitress on the other side. I’m shaking my ass to a heavy metal version of “Tainted Love.”
Yeah, Ned’s is that kind of neighborhood joint. Lots of 80s and classic-rock music, a little metal and punk, and zero pop and country crap. No jukebox, thank God. I get to pick the music on my shifts, as long as I don't go too loud or too indie, which is a serious plus when you're a music buff like me.
All the waitresses and bartenders are in their mid-thirties at least. Well, other than me. There’s something very family-orientated about this place. Ned’s belongs to a Texas-transplant named Mikey, who is loud and funny and probably the most good-natured guy you’ll ever come across. Mikey surrounds himself with good people, affordable alcohol and great food, which makes Ned’s a perfect combination and one of the best places to visit in Walnut Creek.
“Hurry up, I need to pee.” Bree knits her legs together, dancing in place like a drunken marionette. She’s mid-thirties, African American and a real, classic beauty.
I work fast to prepare the drinks, but I know it’s going to take some time, because the table all went for girlie cocktails with a five-page ingredient list. People rarely order fancy cocktails here—Ned’s is a beer and shots kind of place—so it's not like I'm used to doing this.
“Go ahead to the bathroom.” I quickly line up tall glasses and take out tequila, lemon and cranberry juice, my hands loaded. “I’ll deliver the drinks once I’m done mixing them. What table?”
“Nine. Thanks, Blaire. You can’t miss them. Six loud, blonde girls with air balloons for boobs.”
I nod, blending another cosmo, still singing horribly out of tune. Bree contemplates this for a second before I smack her on the ass with my dishtowel. “Go!”
She hops toward the bathroom, shooting me a relieved smile.
Bree is right. Spotting the blonde girls is not a difficult task. They all have this daddy-didn’t-love-me pout, with extra short skirts, bleached hair and...are those fake eyelashes? Interesting...
When I serve them their drinks, they ignore me and keep talking.
“…so I texted him and said listen, I don’t care who you are, I’m not waiting around here for two hours until you’re done messing around with these three sluts. And he was, like, well, Nicole, no one handcuffed you to my bed—even though he totally did that at one point, if you remember the time we bumped into each other in Tahoe—and I was like, are you serious! Are we actually having this conversation over text? It’s bad enough he’s sleeping around with every single girl I work with! So I called him twice and he didn’t pick up…”
Nicole's story piques my interest and hurts my feminist self at the same time. I decide to stick around and listen to the rest of it. I don't usually bump into juicy relationship stories. All my friends are dudes, and none of them are the type that pull this kind of crap. It's like flipping through the channels and stumbling across an old Ricki Lake rerun. You don't want to be caught looking, but damn if it's not super-fascinating on some screwed-up level.
“So I told him I was done with him. Went to his gym and told him it’s over. Get this—the douchebag didn’t care! I was so, so upset, you guys. I was literally crying, and he just kept training. I actually had my dad pick me up because I couldn’t drive. Fast forward two days later, and the bastard calls me up.”
Nicole's eyes briefly browse over me with a flicker of curiosity. I no longer have a valid reason to stand around like a bump on a log, eavesdropping on her heartbreaking monologue, so I pretend to dust the fireplace behind her table like a complete idiot.
Needless to say it’s way out of my job description, right?
Mikey, who sits at the bar with Jaime, our manager, sends me a WTF look, and Bree, who’s returned from her toilet break, looks puzzled too, wondering how come I haven’t hurried back to my place behind the bar. I pretend not to notice their dumbfounded stares and keep listening to Nicole as the bar gets more and more crowded with people wondering why the hell the bartender is dusting the fireplace instead of pouring drinks.
“Na-ah, the assclown,” one of Nicole’s clones gasps dramatically.
“What a dog,” agrees another blondie. Nicole is now approaching her grand-finale, and I pray to God it’ll arrive before I get my ass fired.
“So he calls me up on Tuesday, right? And get this—he’s talking as if nothing’s happened! He’s all ‘Hey babe, what’s up? Wanna come over to my place,’ and I’m like ‘What?’ and he’s like ‘Is that a yes or a no?’”
Is Nicole going to get to the bottom line sometime in this decade? Because I’m running out of spots to dust and the bar is getting backed up with unattended drink orders. Luckily, after a few more seconds and complete violation of the use of the word “like,” Nicole finally gets to the point.
“Long story short? I went over to his place. At the end of the day, he’s the hottest piece of ass in this county, and I’m enjoying the mind-blowing sex. Guess Ty Wilder is my steady dip for now.”