Lex

I clutched my purse tight in my hand and stared back at him in disbelief. “So, you’re saying that you can’t use me because of one incident? One?”

Short of his salt-and-pepper hair, he appeared to be in his mid-thirties. Because of it, I couldn’t decide, and stared at him wondering. It really didn’t matter, but it bothered me so much I wanted to ask.

His fitted navy suit and stark white button-down made it look he was attending the Academy Awards ceremony, not managing a seafood restaurant.

He inhaled a shallow breath and then sighed. “That wasn’t what I said, Miss Hart. I stated that based on your reason for termination from your last employer, I’m choosing not to put the establishment at risk.”

“Risk?” I arched an eyebrow. “Because of one incident?”

“I called the manager of your previous place of employment while you were waiting.” He pushed my application to the side. “I’m choosing not to hire you because of your reason for termination.”

“I’ve worked since I was sixteen. Five years,” I said, trying to hide my anger. “There was one incident. I was never late. I was a model employee for five years. Five. Never late, never sick. Then, I didn’t show up. Once.”

He leaned forward. “This wasn’t a pattern?”

He’d cracked open the door of chance, and I planned on barging in. I set my purse aside, let out a breath, and gazed into his eyes. “No, sir. I had an unfortunate incident occur, and it prevented me from going to work. Actually, it prevented me from doing anything. I was incapacitated for almost two weeks.”

“Oh.” He paused, appearing interested in hearing more. “I see. And, through the course of this incident, you were incapable of calling your employer?”

“I was.”

He pushed himself away from his desk and relaxed into his chair. “Giving your employer warning of your need for time off is not only polite, it’s necessary. It takes time to organize a replacement employee.”

“I’m well aware, sir.”

His eyebrows raised. “What happened?”

“Pardon me?”

“The incident. What happened that prevented you from calling in for over a week? Had you been hospitalized?”

My eyes fell to the floor. It was the third time in less than a week that I’d been denied a job. I looked up. “Kind of.”

He looked perplexed. “How were you kind of hospitalized?”

“It’s not something I’m willing to discuss,” I said. “You’ll just have to trust me.”

He stood. “Then hiring you is not a risk I’m willing to take.”

I reached for my purse. “Look. I’m not asking for a security clearance position at LAX or a job at the Oval Office. I want to wait tables. I have no idea who you have working for you, but it really doesn’t matter. You don’t have anyone that’s a better waitress than me.”

“That’s a bold statement,” he said.

I let out a laugh and stood. “Bold? Maybe. But, it’s true.”

His office door creaked open.

He peered beyond me, toward the sound. “I’ll be done in a moment.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. West. Sheri didn’t show up.”

He looked at his watch and then toward the voice. “Did she call?”

“No.”

I chuckled. “Better get out your axe.”

He let out a laugh, and then looked at me. “When can you start?”

“The second Tuesday of next month,” I said dryly.

His brow wrinkled.

“It was a joke,” I said. “I can start now. Right now.”

“Sandy,” he said. “Find Alexandra a uniform that fits.”

My eyes shot wide. “I’m hired?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

Having a job would allow me to live a close resemblance to a normal life.

I pumped my fist. “Oh, yeah!”

He rolled his eyes and then motioned behind me. “Follow Sandy.”

I turned around. A girl with sticks for legs, twigs for arms, and cantaloupe sized boobs stood in the doorway with a grin plastered across her tan face. Her hair was smooth and straight, and cascaded down over her monstrous chest like an ashy blonde waterfall.

“Hi,” she said. “I’m Sandy.”

“I go by Lex,” I said, forcing a smile.

She grinned and spun around. “Hi, Lex. Come on. I’ll show you where everything is.”

She was dressed in black slacks and a tailored white button down shirt that appeared to be missing the top two or three buttons. Frustration promptly replaced the excitement of finally landing a job.

If I was going to wear the same outfit she was wearing, I’d be begging for tips. I was built like a teenager who was a few months south of adolescence. Not really, but compared to her I was lacking.

Big time.

I followed her down the hallway and into a room that had a table in the center and shelves that lined one wall. After she rifled through the items on a shelf, she handed me two pairs of pants and two shirts. “See if any of these fit.”

She looked me over, and then smiled. “Sorry. To the left, and then the door on the left.”

“Thanks.”

A pair of pants and one of the shirts fit me remarkably well. Although the bathroom mirror wasn’t much help at obtaining a full body shot, I was convinced I was ready for a shift.

I walked into the room, set the pile of clothes down on the table, and cocked my hip. “What do you think?”

She looked me over and then shrugged. “They fit good.”

“But what?”

She shot me a look. “Huh?”

“You did that shoulder shrug thing. Like this.” I turned my head to the side and looked at her out of the corner of my eye, and then shrugged one shoulder.

She let out a sigh.

I pressed my arms against the outside edge of my boobs. “My boobs?”

She cocked her head to the side. “Well…”

“Well, what?”

She sighed. Again.

She reached up on one of the shelves, grabbed a purse, and then looked at me, smiling. “Follow me.”

I followed her to the small bathroom. After she locked the door behind us, she opened her purse and pulled out a makeup bag.

“Let me do this, and then look in the mirror,” she said.

I had no idea what she was talking about, but agreed nonetheless. “Okay.”

She took a makeup brush, swiped it against a dark powder, and began brushing it around the inside circumference of my nonexistent cleavage. After a few minutes and a little blending, she stepped aside.

“Looks awesome,” she said.

I chuckled. The thought of it seemed ridiculous. “Makeup tits?”

She gestured toward the mirror. “Take a look.”

I looked at the mirror. I had boobs. Real boobs. I glanced at her and then took another peek at my reflection.

“Holy crap,” I said. The transformation was incredible. “Where’d you learn that?”

“I haven’t always had these,” she said.

“Oh. You had them done?” I asked, although it was painfully obvious they weren’t real.

She arched her back. “High profile 550cc. I was going to be an actress.” She shrugged playfully and then twisted her mouth to the side. “Yeah. They’re fake.”

She seemed nice, and I felt bad about thinking she was a bimbo. “Well, they look fanfuckingtastic.”

“Awwe, thank you. Yours do too.”

I looked in the mirror again. I liked my new look, and the transformation would equate to more tips. My mouth curled into a sly grin. I turned to face Sandy. “Do I get to waitress today, or will I be training?”

“Depends on if you can memorize the lunch specials.”

“How many specials?”

“Three.”

I spit out a laugh. “Looks like I’ll be waiting tables.”

She unlocked the door. “I have a hard time remembering anything, but nobody cares.”

I had the brains and she had the body. I decided even though I normally didn’t like girls that I’d give her a chance.

Two hours later, the small restaurant was slammed with customers, and I was waiting on half of them while Sandy waited the other half.

When the lunch rush was over, she and I sat in the break room and talked while we snacked on stuffed mushrooms and fried lobster.

I poked one of the mushrooms with my fork, and then studied it. “Are you always this busy at lunch?”

“Every day.”

“Wow.”

I took a bite if the mushroom, and quickly realized why they were so busy. It was incredible.

“I work four days a week and make about two grand,” she said.

“A month?”

She laughed. “A week.”

I made $40 a day at my previous job. I swallowed my mouthful of crab-stuffed heaven and looked at her.

“Jesus.” I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “Do you always work the lunch shift?”

“Yep.” She popped one of the lobster bites into her mouth and grinned after she swallowed it. “I dance at night. Well, two nights a week.”

I shot her a look. “Dance?”

She nodded. “At the Main Attraction.”

I choked on mushroom residue. The Main Attraction was a stripper bar known for catering to bikers. “You’re a stripper?”

She grabbed a mushroom. “Uh huh.”

I’d always considered stripping to be a substandard career. After what I experienced, though, for me to look at anyone as lesser than me was impossible. In an odd circumstance, I’d offered myself to a man who was the lowest form of life on earth, and I did so repeatedly.

Unique circumstances support unique reactions. I didn’t know the intricacies of her life or her needs, and for me to be critical of her would be inconsiderate and none of my business, really.

“Cool,” I said. “I bet you’ve got a lot of interesting stories to tell.”

“Every night, it’s something. It’s crazy some of the shit people do and say.”

I wondered if Cholo went to the strip club. I felt a strange attraction to him after the night we met, and I initially attributed it to his heroic actions. After he came by my mother’s house, I realized the attraction was more conventional.

Or, at least I thought it was. I grabbed another mushroom and wondered if – and when – I may see him again. I took a bite of the mushroom. While she picked at a piece of lobster, I swallowed and wiped my teeth clean with the tip of my tongue.

“Do any of the Filthy Fuckers come in there? The MC, not just a random filthy fucker.”

Without looking up, she responded. “All the time.”

“Really?”

She looked at me as if surprised I asked. “Do you know any of them?”

I shrugged. “A few.”

“Really? Who?”

I thought of the names I’d heard at their clubhouse. “Lefty. Pee Bee. Let’s see. One’s name is Smokey. And Cholo. Oh, and Crip.”

She nodded. “I know all those guys. Well, except for Cholo. Unless he goes by something else.”

I shook my head. “Not that I know of.”

“Don’t know him,” she said. “But yeah. I know the others. A few more, too. They’re nice. Rowdy, but nice.”

“Rowdy? How?”

She tossed the piece of lobster into the Styrofoam container. “Not with the girls. They just get into a lot of fights. Well, not a lot. But. I don’t know. They just don’t take any shit. You know how bikers are.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I do.”

Having a friend like Sandy was going to be fun. I could already tell we were going to get along just fine.

She picked the piece of lobster up again. “I think bikers are hot.”

“Yeah.” I choked on my laugh. “I do, too.”