CHAPTER 13
“Try Paquito’s guava barbeque chicken wings! They’re sweet and spicy, just like me!”
Helping myself to one of the sauce-slathered wings on the platter I’m holding, I take a bite, then lick the messy remnants from my lips and fingers in a manner that’s borderline pornographic. Of course, my little show attracts every male eyeball in the immediate vicinity, and soon I’m descended upon by at least a dozen of the testosterone-driven creatures.
“One each, fellas! Don’t be greedy,” I say as hairy hands start snatching the wings. “If you like what you’ve tasted, you can get a basket of ten for just $9.99 right here.” I jerk a thumb at the booth behind me where there’s already a sizable line thanks to my very effective advertising.
Leering at me, a bushy-bearded man with tattoo sleeves asks, “Will you feed them to me, darlin’?”
“They don’t pay me enough for that,” I retort, then turn on the five-inch cork heel of my wedge sandal and stroll over to the booth where Paquito and two girls clad in cropped yellow T-shirts decorated with the restaurant’s logo are dishing out wings. I’ve got on a midriff-baring yellow tee too, but mine has HOT!!! with flames shooting out of the letters emblazoned across my chest and WINGS on the back.
“I need more samples,” I tell Paquito when he glances over at me, frowning because God forbid I should abandon my wing-pimping post for two seconds. “That last group wiped me out.”
He redirects his attention to the customers while I surreptitiously sneak a look at my cell phone. Ugh! Only 8:45. So, I’m not even halfway through my four-hour shift at this wingding. Ha! See what I did there? It’s an event that I’m pushing chicken wings at, so it’s a wingding. I really am too clever, not that anyone around here would appreciate my sophisticated wordplay. They’re all too smashed. This is Miami’s Eighth Annual Brew at the Zoo, after all, where over a hundred different beer-makers pass out free samples to rowdy partiers while live music is played and food vendors like Paquito hawk (ha—another bird pun! I am on a roll!) their wares so that folks can have something to put in their bellies besides alcohol.
I’ve never been much of a beer drinker myself, preferring fruity cocktails or the occasional glass of wine, so the sour, yeasty smell that’s filling the air and wafting off everyone’s breath is kind of nauseating to me, especially since it’s such a humid night (May in Miami—whatcha gonna do?) and everyone’s schvitzing as my agent, Marty, would say, which means there’s a lot of B.O. mixed in with the aroma of beer.
Speaking of Marty, I may very well kill him the next time I see him. He acted like this gig with Paquito was going to be an easy two hundred and fifty bucks. “Just stand in front of the booth, stick your chest out, and make people want to buy wings,” he said. It sounded like a decent promo modeling job, but it’s ended up being the demeaning equivalent of waitressing at Hooters (my worst nightmare!) except I get ass grabs instead of tips. Not that I can blame these drunk losers for wanting to touch the merchandise since my curve-ilicious backside is looking even more tempting than usual in these distressed denim cut-offs I’m wearing.
I return to my post with a fresh pile of chicken wings and a big (fake) smile plastered on my face. That smile doesn’t last long as I’m soon approached by two dude-bros in the standard uniform of their kind (cargo shorts, flip-flops, and sports-themed tees—NASCAR and the Dolphins), with plastic cups of foamy beer in each hand.
“These lip-smacking good guava barbeque chicken wings will make those beers taste even better. Try one.” I offer them the platter.
The guy to my left drains one of his beers, tosses the cup over his shoulder (litterbug alert!), then grabs a wing. He makes quick work of it with his front teeth, rotating the bone while devouring the meat like a beaver whittling down a tree trunk.
“Ooooo-weeee!” he exclaims, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth rather than taking a cocktail napkin from the stack in the middle of the platter. “That sauce has got a kick to it.”
“Too hot for you to handle, huh?” his friend baits him.
“I’m not the one who cried big baby tears when he bit into a poblano the other day.”
“It burned my tongue!”
“Said the girly man.”
“You’re the girly man; you listen to K-pop!”
“Which is awesome unlike that twangy country shit you’re always playing!”
They’re almost nose-to-nose now, breathing heavily and glaring at each other.
“Good grief. Just make out already!” I say in exasperation.
Whipping their heads to the side, they both stare at me goggle-eyed. “We’re not gay!” the dude-bros protest in unison.
“Could have fooled me. Lots of sexual tension here.” I wave my free hand in front of them. “Why don’t you buy some hot wings and talk about it?”
Looking dumbfounded, they tromp off to join the line for Paquito’s.
“That was an interesting sales technique,” Zane says, with an amused smile as he walks up to me, with Topaz and Nacho in tow.
“I just call ‘em like I see ‘em,” I counter sassily.
“I was picking up homo emissions from them, too,” our group expert on gay chimes in, “but they were in deep denial, like twenty thousand leagues under the sea deep. P.S. I am loving this whole trailer park trash look on you. You are working those denim cut-offs, girl. They should start calling them Izzy Alvarezes instead of Daisy Dukes.”
“Yeah, I need to get a picture of you in this get-up.” Z pulls out his iPhone.
“Me, too!” Topaz raises her cell. “I’ll Facebook and Instagram the pic and tag you, Iz.”
“No!” I shriek, holding my hand up in front of my face.
Nacho’s threaded eyebrow lifts questioningly. “Since when don’t you like having your picture taken?”
I peek through my fingers to make sure there are no longer any camera phones trained on me before lowering my hand and replying, “Since I don’t want Eduardo to know I’m model-slumming it.”
My boyfriend of three weeks might be under the mistaken impression that my career is going well and when I tell him I’m “working,” that means I’m doing a photo shoot or walking a runway. And I’d like him to keep right on thinking I’m in-demand and killing it professionally as that’s part of my allure. If he were to find out that I’m not getting the good modeling jobs anymore and I’ve been reduced to flaunting my assets in order to sell bar food at what is essentially a large-scale kegger, he might start wondering if I’m a gold digger, which I suppose I am technically, but I don’t want Eduardo to view me as such.
“You think he’d have a problem with this?” Topaz twirls her finger around, indicating the party-hearty event we’re at.
Before I can answer, a blitzed reveler stumbles into Nacho, sloshing his drink on the latter’s linen shirt and knocking them both off-balance. Z has to reach out a hand to steady them both. “Sssssorry, man,” the drunkard slurs his apology, then staggers away.
“Good thing I didn’t really like this shirt,” Nacho says, reaching for a cocktail napkin so that he can mop up some of the spill, which reminds me that I’m supposed to be working, not socializing.
Shoving the platter at my friends, I say, “Take a wing, you guys. I don’t want Paquito to give me any grief about not doing the job he’s paying me for.” I swear I can feel that slave driver’s eyes burning a hole right through the extra-small T-shirt on my back.
“Yummy,” Topaz murmurs approvingly after sampling her chicken wing.
“So, what’s this crap about you worrying your boyfriend wouldn’t approve of you working at Brew at the Zoo? You’ve never cared what anyone thought of you or what you did before.” Z eyes me with either concern or suspicion, I’m not sure which, but his third degree about my relationship with Eduardo makes me feel squirmy and defensive.
“That’s because I’ve never dated anyone whose opinion actually mattered to me before. Eduardo’s put me on a pedestal, where I’d like to stay. He’s always dated women who were beautiful, classy, and successful.”
“Well, you got one out of three,” Nacho says, with a smirk.
“Screw you, Queer Eye!” I bite back. “I can be classy.”
“You shouldn’t have to pretend you’re something you’re not for a guy, Iz. You’re making an honest buck here, and there’s nothing wrong with that.” Zane tosses his wing bone and napkin in the closest trash can.
I really don’t want to argue the point with him since he’s not fully aware of what’s going on. I am playing in the big leagues with Eduardo and I have to do everything I can to make him think I’m his ideal mate. If that means embellishing the truth or being vague about what my modeling jobs entail, so be it.
“Hey, ladies!” I call over a trio of girls who look like they’re on their way to a wet T-shirt contest (fake boobs and tight, so-thin-they’re-practically-see-through tees) in hopes of steering the conversation in a different direction. “I’ve got free guava barbeque chicken wings. Come on over and give ‘em a try. They’re delicious and have fewer calories than those beers!”
Intrigued by my sales pitch, they sashay over and avail themselves of some samples. “Mmmmmm,” the bleached blonde in the group moans like she’s starring in Steffi Shags South Beach and slides the chicken wing in and out of her mouth, like, well, I’m sure you get the picture. I should note that she’s putting on this provocative performance while staring at Z.
“Wanna bite?” she offers the molested piece of poultry to him.
His lips quirk up on one side. “I’m good, but thanks.”
“You’re cute,” decrees one of the dark-haired girls, hanging over Blondie’s shoulder. (I’m guessing she’s the “edgy” member of their skank squad because she has some pink streaks in her ponytail and a metal stud in her nose.)
“So cute,” the other brunette concurs, then proves herself to be the boldest of the bunch by trailing her fingertips up Z’s bare forearm.
I suppose he does look cute-ish in his ripped jeans and torso-hugging Nirvana tee, with his shaggy brown hair perfectly framing his chiseled face. (First thing I noticed about Z when we met years ago was what great angles his face has. With his cheekbones, he really should be in front of the camera instead of behind it.)
“Ohmigod!” I squeal. “Is that Jax Stryker? I can’t believe it; he’s even hotter in person!” Jax is the lead singer of the headlining act at this year’s Brew at the Zoo, and I’m sure most of the females here are groupies of his who’d be willing to drop their panties on his command.
“What? Where?” Immediately forgetting about Z and his “cuteness,” the bimbo brigade’s heads swivel from side-to-side, scanning the party grounds for the rock god who always looks like he could use a bath.
“He was headed over to the VIP area.” I point to a tent way down at the end of the beer booths. “If you hurry, maybe you can catch him.”
I don’t have to tell them twice. They all drop their wings and bolt, probably envisioning a foursome in their otherwise empty heads.
Topaz and Nacho snicker while I snort laugh.
“Was that really necessary?” Z gives me a disparaging look.
“Uh, yeah, I think it was.” Bending down to address his crotch, I say, “You’re welcome,” then raise my eyes back to his. “I just saved your junk from a veritable slew of STDs, some that probably haven’t even been recognized by the Center for Disease Control yet.”
“My junk was in no danger. Those girls were hardly my type.”
I shrug. “Maybe they would have enticed you to go off-brand. You know, since you’re between Birkenstock-wearing poets, painters, and playwrights at the moment.”
Seeing a young couple with their arms wrapped around each other approaching, I extend the platter toward them and reel off my spiel, “Guava barbeque chicken wings from Paquito’s. $9.99 for a basket of ten.”
“Thanks!” The female member of the duo is very enthusiastic as she reaches for a wing. She takes two as does her man, but I don’t stop them, because I really don’t care at this point.
“I have never dated anyone who wore Birkenstocks,” Zane asserts after the couple’s gone on their merry way.
“Yeah, you did,” Topaz begs to differ. “Remember D’Anna, the children’s book illustrator?”
“That’s D’Anna with an apostrophe instead of an ‘e!’” I do a spot-on impression of Z’s ex with an annoyingly perky voice that rises an octave at the end of the sentence, making it sound like an exclamation even when it shouldn’t be.
Z’s only response is a grimace.
Turning to Topaz, Nacho whines, “All this talk about Zane’s fetish for anorexics is making me hungry. Let’s get a Double ShackBurger and some fries.”
“Hey!” I protest. “Where’s the loyalty? You should eat at Paquito’s.”
Topaz looks sheepish. “Sorry, Iz, but a cheeseburger with some ShackSauce really does sound good. We’ll swing back by before we leave, ‘kay?”
The two of them traipse off, leaving Zane and me behind.
“You don’t have to stay,” I tell him. “I know how much you like the SmokeShack. Just do me a favor and tell me what time it is before you go.”
“You have a hot date when you’re through here?” Z asks as he reaches for the phone in the back pocket of his jeans.
“When don’t I have a hot date?” I query cheekily. “Eduardo said he’d wait up for me, so I’m going to meet him at his hotel as soon as I get my parole papers from Paquito.”
I’m actually going to be spending the night with Eduardo in his posh suite at The Mondrian (something I’ve been doing on a regular basis lately). He’s having a breakfast meeting with his real estate agent in the AM, then she’s going to take him to look at some houses that just came on the market and Eduardo invited me along. Don’t get excited—he hasn’t asked me to move in with him (I don’t work that fast!), but I think it’s a good sign that he wants my input on his (maybe our) future home. If it was up to me, we’d just stay put at The Mondrian because hotel living rocks! You never have to cook or clean up after yourself and there’s a pool and spa right on site.
“It’s 9:10,” Zane reports after checking the clock on his phone’s display.
“Ugh,” I groan with feeling. “This night is end—”
“Mmmmm mmmmm.” A heavy-set guy with a douche-y goatee and backwards baseball cap lurches up to us, placing his hand on Z’s shoulder for support because he’s too wasted to keep himself upright. “I smell something good. What kind of sauce is on those wings, sweet thang?” He gestures at the platter.
“It’s Paquito’s guava barbeque sauce, which has a very special secret ingredient.” It’s really not all that secret since anyone with working taste buds should be able to detect the spiced rum in the sauce. (Funny how rum seems to be a recurring theme in my life lately!) “Help yourself.” I shove the platter toward the potential customer.
He grabs a wing with each hand, devours them in record time, then tosses the picked-clean bones back down on the platter and lets loose a belch so loud that it reverberates through my entire body.
Wincing with disgust, I say, “If you’d like more, you can get a basket of ten wings for $9.99 at the Paquito’s booth.”
“I’d rather have breasts,” guy-with-no-manners declares.
“Sorry, Paquito’s only has wings.”
“I don’t know about that. I see two juicy breasts I’d like to get a mouthful of right here.” He sways forward with a lecherous smile, and the next thing I know he’s got his beefy paws on my tetas.
“You’re getting sauce all over my shirt!” I shriek, but that doesn’s stop him from fondling me. I’m about to introduce my knee to his groin when Zane intervenes.
“Get your hands off her!” he commands, giving the groper a forceful shove away from me.
The jerk totters backwards and I’m hoping he falls flat on his butt, but he somehow manages to stay on his feet. Face red and eyes burning with fury, he vows, “I can touch whoever I want, pretty boy, and you can’t stop me.”
Straightening up to his full height, which makes him about five inches taller than the bulldog of a man standing next to him, Z says, “I already did and you should be grateful because the woman you were treating so disrespectfully was about to deprive you of the ability to reproduce.”
The drunkard chortles with disbelief. “Please, she couldn’t hurt a fly and neither could you, wuss.” He thumps Zane on the chest, trying to antagonize him, but Z only looks mildly perturbed.
“I’m not going to fight you,” he asserts.
“Why not? Because you’re scared?” the other man taunts.
“No, because he’s a trained boxer and he’d kick your aaaaaaaa—” I scream and jump back when tough guy suddenly starts projectile vomiting.
“This is officially the worst job ever!” I proclaim as he continues to spew. Leaving him to it, I march purposefully over to Paquito’s booth, pushing people out of my way so that I can get to the front of the line where I confront my boss-for-the-night.
Dropping my almost-empty platter down on the counter in front of him, I say, “I’ve been sexually harassed . . .” I point to the saucy fingerprints on the fabric stretched across my breasts. “. . . and puked on, so I am done. Give me my money.” I extend a hand toward him and wiggle my fingers.
He scowls, clearly not sympathetic to my plight. “You didn’t work the four hours you agreed to, so you get nada, chica.”
Leaning forward, I declare, “You sold twice the amount of wings you would have tonight without me. So, pony up, you cheap hijo de puta, or I will tell everyone that . . .,” I turn back toward the crowd of people waiting to be served and raise my voice, “. . . Paquito’s wings come from dirty, disease-ridden pigeons instead of chickens, which is why that guy over there is hurling because he got bird flu from eating these things!” I shake a wing at the line, and they all recoil, looking horrified and repulsed, then they scatter.
Dropping the wing, I once again hold out my hand to Paquito. “Pay me, or I’ll spend the rest of the night scaring away all your customers.”
He opens the cash register while calling me some unrepeatable names in Spanish, then places a stack of twenties he doesn’t even bother to count on my outstretched palm. “I’ll never hire you to work for me again,” he growls.
“I hope that’s a promise!” I say impudently before stuffing the wad of cash into the front pocket of my painted-on shorts. “Thanks,” I mouth the word as I take my purse from the yellow T-shirt-clad girl in the booth who was wise enough to anticipate my need for a dramatic exit. “Come on, Z!” I hook my arm through his, and we strut off. Well, I strut; he just walks.
As we head away from all the booths and beer-guzzlers, Zane murmurs, “For future reference, just because I work out on the heavy bag at the gym and occasionally get into the ring to spar does not mean that I can kick someone’s ass in real life.”
“Don’t spoil the fantasy for me, Z!” I reprimand him, and he laughs.