Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 36002 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 180(@200wpm)___ 144(@250wpm)___ 120(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 36002 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 180(@200wpm)___ 144(@250wpm)___ 120(@300wpm)
“I’m looking for a manager,” I say to the guy behind the bar.
He’s wearing big eyeglasses that make his eyes seem bigger than they are. His dishwater hair is combed over, and he keeps licking his thin lips that are covered in sores. Gross.
“I’m the manager,” he says. “The name’s Barry. You got a problem, young lady?”
I’m grateful he doesn’t offer his hand for a shake. He gives me the ick.
“There’s a sign on the door that says you’re hiring a dishwasher.” I shudder when one of the tit-looker guys blows a plume of smoke at me. It’s on the tip of my tongue to lash out at the man, but I really need the money. “I’m looking for a job.”
Barry’s enormous eyes drop to my tits that are straining in my T-shirt, and he licks his lips again. Between the smoke stench and these leering men, I’m feeling nauseous. Again.
“Not just to wash dishes,” Barry says, big eyes gleaming like he knows a juicy secret. “Clean tables and shit, too. Sweep and mop after closing. Run trash to the dumpster. Maybe bring drinks to the customers. You could probably pull me in some big tips.”
If Mom knew I was considering this job, she might have an aneurysm.
Dad would be disgusted.
Shame threatens to rear its ugly head, but I stomp it back down, lift my chin, and meet Barry’s scuzzy gaze.
“I can do it,” I tell him. “And I want all the tips I pull in.”
“No tips.”
“Half,” I counter, frustration mounting.
“Deal.” He holds out his hand that also has sores on it.
Yeah, not shaking that creepy thing.
“Great,” I say, voice falsely chipper. “When do I start? Tonight?”
I need money. Like yesterday.
“Come in tomorrow afternoon,” Barry says with a wolfish grin. “Dress code is shorts and a tank top. You got those? The tighter the better if you want to make good money.”
Just crawl your ass back home, Abs.
Stubbornness has me fighting back that urge to beg my family for help. I give Barry a quick nod, scribble my number on a napkin, and then skip out of the dinky bar before I change my mind. It’s imperative that I keep my job.
A few bikers stand near their bikes, smoking and watching me with narrowed eyes. This area of town is older and not a lot of money goes into the beautification of the area. I can bet no one besides me in my family has ever even been over here. At least there’s no fear of running into one of them.
A biker with a long white beard and missing a few teeth whistles at me before making a crude gesture that I think is supposed to be me sucking his dick. I shoot him the finger and then fish my phone from my pocket. The man and his friends laugh. Someone calls me a bitch. Another suggests they teach me to obey my elders. One says I need a good spanking. Ignoring them all, I stride past them, my step purposeful and my chin held high.
When I make it to the corner, I get a whiff of something fried coming from a nearby diner. My stomach whines for me to make my way over there. There’s a credit card in my wallet that my dad gave me for emergencies. Even when I screwed up and used it for random crap I didn’t need, he didn’t take it away from me or cancel it.
It’ll get me fed.
But it’ll also give Dad the satisfaction of knowing I still need him.
It’s not just you anymore…
I’ve barely learned I’m pregnant and it’s already swaying my decisions. Another person is reliant on my ability to make good decisions. Eating, even if I have to eat crow in the process, is a good decision.
You could call the baby’s father…
No.
I hurry over to the diner, my stomach groaning happily at the prospect of eating something good. For weeks now I’ve been couch surfing. Friends, acquaintances, a few people met when I was dabbling in drugs. I don’t stay more than a day or two at each place, never wanting to wear out my welcome. Right now, I’m just a nomadic free spirit.
It’s just a fancy way of saying I’m homeless and completely fucked.
“Sit wherever you like, hon,” a waitress says when I enter the ancient diner.
It’s such a far cry from the places my parents like to eat at. They’re probably dining at the country club restaurant at this exact moment. They’re predictable like that.
I’d almost give anything for a steak right now.
But chicken and waffles from a greasy hole-in-the-wall place will have to do instead.
Since water makes me gag lately, I order a Sprite and some fried pickles to hold me over until my meal comes. The sickness I’d felt earlier is gone and I can’t inhale the fried, salty tangy goodness quick enough. When I lick the ranch container clean after demolishing the appetizer, I notice a few patrons frowning at me.