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“Ah, shit.” She sits back, swiping her drink and taking a long gulp. “Let me have it.”
“The schedule.” She nods, like she’s expecting this. I knot my hands nervously. “I’m hardly on it.”
“I know.”
My brows rise. “You know?”
“Wren—” She shrugs her shoulders, shoots back the rest of her drink and hops off her stool. “I’ve been dropping hint after hint for weeks, girl.” Fresh ice falls into her glass, followed by two shots of vodka—unmeasured, topped with juice. “Love you, I do. But this is business, and honey, I’m not sure you’re cut out for this kind of business.”
I blink at her, stunned. “Jeez, Addy, I’ll buy some lipstick.”
She stands back to appraise me. Even though she’s pushing fifty-five, Addy is all punk-rocker. “You’ve got the classic girl-next-door thing going on.” Dark purple painted nails point at my face. “Big green eyes and all that hair. I don’t even want to mention your body, but girl, you’ve got a great body. All curves, tiny waist. The thing men find inPlayboyand want to fuckin’ play with.” She sighs as she shoots back another healthy gulp, ignoring—or oblivious to the red in my cheeks. “Thought you’d work all that sweet you’ve got, but—shit, Wren, you suck at serving. You don’t know how to flirt, and hell if I don’t know you don’t use what God gave ya.” She shakes her head sadly. “Can’t do it, honey. I’ve gotta give the money-making shifts to the girls who work it, you get me?”
I want to cry. As it is, I can feel the panic building in my chest. It’s not easy to find work in New York—at least, it wasn’t for me.
“I need this job, Addy.”
“You’ve still got it. Three nights a week.”
I shake my head. “I won’t make my rent. How am I supposed to pay my tuition?”
Addy finishes her drink and twists to make another. It’s her thing. After shift, she shoots back three doubles before she waltzes upstairs to her apartmentto sleep until noon. “You’ve got that other job, no?”
“Oh my God, Addy, please don’t do this.”
“How much did you make in tips tonight?” She turns to face me, new drink in hand. Her eyes aren’t even glassy.
If I dared to slam back three doubles in less than half an hour, I’d be kissing the floor. Hell, I’m not convinced I could slam just one double and still be walking upright in a straight line.
“Ninety-five dollars.” It’s one of the best nights I’ve had in tips since I started. I’m proud of that, and I sit up a little straighter.
“Layla made four twenty-five.”
My stomach flips and I wince. “Four dollars and twenty-five cents?”
“Four hundred and twenty-five dollars. She’s been here less than three weeks.” She leans back against the bar to land another heartless blow to my so very fragile ego. “You’ve been here for three months.”
“I won’t be able to afford to live in this city if I don’t have this job.” The words drip with desperation, and I feel sick to my stomach. I honestly don’t think I’ll be able to keep my tears back much longer.
Please, don’t cry in front of her. Please…
“This is business, girl. It’s not personal. I care about you, I do, but I’ve been around long enough toknow pretty girls come and they go. I can’t sacrifice the bottom line for anyone.”
“I can do better.”
Her brows rise. “Better than Layla?”
Layla is beautiful. She’s one of those girls who is bursting at the seams with life and youth and fun. She has a great body that she not only doesn’t mind showing butenjoysshowing.
I was raised by a man. A single man who never, not once, brought a woman home. My early explorations with makeup were messy and scaring. I prefer t-shirts and jeans or leggings and sweaters to sexy tops plastered in sequins and skin-tight skirts. I don’t have the confidence to wear even half the outfits I’ve seen Layla in.
I swallow. It burns. “I’ll try.”
“Not good enough. Schedule stays as it is.” She slides back onto the stool. “You’ve got the next month to prove to me that you can pull in tips and entertain the patrons, or you’re gone.” When I gasp in horror, she tells me again, “Business, Wren. You moved to one of the most cut-throat cities in America, and this is just business.”
I know I’ve been dismissed when she waves her hand, her attention back to the cash-out on the table.
I say nothing else as I slip off the stool and hurry to the hall that will lead me to the staff room. I’m so focused on finding privacy before I break downinto a puddle of tears, that I don’t see him. I swear, his gigantic black boot comes out of nowhere and I trip, hurdling face first for the booze sticky floor as if I need a busted nose on top of the pile of crap that is my night. Seconds before I connect with the floor, a fist curls in the fabric of my plain, but I thought low cut white t-shirt.
