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Choose Me-Sneak Peek
Chapter One
Erica
My new boss stands rigid beside me, the cords of his neck stretch tight enough to pop. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Sharing.” First day on the job and I am already in trouble. I bolt to a standing position and hand the box of wings to Kai’s mother.
“Don’t feed them, they’re like stray cats, if you feed them they’ll never leave.” Larry Feeble stands at the back door of the bar and shoos the mother and her little boy away. Little Kai looks over his shoulder, his lips are circled in ketchup, and his eyes are vacant. “I don’t give you an employee meal so you can waste it.” Acrid smoke slipped between Larry’s tobacco-stained teeth.
I bite my lips closed to silence the response bubbling in my throat. There is no point in arguing. Men like Larry have no idea what it’s like to be hungry.
I lift my chin and release my lips into a smile. It is the kind of smile that shouts, you’re an asshole on the inside, but when paired with a tilt of the head, it comes across as genuine gratitude. “Thanks for the meal.”
Kai is no more than five-years-old, but if his life doesn’t change soon, he’ll have to master that look to survive. The world is tough enough as it is, the poor kid doesn’t need to face it hungry.
Larry’s beer belly indicates that he’s never been hungry a day in his life.
“I found a nametag for you to wear.” He reaches below the roll of fat and into the soiled pocket of his jeans to pull out a plastic tag. The name Betty is written across it in bold, black letters.
“Betty?” I’ve been called many things in my life, but Betty was never one of them. “As in Paige?”
“This is a theme bar, sweetheart. You wear the wig. You wear the outfit. You wear the name.” He tosses his cigarette to the ground and stamps it out with his dime-store flip-flops. “Break’s over.”
It is nearing eight o’clock, the time Alana says things start hopping. When I reenter the bar, I find her stocking the liquor shelf with glasses, and bottles of tequila, and whiskey.
“You look great in dark hair.” She reaches up and tucks a stray hair back into the wig she loaned me. Hell, the whole outfit is borrowed. Everything from the siren red lipstick down to the pretty little heels that pinch my toes are hers. She supplied everything, even the job. “How’d you get all your hair into that wig?”
“Apparently, I didn’t.” I run my fingers around the netted edge to make sure there are no other escapees. “But what I did get into the cap is held up with a dozen or so bobby pins that are digging into my scalp. Maybe I should cut my hair?”
She gasps, “Don’t ever say that. You’re like Samson with that hair. Cutting it off would ruin your luck.”
“You’re right.” I shake my head and laugh. “Without bad luck, I’d have no luck at all.”
She plops her round tray on the bar in front of me. “I need two light beers and three shots of Jack.” She grabs a wad of napkins and stocks her tray. “Are you going be okay tonight?”
Beer and shots are easy, it’s the mixed drinks I worry about. I studied a bartender’s guide all week to learn the most commonly requested drinks, and since this is a forty’s themed bar, I studied up on cocktails like the Sidecar and the Manhattan—favorites from that era. “I got it, and if I don’t, I’ll use this.” I pull my phone from the side pocket of the ridiculous red polka dot dress. “Did you know there’s a mixology app?”
Alana shrugs. “Doesn’t surprise me. There seems to be an app for everything.”
“If only that was true. I wouldn’t be in the position I’m in now.” I can think of a few apps that could come in handy. An asshole detector app would be beneficial. One, that when placed in front of a man and activated, would scan his brain for attributes like sincerity, sense of humor, compassion. Hell, even scanning for brain activity could be useful. What about an app that rates bedroom skills? Manners? Intentions? There is a lot a girl can learn from the right app.
Alana looks around the room of testosterone mixed with a bit of estrogen. “I was talking about them.” She nods toward the room full of military guys.
I pull the tap and fill two frosted mugs. Pouring beer is an art form that requires the perfect amount of foam. I read that men are particular about the amount of head they receive. No surprise there.
“I don’t have to like them, I have to serve them.”
“You can’t judge all men by the misdeeds of a few.” Alana adjusts her breasts and pastes on a smile before she turns and heads toward the group of men standing by the jukebox. V-Day is perfectly located outside the gates of Hickam Air Force Base and Pearl Harbor, now a joint base. I thought that mixing the two services would be like kenneling a dog with a cat, but it seems to work out for everybody, especially Larry. He supplies the booze. The bases supply the soldiers and sailors. They supply the cash. Everyone is happy.
Off to the right, a group of sailors approach the bar. I don’t know if it is a sixth sense or what, but it is easy for me to tell the difference between services. Maybe it’s the gleam in their eyes or … it could be the anchor tattoo most of them sport. Sailors are rugged—grittier than flyboys. “What’s it going to be, boys?” I fold my arms under my chest and lift the girls, making them appear ready to topple over the low-cut n
eckline. Alana swears the way to an overflowing pocketbook starts with overflowing cleavage. By the bug-eye look of my newest patrons I have to agree.
“Tequila. Keep ‘em coming.” Four shot glasses line the counter in front the men. I carefully fill each to the mark so Larry doesn’t complain to me that I’m giving his bar away for free.
He hovered over me for the first hour of my shift. That was until Alana handed him a near empty scotch bottle and told him it was under control. He disappeared into his office only to reappear at the end of my break.
