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Ihaven’t heard from Reed in three days. Not since I snuck out of his apartment at the crack of dawn with my dignity in my handbag.
I hope he’s taken the hint and decided to leave me alone.
I’ve been working like crazy the last couple of days.
I played at a wedding on Saturday night, and then I sang for a senior-living home on Sunday afternoon. I took a last-minute job performing at a bar mitzvah in Brooklyn yesterday morning, and last night I trudged all the way down to the financial district to play background for a retirement party.
Tonight, I’m playing at a bar closer to home, just around the corner really, and surprisingly enough the pay isn’t all that bad. It’s actually pretty decent. Blood money would be my best guess. But I’m not complaining, and I’m also packing pepper spray, so all ends up it should be a good night.
I haven’t thought about Reed once since I left him passed out on his couch. I swear I haven’t. I haven’t thought about the way his eyes locked onto mine outside his bedroom door and never wavered. I haven’t thought about the way his fingers brushed against my hip or the way his warm breath tickled my neck when he spoke to me.
Nope, none of those things.
Pushing through the swing door at the front of the bar, I find the place already packed with rowdy patrons and I have to weave my way through crowds of drunken men in Jet’s jerseys who are hurling abuse at television screens situated all around the room.
There’s gum on the floor and tequila fills my senses when I walk toward the bar.
It’s really loud and there are people smoking everywhere, stealing the breath from my lungs.
There’s a big muscular guy working the bar, and when I ask him where I’m supposed to be, he tells me to head out back and one of the waitresses will show me where I can set up for the night. I don’t have a good feeling about this place. The money might be good, but something just isn’t sitting well with me.
Call it a woman’s intuition.
I take another look around the dimly lit space, at the muscled guys with alcohol-enhanced opinions of themselves, and then head behind the bar toward the staff room.
Voices hit me as soon as I step through the door, and I look up and notice two waitresses standing in front of a mirror, fixing their hair and reapplying their makeup.
They’re wearing short black skirts, with black fishnet stockings and sky-high stilettoes… and… oh wow… nothing else. The voluptuous women are topless and I think I’m starting to get a feel for the appeal of this place. No wonder they’re six deep at the bar.
Football and boobs. What’s not to love about that?
“Hey, hun,” says one of the waitresses. She turns to look at me andholy heavens abovethis woman doesn’t have so much as a tan line. She bounces when she walks. “Judging by the guitar, you must be the entertainment tonight.”
“Uh, yeah…”
“You can change out of your clothes over there. Lenny will leave your check in an envelope with your name on it by the front door.” She smiles sweetly at me, her nipples like a glitter ball catching the light. Giving me the once over, she adds, “There’s body gel on the sink, but just remember to pop the cap on once you’re done.”
“No, I –”
“You’re not Lenny’s usual type, but good luck out there tonight, hun.” With a flick of her platinum blonde hair and her perky breasts swaying gracefully–totally putting my mediocre-sized boobage to shame–she slinks from the room and walks back through the door I just came through.
The crowd beyond the thin wall instantly goes wild, whistling and cheering. They obviously like what they see, and why wouldn’t they? Those were some damn fine areolas.
But unfortunately for the men on the other side of that wall, mygirlswill be staying exactly where they are, thank you very much. I have no plans of taking my gear off, and I’ll be voicing my opinion on that matter rather vehemently once I find Lenny to tell him he really ought to be more specific in his voice mails.
Pulling my phone out of my back pocket to listen to it once more, just in case I somehow misconstrued the words‘play a couple of sets’with something that sounds even remotely like‘flash your tits to a roomful of strangers’when I see I have an unread text message.
Reed: Hi. Got a night off. Up for the next episode?
Fluttery hormones tear through me, and I know I shouldn’t be so roused by one text message, but when I didn’t hear from him after sneaking out of his apartment, I figured he was kind of pissed off at me.
I tap out a reply and hit send.
Me: That’s how you want to spend your night off?
Reed: Yes. Come over.
Me: I can’t.
