I pull away and look up at him, frustrated by how he can read me like the back of his hand.
“I hate you sometimes,” I say bitterly.
But even with my tone, the moment he looks at me, he knows I don’t mean it. Those freakin’ eyes of his have hypnotized me out of my better judgment—and my clothes—since I’ve known him. They tend to see right through me.
“I know,” he says before pulling me into one of his intoxicating kisses that make me feel as if I’m floating.
He carries me inside to our bed. This is what he does, after all. He’s the master of manipulation, the king of allure. He knows me inside and out—and probably better than I know myself. That I allowed that to happen at all was my first mistake. My second was falling in love with him. But how could I resist someone so irresistible? How could I run away from something that had already caught me? That’s what happened to me. I was caught before I even knew I was being hunted, and by the time I realized it, it was far too late.
He has me addicted, and that’s how he wants it. How the hell did I let this happen?
April 15th, 2008
April 15th, 2008
Sometimes, days at work can be fun and easy. Other days can suck, and today is a day that sucks.
“So that’ll be two vodka tonics, a Long Island Iced Tea, and four beers?” I ask, trying to hear over the pulsating music that comes with the territory of waitressing at one of the hottest nightspots in Chicago.
The Vault—where the music is always loud, the drinks aren’t watered down, and you’re guaranteed to catch a glimpse of the hottest celebrity in town. Still, after six months, I haven’t adjusted to it. Initially, waitressing was going be a part-time thing, only for a couple of weeks. Slowly, weeks turned into a couple of months, and here I am at six months and counting.
Not that I’m complaining. The tips are great, and I get paid pretty well. I’m now used to what I call “after-hours” people. They’re your classmates, coworkers, and relatives—but in their sluttiest clothing, three times more makeup, and drunker than you’ve ever seen. Most girls would kill for this job. I know for a fact the waiting list for an interview is about a mile long.
Still, I can’t help feeling tired of it. It’s better than working at a fast food restaurant, but the atmosphere is intoxicating. I’ve seen so many girls swept away by it in my short time here. I’m thankful I haven’t fallen prey.
“Can you have one of the beers poured in a glass with extra ice?” the girl at the table I’m serving asks weakly.
“No problem.” I give her a reassuring smile.
“I swear to God, you are such a little priss sometimes,” her friend announces loudly for everyone to hear.
Obnoxious bitch. My customer’s skin flushes bright pink, and I feel sorry for her; if I weren’t working, I’d be her. God knows I’ve had enough obnoxious friends in my lifetime.
“Are you guys hiring?” the guy sitting with them asks. A question I get asked five times a night.
“I know we’re looking for another bartender. My manager’s name is Ryan. Call tomorrow afternoon. His assistant takes calls then and can set up an interview if you have experience.”
“Cool! Thanks,” he says, his excitement apparent.
“You must love working here. Good music, hot guys, and you get to dress up every night. Very cute shoes, by the way,” O.B. adds.
“It’s okay.” I shrug and walk away.
Truth of the matter is, the cute shoes kill my feet every night. Dressing up was fun until they implemented the butt-crawling shorts that became mandatory. But it pays well and college tuition isn’t cheap. I squeeze through the crowd and head to the bar area. My friend Steven, the bartender, is standing with my ex, Michael—Mr. Worst Mistake of My Life. I slide my drink slip over and count down the minutes to when my feet will get to rest.
“It’s really packed in here tonight, isn’t it?” Michael yells to me over the music.
Our relationship didn’t exactly end on friendly terms. In fact, this is the first time I’ve even contemplated responding to him since our breakup two months ago. The best I can do is remain civil, but it’s so hard.
“When isn’t it packed in here?” I reply abruptly.
Well, I said I’d be civil; I didn’t say polite. His smile drops. It’s not as if he needs me to be nice to him. He has enough women being nice to him. In fact, the reason we broke up was because I caught him in the storage room, being too nice to some girl.
“Hey, Lauren. You look like you could use a break.” My friend Angie comes to the rescue as she hands her drink slip to Steven.
“A break? More like a vacation.” I chuckle, taking the tray full of drinks.
My customer “Extra Ice” is the only one sitting at the table now. Her expression looks less than jovial. I smile, hoping to lift her spirits a bit.
“Here are your drinks,” I say, setting them down.
“Thank you,” she replies, taking the glass of ice. She pours her beer over it, glancing up at me. “I’m probably the first person you’ve seen do this.” She laughs then sighs. “It seems all my friends have abandoned me for the dance floor,” she explains, probably afraid of offending me. “What a great birthday this turned out to be.” She takes a sip of her beer.
“Happy birthday!” I say, probably a little bit too enthusiastically. “This one’s on the house.”
“Thank you.” She lifts her glass and goes back to getting acquainted with her drink.
I know the feeling of being in a place you’d rather not be. Anyway, it’s sometimes better not to think about it. I head back over to the bar. My watch informs me I have two hours left, which might as well be an eternity. It’s strange how I can be so bored in such an exciting atmosphere. Maybe it has to do with the fact that I’m always in this atmosphere. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Michael flirting with a petite redhead. He’s always flirting with a petite something. I was the petite brunette. I can’t believe I still care who he’s flirting with; maybe care is the wrong word—irritated. I’m irritated by the fact he’s flirting with other women.
“Hey, L.” Angie pinches my side and slides another drink slip to Steven, who passes it to Michael since he’s standing there being worthless. “Don’t take a second look,” she whispers in my ear.
I realize I must have been staring.
“Hey, Mikey, why don’t you stop chatting and actually do some work since you’re here?”
He shoots Angie a sarcastic smile and saunters over to us. “Nice to see you too.” He looks over her slip but passes it back to Steven.
“Hey, Lauren, look what I have for you!” Trish, another waitress, shouts, holding up a Long Island Iced Tea and showcasing it to me.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Compliments of a gentleman from VIP.” She grins, handing the glass to me.
I set it down. I make it a habit not to accept drinks from guys while working.
“Ooh, VIP. Now you have to take it,” Steven teases me with a wink.
“Isn’t it a bad policy to accept drinks from customers?” Michael butts in.