He doesn't let me go, and we come to stillness with his fingers still on my clit and his cock still buried to the hilt. "That was..."
"Amazing," he finishes for me.
"I don't want to move."
The dark chuckle that comes from him leaves shivers on my skin. “There’s more where that came from, we just have to get out of here.”
We’re still entwined, and I’m very aware of how much he’s filling me up. “Any more awkward conversations we have to have before we can leave?”
He laughs again. “No, I think we’re in the clear.”
“Good.”
Slipping out of me, he gets another moan, and my arousal flares, because I want more. “Greedy?” he asks, mouth on my skin again.
“Yes,” I say, fixing my dress. “Yes. And fast.”
“Okay, I’ll get the car.”
I grab my bag from the hook off the door. “You need to wipe your mouth, and I need to fix my lipstick. But you leave first, and I’ll follow.”
“Good,” he says, but before I leave the stall he grabs me around the waist again and whispers in my ear. “I’m very happy we made up.”
“I want to make up more very quickly, so let’s get out of here.”
Peter laughs. “As you wish.”
He grabs a paper towel and quickly scrubs the signs of my lips on his away, and for the second time tonight I redo my lipstick, fixing the smudges on my skin and re-applying.
I kind of like the smudged look, if only because right now I like that I look mussed and tousled and like I just had sex. If it weren’t you know…for my career, I’d leave it and wear it proudly. I’m not sure that my sober self would agree, but I don’t care.
When my lipstick is in the best shape I can get it, I toss my hair a couple times and leave the bathroom. I nearly run into Clay who’s dancing on the edge of the crowd. He smiles at me, and I hope he didn’t see Peter exit the bathroom only minutes before. I should be worried about that, or ashamed that I just had sex in a bathroom, but I’m not.
I give him a wave and a smile and weave my way through the crowd towards the door. I make it through the restaurant and onto the street just as the car Peter called is pulling up—neither of us are in any shape to drive. He opens the door and helps me inside, and I’m waiting for him to get in, but he doesn’t. He whispers. “Give him my address,” and I understand. There are paparazzi here, and we can’t be seen getting into a car together drunk. This photo is just him putting me into a cab, and it will never make the papers.
I nod, “I’ll see you soon.”
Peter shuts the door, and I give the driver his address, practically counting down the seconds until I get there.
13
Peter
Past
Restaurant work is the same everywhere. Customers want the same kind of perfect service, your cheeks still ache from smiling, and it's just as utterly exhausting, even though this restaurant is in L.A. Somehow I thought that it might be different here, since this is the city of Angels and what I've wanted forever, I imagined being a waiter would be less of a slog. But it's okay, because I'm here. Half of my tiny, crappy, apartment is still in boxes and I have basically no money and no idea what I'm doing, but I'm here.
It was actually easier to move after my mom robbed me. I had way less stuff to move, and after that I couldn't stay. Aunt Lily was awesome and reached out to friends across the country to get me places to stay while I drove from coast to coast, everything I owned shoved into my car. She even gave me some money for the trip, though I told her that she didn't have to do that.
I found an apartment online and I slept for fifteen hours once I crashed there. But once I woke up, I started looking for jobs. If there's one thing I know, it's that people want attractive waiters and I'm not stupid—I know I'm not ugly. So that's why I'm waiting on tables right now, dead on my feet but with more tip money in my pocket than I ever had in Massachusetts. Even with the difference in cost of living, I'll be able to feed myself for more than a week just on the tips. That's good.
Walking back into the kitchen, I submit an order slip to the chef, and my manager comes out of her office and points. "You."
"Yeah?"
"Have you ever tended bar?"
I shake my head. "No, I haven't."
"You want to learn?"
The pay for bartenders is way better, and the tips too, I imagine. "Sure."
"Great," she says. "Come here."
I follow her into her office and she hands me some paperwork. "It's dumb but you have to fill out the papers again for a different position. What's your name again?"
"Peter."
She calls out of her office door. "Jackson, cover Peter's tables for a few minutes." There's a muffled response while I start filling out my information and my new address. "One of my bartenders just quit. I need a new one fast."
"Are you sure about me?" I ask, kicking myself for doing so. "There are people higher than I am, who probably have more experience."
"Most of my servers have been here long enough to like what they're doing. We get a lot of regulars here, and they know what to do to get good tips with those people. Besides, it’s good to have both male and female bartenders. Joan is great, she'll get your ass into shape, and a lot of women won't notice that their drink isn't perfect as long as you serve it with a smile on that pretty face."
I laugh. "So you're just using me for my body?"
"Basically," she smirks. "But you also said you'd prefer to work at night so you can go to auditions during the day. This works better for that."
"Thanks."
"No problem," she says. "Just don't suck, okay?"
"I'll do my best not to." I hand the papers back to her.
She flips through them to make sure that I didn't miss anything. "Don't take any more tables, and when you're done, go see Joan. She'll get you started with training so you're not completely drowning tomorrow."
"Will do."
"Oh, and Peter," she says as I stand and head for the door, "welcome to L.A."
"Thanks," I give her the kind of smile she hopes to see from me as a bartender and she laughs.
I wasn't expecting this, but it's great. This will work out way better for me and my schedule, and I think bartending will be fun. You're still serving, but there's less of a sense of obligation. I won't be groveling for tips the way you have to when waiting on a single table. It's better because people come to you, tell you what they want, and for the most part, that's the end of the transaction.
This isn't the kind of place they show in movies where the hero or heroine who's down on their luck comes in to spill their problems to the understanding bartender. No, this is an upscale place where the rich and sometimes the famous come to mingle. No one would dare shed a tear at the bar for fear that someone else would see and it would get around.
This is going to be perfect.