Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
I did what any normal person would do. I wore the face of someone who could care less. I had zero fucks to give, and I was all good. On the inside, though, I was a mess. Everyone around me kept on ticking, being their successful selves. I was jobless, had mastered sulking, and moved back home. I was what you called winning at losing. In short, I was a loser.
Fast forward a few months, and I found myself at Bev’s, a dive bar at the end of town. I’d gotten suckered into some blind date that never showed—his loss, obviously—and ended up sticking around for a pity drink. That’s when I met Mindy. She was the bartender that night and has since become my best friend. Her tattoos are statement pieces she wears proudly. Her hair is bright pink, and she’s absolutely gorgeous. Her best assets, though, are her amazing boobs, leading to her other job in adult films. She’s not the type I would have ever associated myself with, but that night, after too many shots, she became my savior.
The next day, I woke up with a hangover from hell and a number written in marker on my arm. Sadly, I had to piece together my night to remember it wasn’t from a guy, but in the end, I was thankful. At some point, Mindy must have told me about an open bartending position. Highly intoxicated, I jumped behind the bar to make some drinks. Kitchen or bar, it all works the same. I could memorize any recipe and create it. Apparently, they hired me on the spot.
It wasn’t any Coyote Ugly, but damn, it was exactly what I’d needed—mind-numbing. When you know a craft, you know a craft, and my newfound mixology skills were right up there with my culinary talent. I could give Tom Cruise a run for his money. Ultimately, it kept me distracted from my failures. Cooking who? I was happy. Content.
Until my mother decided she had other plans for me, bringing us to my current debacle.
“It doesn’t matter. Tomorrow, I need you to get up and shower. And preferably not smell like booze. I got you a job interview.”
My ears perk, and I sit up, swaying. “You did? Which restaurant?”
“Honey, it’s not a—”
“Just tell me. Is it middle of the road? It’s fine. I’ll take it. I can work my way—”
“Honey.”
“Tell them I can give a full presentation—”
“Fable—”
“I’ll even start for free—”
“Fable! It’s an executive administrative position.”
My enthusiasm dies, along with my willingness to work for free. “Wait, what?”
“Your Aunt Marlena called in a favor for you. A woman from her church said her daughter works for this terrific real estate investment company, and the CEO is in dire need of an assistant.”
“Well, I hope he finds one. I’m not—”
“In the position to argue. You need a job, Fay.”
“I have a job.”
“No, you have a distraction. The bar is your way of avoiding life. Your culinary ambitions didn’t work out, and that’s okay! We don’t love you any less, but you need to get back out there and get a job.”
“Again, I have a job.”
“Again, you have a distraction. Listen—your father and I love you very much.”
“But. . .” There’s always a but.
“But you need to pull it together. You’re twenty-three. You need to get passed this setback and get back out there.”
“I tried. Look where it got me.”
“We didn’t raise you to be a quitter. It’s time you got a real job and earned your way.” She pauses, then says, “Plus, your father and I have plans. Things we’ve wanted to do. We thought you would be out on your own by now.”
One inquisitive brow rises, and I cross my arms over my chest as I stare back at my mother. “What are you getting at?”
She shifts from foot to foot. “We found you an interview, so it’s time to suck it up. . . and, well, consider moving out.”
***
The. Audacity.
Telling me I need to suck it up? I have sucked it up. I got back on the horse and found a job. It might be at a dive bar working ’til three in the morning most nights serving the thirsty patrons of America, but it’s still a job! I show up, get paid, and have responsibilities!
I also threw up in my parents’ driveway two nights ago. Damn Jäger shots. The point is, I’m still fragile. Hiding away at night is what’s best for me right now. Certainly not being an assistant to some old man who probably smells like mold in a stuffy office and—never mind. No need to keep dramatizing this.
My phone vibrates in my purse, and I grab it, Mindy’s name rolling across my screen. “Hey.”
“You go in yet?”
“About to walk in. Did you know pantyhose comes in seventeen different flesh colors?”