Colorado 02 Sweet Dreams (4 page)

“Are we talking vomit?” I asked because I had to admit, I was not a vomit person.

“Vomit, piss, shit anything a body can produce, I’ve had to clean it up.”

I felt my eyes get big and I asked, “Anything?”

“Girl, this is a biker bar. Those boys get randy, they need to get off and they don’t care much where they get them some. And girls who hang with bikers care even less.”

“Wow,” I whispered.

“So, you got a problem with that?” she repeated.

I looked at her and straightened my spine. “You can get used to anything, right?”

She stared at me a second then mumbled, “Right,” and she took me back front and showed me how to use the cash register. She finished with, “You’ll have a float in your apron and you’ll figure your own way to keep tabs on what you’re sellin’ and what’s in your apron. Me, Bubba, Dalton or Tate will cash you out, take your float and our take and do the reconcile, leavin’ you with your tips.” She gave me a hard look. “It’d be in your best interest to keep on top a’ that. It gets busy, you’ll be bustin’ your hump to earn those tips. I ain’t sayin’ any of us’ll fuck you over. I’m just sayin’ you need to look out for yourself. And you fuck up on a transaction, that’s your gig. You sell what you sell, you track it, we track it, it all don’t jive, it comes outta your tips. You won’t use the register much but you should know your way around.”

I nodded, she studied me as if thinking it wasn’t sinking in due to the fact that middle-class women were incapable of selling a beer, making change and keeping track due to their middle-class nature then she shrugged as if it was all the same to her.

She showed me the complicated, three sink procedure of how to wash glasses, where empty bottles went and told me that bartenders did most of the washing but if things were busy, the waitresses were expected to pitch in where they could. She gave me a paper with a list of drinks and snacks (they sold bags of potato chips, pork rinds and peanuts) and their prices.

“Memorize that, soon’s you can,” she ordered then crossed her arms under her tank top covered bosoms (another Harley tank, this one white with very cool silver, red and black lettering) and looked me in the eye. “We get trouble, Lauren and it isn’t infrequent like. Boys come in here, get blitzed, act stupid. Some of ‘em got knives, all of ‘em got fists. You sense trouble, you tell me, Bubba, Tate or Dalton and you stay clear.”

I wasn’t happy with the cleaning up of vomit and anything else a body can produce part of the job description but men with knives was taking it to a new level.

Though I also had to admit to some concern that she’d want me to tell her. She was four inches shorter than me and at least fifty pounds lighter. She had no business wading into a knife fight, or
any
fight.

I decided to focus on the latter.

“Tell you?” I asked.

“Me,” she answered.

“But, shouldn’t I get a man –?”

“I been around the block, girl, and this is my fuckin’ bar. It’s been my fuckin’ bar for five years. You think I can’t sort out trouble?”

“Um… you’re five foot five and weigh about a hundred pounds,” I informed her of a fact she likely knew (though I was being nice about the weight consider her behind and cleavage).

“I’m smart, fast but that don’t matter since I know where we keep our shotgun,” she replied. “Even wasted, men stop fightin’ quick when they got a loaded shotgun aimed at ‘em.” She pointed across the room to the wall where there were a bunch of visible pockmarks in the wood. “Buckshot. Mine. Round these parts it’s not only known that I know where the shotgun is but that I know how to use it and someone messes around in my bar, I
will
.”

I nodded again wondering why I was undeterred by the variety of craziness she was telling me and standing there listening to her rather than saying, “Thanks… but, um, I think I’ll just be leaving.

Instead, I said, “Okay.”

“All right,” she replied and the door opened.

We both turned to look and when I saw who came in I stopped breathing.

It was the Harley Guy from last night at the hotel. Even though I hadn’t seen his face straight on, I knew it was him. And I was right. He was sensational straight on.

He was tall, maybe taller than he seemed in the parking lot or maybe he just seemed bigger in the bar since his shoulders were so broad. But his hips were lean and his legs were long, his thighs obviously powerfully muscled and I could tell that even through his jeans. His dark brown hair gleamed even in the dull light of the bar. It was thick and it was clear he washed it and let it fall where it lay for the part was natural and not straight, it was swept back but some of it fell around his temples and curled a bit around his ears and at the back of his neck. His eyes looked dark, I couldn’t tell the color but there were sun lines emanating from the sides that were attractive. His brow was heavy; his nose wasn’t perfect but it was straight with a slight bump at the top of the bridge that made it interesting; his cheekbones were cut and his jaw was strong. His skin was tanned in a way where I knew he didn’t get that color lounging by a pool and he was wearing faded jeans, black motorcycle boots and a heathered-gray-blue, long-sleeved, skintight, thermal Henley.

He was beautiful.

“Hey Tate,” Krystal called and I turned woodenly to her.

Okay, maybe Krystal was right earlier, I hadn’t seen “Tate” yet (though I had, I just didn’t know it and thought his name was Jackson) and if this was Tate then I definitely wanted to get laid by him. Definitely.

Though a man like that who could get a girl like Neeta wouldn’t even look at me and he could, he already had Neeta but hell, he could get anyone.

I turned back to Tate to find I was wrong. He was close, stopped at the side of the bar where there was an opening. I saw his eyes were dark brown and they were on me.

“Who’s this?” he asked, his voice deep and a bit rough. He didn’t take his eyes off me and, like Krystal, he looked like he was in a bad mood.

“This is Lauren, our new girl,” Krystal answered.

I opened my mouth to say hello when he spoke.

“
Lauren?
” he asked and his tone was scathing. Downright scathing. And his face had gone from making him look like he was in a bad mood to sheer and utter contempt.

I felt my body automatically get tight.

“Yeah, Lauren, she’s –” Krystal started but he interrupted her.

“Talk,” he growled and then turned down the hall.

Krystal looked at me. “Check the fridges.” She pointed to a bunch of glass-fronted, half fridges at the back of the bar. “See what we need to stock up and go to the storeroom. Put the new ones in the back, the old ones in the front.” She handed me her set of keys and followed Tate down the hall.

I waited a second because I was recovering from that strange scene and wondering why all these people took an instant dislike to me. Krystal hired me which was good but she wasn’t exactly welcoming even through training. And Tate, well…

I shook this feeling off as just my inexperience of biker folk. Maybe they were a close knit group and you had to prove yourself. I could do that. I hadn’t waitressed since I was a cocktail waitress at a dinner theater during my summers in college but it couldn’t be difficult to pick it up again. I was a hard worker. As far as I could remember, my entire work life I’d called in sick once when I got the ‘flu. I hated being late and never was. In fact, usually I was early. Once they got to know me, I told myself, they’d like me.

I walked down the hall and the door was closed to the office. I nearly made it to the storeroom when I heard Tate’s raised voice.

“Jesus, Krys, maybe you wanna talk to me before you hire some sorry-ass, old, fat, suburban bitch to drag around our goddamned bar?”

I stopped and had to put a hand to the wall to hold myself up.

Sorry-ass, old, fat, suburban bitch.

That beautiful man’s words ricocheted around my head causing damage that was so excruciating I knew the way it was inflicted it would never,
never
heal.

Then my body jolted and I rushed to the storeroom, found the key on the fourth try and went in, flipping on the light switch and closing the door behind me.

Then I leaned in and put my forehead to it.

Okay, I was forty-two not exactly a spring chicken. Okay, I wasn’t svelte by a long shot and had a body that just couldn’t
be
svelte and never would even if I tried (though I could stand to take off a few pounds, or more than a few). But I wasn’t sorry-ass. And I’d lived in suburbia but I’d never liked it, I just told myself for Brad, because I loved him, that I did. But it wasn’t me and the minute I got my chance, I left.

And forty-two wasn’t eighty-five. I was over twenty years away from retirement. That was hardly
old
.

Not everyone could be gorgeous, like him. Not everyone could have fantastic bone structure, like him. Not everyone could have thick, gorgeous hair, like him. Not everyone could have a beautiful body, like him. Most of that (maybe not the body, because that would take work) he inherited from his parents! He was just lucky! Not everyone was that lucky, especially not me.

What a jerk!

“Fuck him,” I whispered and then pressed my lips together because I didn’t like to swear. Then, out of my control, I whispered, “Fuck Krystal too.”

I turned and stared at the shelves filled with bottles of liquor, crates of beer and wine, kegs lined up the walls, boxes of potato chips and huge plastic wrapped rolls of toilet paper and I realized that I didn’t take stock of what I needed before I went in there.

Whatever.

Whatever!

This was my life as I wanted to lead it. This was the place I wanted to live it. I’d been on the road driving through towns and cities looking for what I needed and after four and a half months, this was the only place that felt right. And Bubba’s felt right too, even though it wasn’t much and the people weren’t nice, it still felt right.

And I didn’t care if they didn’t like me. I didn’t care if they didn’t think I was one of them. I didn’t care that my jeans cost twice as much as theirs and my t-shirt was designer and they saw it, knew it and didn’t like it.

Fuck them. Both of them.

I walked out of the storeroom and back into the bar. I found a sheet of paper, took stock of what was needed and went back to the storeroom to search through the shelves and find it. I was on trip three and squatted down rotating bottles of Bud and Coors Light when I heard them come back.

I sucked in breath and looked up and when I did I looked right at Tate. When my eyes caught his, I watched his face change sharply and it did this with a small head jerk and wince.

He knew I’d heard him and at least that jerk had the good grace to react.

I put in the last bottles, stood, pushed the fridge door to and walked toward them both, saying, “One more trip and re-stock should be done. I made notes of what I took and I’ll mark it on your clipboard. Then I’ll wipe down the tables.”

Then I walked by them, down the hall and into the storeroom.

Fuck them.

Both of them.

I had a job to do.

Chapter Three

Shake It Off

I walked out of my hotel room and the door closed behind me.

“Hey hon,” Betty called. “That’s a pretty top.”

I turned to Betty to see she had a hose and was doing her morning watering of the flowers. She had on a sundress, a light cardigan and hot pink Crocs. Her hair was dyed a very flaming red and was pulled back in a ponytail. Her legs had a hint of tan I guessed because she was often out watering her flowers or cleaning the pool or sweeping the walkways or cleaning the cool deck around the pool with a blast from the hose and I noticed she was always in a sundress.

I was on day four in Carnal just about to start day three of my job at Bubba’s.

I hadn’t been wrong, it wasn’t hard to pick up but then again the traffic in the bar was light. During the day it was mostly Jim-Billy and a few drifters. It started to get busier around five and by the time I left at seven thirty (the first day because Tonia had been late coming in) and seven twenty (the second day because Jonelle had been late) it was going on really busy. The hardest part was remembering what everything cost and making change on the fly. I’d screwed up my float the first day and because of that went home with fifteen dollars worth of tips. I’d learned quickly the next day and told my customers I was new and took my time and luckily they didn’t seem to mind. I still went home with only twenty-three dollars worth of tips. The day shift seriously wouldn’t cut it if I actually had to make a living at this.

Luckily, I had my share of what Brad and I made off the house plus me selling everything I owned in an “everything must go” yard sale before I got the heck out of The Horizon Summit housing development where Brad and I had lived for five years (the five years he was screwing Hayley). We had a huge house with four bedrooms and three and a half baths and a yard that a man named Juan-Carlos, who had seven thousand Mexican men working for him, tended. We had Juan-Carlos because all our friends used Juan-Carlos and we did what all our friends did. I also had a girl named Griselle who cleaned my house because everyone used Griselle and her sister Alicia. This wasn’t my choice, it was Brad’s. He said people like us had cleaning ladies. But I kind of liked cleaning. It was one thing I could do where I could see the results and I used to put on music and not even think about what I was doing, just fade into the music and move around my house and clean. Cleaning my house, weirdly, was the only time I liked to be in it. Then Griselle came and, well, that was that.

I wasn’t loaded but I had a significant nest egg. Then again, I might want to buy a house in Carnal eventually and would need money to set that up with furniture and the like and the money I had wouldn’t last forever. I couldn’t make it on twenty-three dollars a day plus the terrible hourly rate I got. I was going to have to step things up somehow.