Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
Sophia
Ava: I love you.
Ava: Just think about the day that you’re finally out.
Ava: :*
I play my best friend’s text messages over and over again in my head while Nash gives me a ‘pep talk’ about my shift tonight.
It’s presented as an inspirational conversation, but what it really is is a warning; the final straw, telling me that I’ve skated one too many times on ice too thin and one more screw up will be my last.
“So, sweetheart,” Nash croons, hooking his finger under the strap of my bodysuit. “Are you going to be able to behave yourself for us tonight?”
Fighting back the disgust forcing its way up my throat, I nod my head. “Yes, Nash. I won’t let you down again.”
My stomach churns as his hand trails over my jaw and down to my shoulder, but I don’t let it show.
Nash Montgomery is the prime example of looks not being everything.
He’s a good-looking guy; hot even, like Henry Cavill’s Superman with a neatly trimmed and styled beard, but his personality cancels out his good genetics within five seconds of his mouth opening.
The man is a slimeball wrapped in gold and Versace.
“Get up there, then,” he tells me, “and greet your customers.”
“Of course.”
Throwing him the fakest smile that I can muster, I reach for my tray and a stack of menus, tucking both under my arm while I head up the stairs and into my section for the night.
It’s a group of regulars tonight; older guys, usually respectful enough and relatively hands-off until they order a house special.
I spend a few hours with them, flirtatiously tossing my newly-blonde hair over my shoulder, servings drinks, pouring drinks into their mouths and letting them take shots from between my breasts, laughing at their crappy – and almost always a little bit offensive – jokes.
I join them for a few drinks, which I’m not really supposed to do, and I serve one of them off of the HOUSE SPECIALS menu.
The entire time that I’m with him in that room, I think about him dying.
I’m not a violent person; I can’t even bring myself to squish a bug, most of the time, but it helps sometimes to think about bad things happening to these guys.
To picture his head getting smashed in with a steel beam or his leg getting chopped to bits by a boat propeller, instead of opening my eyes and watching his face while he moves inside of me.
It’s better to pretend.
·
“Pizza’s ready,” Ethan tells me. “Do you want a slice, babe?”
“Two please.”
I didn’t really mean to wind up in a relationship, it wasn’t anything that I planned to do and I didn’t really want one, I don’t think; but Ethan and I saw each other almost every day after our coffee and dinner dates, and when I told him about my job, he didn’t run.
I try not to take it personally that we haven’t slept together more than twice since I told him about what I do.
Maybe a part of me is glad about it.
I settle into Ethan’s couch, grabbing one of the throw pillows and curling it against my body while I channel surf, looking for something for us to watch.
This is how we spend most nights together, in front of the TV eating a reheated meal.
I don’t mind it. Sometimes the quiet nights at home are nice after the chaos of working in a nightclub, but.
..sometimes, I miss the excitement that I had in Mexico.
Eric’s face pops into my mind, pulling memories to the surface of our time together, and damn it it if it isn’t just the excitement that I miss from Mexico, but the guy, too.