Chapter 16
Sixteen
CLOVER
The Following Weekend…
I can no longer deny that I have issues.
Maybe even serious issues.
Thankfully, an addiction to cigarettes isn’t one of them.
But that’s not going to stop me from taking a smoke break. Everyone else at The Wall takes at least three a shift, and I’m done losing out on break time because I’m one of the “good girls.”
Hell, I may be done being a “good girl.” Period.
What has being a good girl ever gotten me? Not much as far as I can tell.
It sure as hell hasn’t gotten me laid, I can tell you that.
“And then, he went right back to pretending we were just friends,” I say, sucking on my toothpick before exhaling a vigorous stream of white air into the February chill.
“That we’ve only ever been friends. And that his hand was never down my pants in a back hallway at a pizza place, while his kids played downstairs. ”
Tully, the other bartender on this deathly slow shift, gapes. “That’s insane.”
“I know, right?” I agree, jabbing my fake cigarette her way.
“You didn’t talk about it? Like…at all?”
I shake my head. “No! I tried to corner him on Monday, after snack time with the girls, but he suddenly had a burning need to buy a king cake before they were all sold out.”
Tully frowns. “But Mardi Gras isn’t until this coming Tuesday.”
“I know.”
“The cake will be stale by then,” she continues.
I nod. “Yes. Exactly.”
“You should go get another one on Monday,” she says, puffing on her own toothpick.
“Life’s too short for stale king cake. The bakery around the corner from here is great and always makes extras for people who didn’t pre-order.
Just be sure to get there early, so they don’t sell out before you get one. ”
“Thank you, but the king cake isn’t my main focus right now, Tulls,” I say, pinning her with a pleading look. “What am I going to do? I don’t want to be his friend. I want to do filthy things to him in trucks and hallways.”
She arches a wry brow. “Or you two could try a bed, you know. If he’s that good crammed in a truck cab or against a wall, imagine what he’s capable of on a horizontal surface with room to spread out and…devote himself to the work. You know what I mean?”
“Oh, I do. I really do. But I can’t let myself think about that too much,” I say, blowing out another puff of air smoke.
“I can’t, or I’ll do something crazy and ruin everything.
I can’t get fired. I really can’t. The girls need me, and…
I don’t know.” I sag against the loading dock’s brick wall.
“I think I need them, too. Turns out, I really love being their nanny.”
“Aw, that’s so sweet,” Tully says, her nose wrinkling as her upper lip curls on both sides.
Grinning, I ask, “Oh, yeah? Then why do you look like you just got a big whiff of doo-doo on your shoe?”
She laughs, tossing her long blond hair over her shoulder. “Okay, you got me. I can’t stand kids, at least not until they’re old enough not to be so loud, sticky and gross all the time. But I love that you love taking care of them. Someone has to like…raise the next generation and all that.”
I wave my toothpick through the air. “I’m not raising them. I’m the nanny.”
She cocks her head. “How is that different?”
I shrug. “I’m just…tending to them. Mentoring them. Helping them get through life and grow up right while their dad is at work or away at a game or whatever.”
“Sounds a lot like raising them to me, but what do I know?” she asks, before continuing in a pointed tone, “I was only raised by a nanny, who I still send Christmas cards every year.”
“You do?” I ask, the thought of getting a card from Ava or Bella when I’m old and gray doing something funny to my heart.
But it’s a happy kind of funny…I think.
Tully nods. “And Easter cards, because Nanny Carol is Polish, and Polish people are super into Easter for some reason. I mean, I know Zombie Jesus was born on that day and all, but they’re like really into it.
She sends me pictures from the Easter market in the village where she lives now.
It’s insane. Painted eggs as big as I am and tons of food and beer and dance parties.
” She shrugs and grins. “Seems pretty lit, actually. I may go party with her next year if I can save up the travel money.”
I grin. “Zombie Jesus. Is she appalled that you’re such a heathen?”
She rolls her eyes with a laugh. “Nah, Nanny Carol loves me just the way I am. Just like you love your girls.”
My girls…
They’re not my girls, they really aren’t, but…
Well, the thought of getting fired and never seeing them again makes me sad. Really sad. So sad that I’ve been able to resist cornering Dean in a linen closet and forcing him to let me return the orgasm favor for an entire week.
I don’t want to be forced to say goodbye to the girls.
I also can’t afford to go without a paycheck right now.
Thanks to gorgeous, always runway-ready Tully wearing one of my vintage jumpsuit designs around town, I’ve sold three more.
But the profit from three jumpsuits isn’t enough to keep me fed and housed.
And even if I could sell more, I’m not strong enough to sew full-time yet.
Just like I’m not strong enough to play bass full-time.
Even if my audition for the band Beatrice’s producer friend is putting together this spring goes perfectly, and I land the gig, will I be strong enough to keep up with the rest of my bandmates?
March is only a month away, and February is a short-ass month.
And it’s not like I’ve had many chances to practice playing for an actual audience recently, either. Last week, I had to bow out of playing Saturday night to take the girls to the game, and tonight, Victoria, The Dirt Bag’s usual bassist, is rocking out on stage while I man the bar.
If I strain a little, I can hear her through the loading dock door, nailing a Stevie Wonder cover…
She doesn’t sound like a woman who’s ready to leave the rock ‘n roll life behind, no matter how many times she’s insisted that juggling a nursing career, a two-year-old, and band life is too much for her overloaded nervous system.
The Dirt Bags have promised I’m first in line to take over for Victoria on bass if I don’t land another gig first but waiting for that to happen has become depressing.
I’m growing increasingly desperate for my “real grown-up life” to begin.
Between moving to New Orleans and starting over in a new city, then getting catastrophically injured right as my life was coming together, it feels like I keep drawing the Gingerbread card in Candy Land and getting sent back to the beginning.
But in better news, Candy Land is still as much fun as I remember. I look forward to playing with the girls on rainy days, when we can’t get outside to kick balls in the yard or bike down to the playground.
“I guess we should get back to it,” Tully says with a sigh. “Even though it’s dead as hell, and Emilio has been driving me fucking crazy.”
“Aw, he’s not so bad.” I have a soft spot for our cranky old boss. Probably because he reminds me of Mario from the video games I loved as a kid, both his name and his bushy moustache.
“Oh yeah?” Tully challenges. “I caught him picking his nose near the garnish station last night. As soon as he left, I replaced everything. Just in case. I refuse to serve my patrons booger cherries.”
I flick my toothpick into the ashtray by the door with a gagging sound. “Gross. Oh my God. Then yeah, we definitely need to get inside and guard the garnish.” I glance at my cell before tucking it into my pocket. “He comes in at ten, right?’
Tully drops her toothpick into the bin along with mine.
“Yes. Though I don’t know why. It’s not like he does anything except get in the way and make more work.
If he gets anywhere near my Bloody Mary mix, you have to help me fight him off, Clover.
Seriously. Last time he put so much jalapeno juice in there, he made the happy hour ladies cry.
” She heaves a tortured sigh as she drags a hand through her hair.
“You’re so lucky you only work here once a week.
Any more, and you’d be anti-Emilio, too.
And I swear, the tips have been so shitty lately. ”
Humming sympathetically as we head inside, I make a mental note of yet another reason I want to keep my nanny job.
I’m really enjoying no longer being at the mercy of the feast and famine cycle of the tip-reliant American worker.
I get a paycheck every Friday—a very generous one, especially on weeks when Dean has an away game, or I have to work on Saturday or Sunday.
The overtime pay is sweet, the girls and I have a great time during “Clover night” sleepovers, and I’m healing so much better now that I’m able to give my body more grace and not be on my feet as much.
One would think that all that goodness would be more than enough to make up for the sexual-tension-induced awkwardness with Dean.
And it is…
Usually.
And surely, it will get easier with time.
It has to get easier, or I’m going to have to seek out anti-horniness therapy to keep from losing my mind.
As we slide back behind the bar, The Dirt Bags launch into the last song in their set with their original banger, “Matriarchy Now, Motherfuckers.” We relieve Faye, the cocktail waitress who’s been guarding the liquor in our absence, and refill the beers of two regulars, before lifting our arms in the air and dancing along.
At the end of the song, the crowd breaks into applause loud and long enough to make the band run back onstage for another bow before the DJ takes over.
It’s a slow night, but at least the patrons who are here are enthusiastic.
Especially the woman at the far end of the bar, tears shining in her eyes as she shouts, “That’s right, Dirt Bags! Matriarchy now, motherfuckers!”
The handsome, oddly familiar man beside her winces, patting her back before leaning in to whisper in her ear.