The Trouble With Quarterbacks(5)

I stood up to show her all of what I have to offer, confident she was selling me short. Though…as stray popcorn bits fell from my lap onto the floor, I realized maybe she did have a point. The TV remote fell out of my lap too—right on my toe. I winced and did a good bit of yelping and hopping around until I felt I had my pain better under control.

“Yasmine, look at me,” I finally said, walking to the end of our tiny living room then posing like I was at the end of a catwalk. “There isn’t a man on earth who’s out of my league.”

“You’ve got a bit of wine on your pajamas there,” Kat noted, deadpan.

I looked down at my oversized t-shirt, which matched the ones they were wearing. We grabbed them in a gift shop on Coney Island as a total joke. It stretches all the way to my knees and features a caricature of a woman’s body in a bikini top and bottom. The way it’s cut, it makes it look like it’s my body.

“I don’t see it.”

“There. Right near your left boob.”

Ah yes.

I dabbed at the stain with my thumb, but it didn’t budge. Old, probably.

“Chocolate too, just there,” Yasmine joined in. “Does anything actually make it into your mouth?”

I smiled wolfishly at them. “Oh yes.”

This is when—and I’m not proud of it, per se—I mimed a sort of blow job bit. They both rolled laughing, knowing I was totally full of it. Just like my nether regions, my mouth hasn’t seen any action in quite a while.

“Anyway, ladies, I feel bad—I do. I’ll have to break my lease when he whisks me off to some fairytale island to have his wicked way with me, but do send on my mail, won’t you?”

Yasmine whacked me in the head with a pillow from across the room, which is quite impressive because she’s the least athletic out of all of us.

Unfortunately, her pillow didn’t do the trick.

I’m still thinking about Logan tonight, days later, while I work at District. I’m at the bar, waiting for the bartender to finish making drinks for one of my tables.

In the meantime, I’m picking a little red paint off my left thumb. It’s evidence of the volcano I started constructing for another science lesson back at the flat before I had to rush here for my shift.

“It’s not fair. You look adorable in this outfit. I swear to god, my breasts are one deep breath away from tumbling right out for everyone to see.”

I glance over at the new girl standing beside me, the one talking. She only started here a few days ago, and she’s really struggling with catching on to things. I swear she whinges on about something new every five seconds.

Why do they have to keep it so dark in here? I’m going to trip down these stairs!

What’s with these slow-ass bartenders?

Are you getting good tips? Mine have been total shit all night.

This job is not hard. Take drink orders. Deliver said orders. Smile. Collect the tips.

“Do I look okay?” she asks, turning to me so I can assess her. “I feel like I look horrible in this uniform. Does the shirt have to be so tight?”

“You look great,” I say with an encouraging nod and a thumbs-up, more than a little relieved when the bartender finishes loading drinks onto my tray.

“Thanks, Roger!” I say, sending him a quick friendly wink before quickly turning away from New Girl.

“Roger, does this shirt look like it fits me?” she asks, looking to him for input now.

Oh dear. Poor Roger. But better you than me, mate! I sprint as fast as I can away from the bar while keeping my drinks from spilling off my tray.

District is packed to the gills tonight. It’s Friday, and the city is out in full force. I’m waiting on a few tables near the VIP section. They’ve all arrived within the hour, very thirsty and very demanding, but I handle it like a champ. The ladies are here to celebrate a friend’s promotion at work and have very exact drink orders (shaken, not stirred—that sort of thing), but my memory doesn’t fail me, and when I load up their table with Roger’s cocktails, they squeal with glee.

“Candace, these drinks are perfect!” the leader tells me before turning to her friends so they can all clink their glasses together. “Before you go, would you mind taking our picture?”

I happily oblige. The shit lighting in here means all their flaws (of which there are barely any) will totally disappear in the photographs. They’ll look slightly out of focus and decadent in this posh setting.

“Smile, girls!” I prod, holding the mobile up to snap a photo. I go ahead and take ten more—because someone will whinge about their eyes being half-closed in the first, no doubt—and then I pass back the mobile. They all lean in to get a good look at the screen.

“It’s perfect!” one declares.

I smile and promise to be back to check on them soon before making my way to my next table. It’s a group of lads here to celebrate a bachelor party, and they’ve been quite rowdy since they arrived. Very macho, very reminiscent of a herd of male peacocks.

They’re the closest you can be to VIP without actually being in it, and when I wander over, they’re talking extremely loudly about a guest sitting up on level two behind the red rope.

“That’s definitely him! I think I know a Super-Bowl-winning quarterback when I see one.”

“All you could see was the back of his head when he walked by, dipshit. It could be anyone!”