Fumbled (Playbook #2)(2)

“Go!” She pulls as hard as she can. Which, unfortunately for me, is much stronger than I was bracing for and I go flying.

Face first.

With the reaction time of a sloth.

Of. Course.

I say nothing when I hit the ground. I just lie there, unmoving, taking inventory of my face. Running my tongue along my teeth, all still there. Feeling for the wetness of blood dripping from my nose, all dry. Everything is intact.

Well, everything except my right breast.

And my pride.

But I lost that years ago.

“Holy crap,” I moan. “I never thought I’d ever in my life say this, but thank God for thigh-highs.” A pile of the lacy little buggers saved my face!

And then I hear it.

Sadie’s self-control has left the room.

“Why didn’t I have my camera on?” she manages to get out through her peals of laughter. “You should have seen your face going down.”

She does her best slo-mo replay for me, complete with openmouthed horror and wide-eyed fear.

“I kind of hate you right now.” I fight my own smile. I’m secretly also bummed she didn’t catch it on camera. I know it makes me seem like a nine-year-old, but watching people fall is a favorite pastime of mine . . . even when it’s me. “You pushed me.”

“That’s what happens when you ask someone to undress you while wearing four-inch stilettos.” She gestures to my weapon-adorned feet. “I accept none of the blame.”

“You’re a terrible friend. You could at least pretend to feel bad.” I don’t even try to stand up. I just lie on the floor and twist the clasps until they come undone . . . about four minutes too late. I’m half tempted to throw on my leggings and take my ass home.

Alas, the nearing empty gas tank in my car and electric bill that was fifty dollars more than normal pop into my head, reminding me I am a certified adult with certified adult problems. So my adult ass has to stay and serve adult drinks.

“Pretending is for porn stars, darling,” Sadie says. “Now throw on a robe so I can fix your hair.”

Ugh. My hair.

I don’t hate much about my job.

But nearing the top of my hate list is burning my curly locks into submission. I’ve always loved my gravity-defying hair, but Phil—the club owner—has a strict “straight hair only” policy. I think it’s bullshit and low-key racist, but I need a paycheck more than I need to stand on this Black Girl Magic mountain.

“How are the tips for you tonight?” I ask as Sadie yanks my head around, trying to get as close to my roots as possible without scorching my scalp.

“Not great.” She avoids my eyes in the mirror. “But Phil put us on the VIP table tonight and they were walking in when I was heading up here, so things should get good.”

“If it doesn’t, let me know if you need one of my tables after they leave. I’ve worked overtime this week and my feet could use a slow night.”

In reality, I could use every spare cent I can get.

But Sadie’s been having a rough go as of late with her mom crashing at her place and giving her exactly zero extra dollars a month for rent and food. Plus, with prices skyrocketing in Denver, thanks to the thousands of marijuana enthusiasts moving in, she’s struggling.

Something I understand all too well.

Supporting two people on this pay isn’t what one would call a cake walk.

“Thank you,” she says into my smoking tresses. “Maybe I could take one.”

“No, thank you.” I reach my arm beyond me, blindly searching for her hand to squeeze. “I have to spend the rest of the night in a uniform a size too small. I’m going to look like a stuffed sausage. You’re saving me from extra humiliation.”

“Oh, stop it.” She finally looks at me, her eyes lit with humor. “The only thing it’s going to do is make your waist look smaller and your already massive boobs look even bigger. You’re going to rake it in tonight.”

“I can always count on you to look on the bright side.”

“That you can.” She smirks at me and, as if by magic, conjures up a handful of glitter and throws it over my head.

I don’t even attempt to brush it off me. This has happened to me enough to know glitter is like quicksand—the more you fight it, the more it sticks to you. Instead, I hang my head, resigned to the fact that I befriended a glitter-wielding psychopath.

Sparkly bitch.



* * *



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IF ANYONE TRIES to quote me, I’ll deny it with every last breath, but I adore my waitress costume—not uniform, this is straight dress-up.

Well, when it’s not crushing my lungs.

When I’m not at the club, I’m at home or school pickup in leggings, a T-shirt, and tennis shoes. I never, not in a million years, imagined myself working at a club, but I do take a secret pleasure in playing sex vixen. When I first started, I convinced myself it was an acting job. I have zero talent in the arts, but ever since I watched season one of American Idol, I’ve wanted to “gig.” So that’s what I told myself. Just going giggin’.

And it still works.

I’m one of the best waitresses here, and I consistently bring in the highest tips. Because when I walk in the door, I’m no longer Poppy Patterson: single mother and disowned daughter. Nope. I’m Serena. My stretch marks are hidden under my corset and thigh-highs. The mandatory red lipstick only makes my full lips seem even fuller. The metal piping in the deep V corset makes my waist smaller and my post-baby boobs perky and full. Not to mention, the sky-high heels I was convinced would grant me a workers’ comp case make my short legs enviable even to someone who’s five eight.