Fumbled (Playbook #2)(25)
I don’t speak right away as I clench my eyes shut and will the world to stop spinning. When my legs start to feel like they are filled with bones and some muscle again and I’m not worried my stomach is going to revolt all across the pavement . . . again, I push out of TK’s grasp. “I am the complete opposite of okay, but I don’t factor into this decision.” I walk back to my car, assuming he’s following, and sit in the driver’s seat. “The only person who matters in all of this is Ace.”
A lesson TK will be learning all too soon.
Eleven
When your life is on the brink of exploding into smithereens, sometimes you just have to take comfort in what is familiar.
Tomorrow, I have to put on my big-girl panties and tell my kid something that might cause him to need a lifetime supply of therapy. So tonight, even though I’d rather be home, drowning my fears in ice cream and wine—or wine-infused ice cream, if that’s not a thing, somebody needs to get on it stat—I’m at work. Where, unless TK decides to ambush me again, I know what to expect. I plan on losing myself in the monotony of taking orders, climbing stairs, and serving drinks. I’ll let the rhythm of the music draw me in and I won’t think about tomorrow until I get home. Work, tonight, is a freaking godsend.
“Who’s Ace with tonight?” Sadie asks, our eyes locking in the mirror in front of me.
“Mrs. Duncan.” I shimmy my shoulders offbeat—even though there’s no music—trying to force peppiness into my voice. Fake it till you make it, is what I always say. “I’m telling you, you better be prepared for some big tips tonight. I’ve never been so excited to work. Plus, Cole’s out of town, we’re opening together, and you haven’t caused my hair to combust into a poof of smoke. This is shaping up to be a great night and I’m going to take advantage of it.”
“You know there are two things I’m always prepared for.” She unplugs her flat iron from the outlet next to her and holds up her index finger. “One, money.” She adds her middle finger with a flick of her wrist. “And two, glitter.”
As if to prove that my positive attitude for the night is going to pay off, I dodge the handful of glitter she releases before it can embed itself into my scalp or adhere to my skin.
“Like a ninja!” I laugh . . . but not too hard. I don’t want her to plan a sneak revenge glitter bombing later.
I make my way to the floor, waving to Sandra as she heads into the “entertainment” dressing rooms. They have better lighting and more comfortable chairs than we do. But since they are swinging around on oversize scarves and flipping headfirst toward possible death, I guess they deserve it.
Leaving the well-lit hallway and entering the dim, smoky (even though smoking isn’t allowed) club always leaves me feeling a bit disoriented. My poor eyes aren’t what they used to be and they struggle to focus with the flashing lights being tested on the stage.
Once they do adjust, I see Rochelle standing across from Phil having a very animated conversation. I didn’t think she was scheduled to open with us, but seeing the mood she’s in right now, I plan on working even harder than I normally do to stay away from her. I spin on my heel and, as silent as possible, make my way behind the bar, careful not to let my heels click against the clean-for-now tile.
Too bad for me, I must have used all my ninja stealth with Sadie because I make it only three steps before Rochelle’s crazed, overlined eyes find me.
“I cannot believe you!” she screeches, her arms flailing and her skinny legs struggling to keep her upright.
I feel the wrinkles form on my forehead as I raise my eyebrows. “Ummm . . .” My eyes shift between Rochelle and Phil, both of whom are staring at me like I’m in deep shit. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t play stupid, Poppy,” Rochelle spits, and starts to walk my way, her long black hair whipping back and forth in sync with her ample cleavage. As she gets closer, I notice her bright blue eyes are now a striking shade of red. I’m not sure if it’s the reflection of the red lights in the club or the Devil making his presence known.
“I’m not playing anything. I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I use my gentle mom voice on her but take comfort in the bar between us and the rows of glass bottles behind me in case I need a makeshift weapon.
“Really?” She tilts her head to the side and purses her lips. “Then let me refresh your memory.”
She reaches into her fake Gucci purse and I know it’s risky seeing as she could very well be digging for a weapon, but I wonder if her lips are natural or if she’s had lip injections. She really does have great lips. Too bad she uses them to spew garbage.
After a minute or two of digging and loose receipts falling to the floor, which really messes up the dramatic effect of the scene she’s acting out, she pulls out her phone. She taps in her password—123456, because she’s a genius—and her fingers dance across the screen before she shoves the phone in my face.
It takes me exactly three seconds to realize what I’m seeing and four to realize a positive mind-set can only take me so far.
On her phone, underneath the bold, hot-pink script declaring the website Baller Notice, are pictures—yes, multiple—of TK and me in the parking lot behind the Emerald Cabaret. The photos are grainy, but even so, there is no denying that it’s him as he stands next to my car or him climbing into the passenger seat. There is even one of him with his arms wrapped around me in the abandoned parking lot that I’m not sure I could even find again if someone asked.