Fumbled (Playbook #2)(26)

Fuck. My. Life.

“I did all the work to get him in the club.” Rochelle’s perfectly plump lip curls up in disgust. “Not only did your ass steal his table and tips from me, you went ahead and pursued him outside of the club too!”

“It . . . it’s not like that. I mean, yeah, I guess, but . . .” I stumble over my words, trying to peel my eyes off the screen. “This has nothing to do with you.”

“Bullshit! This has everything to do with me!” She stabs herself in the chest with a sharp, pointed fingernail then aims it in Phil’s direction. “And Phil and everyone in this club!”

“What? How?” I put her phone on the bar top between us, not chancing getting too close. I’ve been to the zoo with Ace too many times to stick my hand in the cage with an angry lion now. “Besides enjoying my immense embarrassment, I still don’t see what this has to do with you.”

“TK hasn’t come back,” she says, calm and collected, like the wild beast I was just talking to a minute ago was a figment of my imagination. “He hasn’t been back in weeks. Neither have the other players. I called TK and he told me you’re the reason he stopped coming in.” She slams her case-protected phone onto the glass bar top. “These pictures were posted this morning. He came to see you last night but won’t come inside anymore. Three years! Three years I worked here, trying to get these big-money ballers to come in and you ruined it for all of us in a month!”

I remember when he said he didn’t answer numbers he didn’t know. I hate the thread of jealousy that starts to unravel knowing they spoke. “TK answered your call?” I voice my thoughts out loud, which I realize is a mistake when Rochelle screams so loud, the bottles on the shelves behind me start to rattle.

“Fuck you!” She reaches over the bar, her hands outstretched and aiming for my neck.

“Rochelle.” Phil finally makes himself useful and moves from the spot his feet have been glued to. “Relax.”

Once he reaches her, he spins her around and pulls her in for a hug, wrapping his arms tight around her, locking her arms at her side.

A human straitjacket. Clever, Phil.

“You need to leave,” he says in her ear.

I turn around and start to fidget with the bottles of vodka to give them a bit of privacy during this strange, yet personal, moment.

“Poppy.” Phil gets my attention.

I turn around, prepared to see Rochelle’s retreating form heading to the exit, but when I look at him, I’m met with matching glares.

“Go home, Poppy,” Phil says, his voice steady. “I’ll have Sadie clear out your locker and bring you your stuff.”

The floor falls from under my feet and my stomach starts doing somersaults. “Wh— What?” I try to swallow down the bile rising up the back of my throat. “What do you mean?”

“Rochelle is right,” he says, a blank expression carefully laid on his aging face. “I’ve been fighting to get Mustang players in this club since I started it. It finally happened, and just as soon, you ended it—”

“But—” I try to break in, desperate to keep my job. The job that has allowed me to be a class mom and keep clothes on my son’s back.

“You’re a great waitress, but even the money you bring in can’t make up for the business you lost the Emerald Cabaret. You know the rules. I don’t care about your personal life. I don’t care if you date a client as long as it doesn’t affect my bottom line.” His eyes soften a bit as he watches the tears roll down my face. “I like you, Poppy, I really do. This isn’t personal.”

I think about telling Phil about my past with TK. Telling him about Ace and everything that has transpired between us is on the tip of my tongue when Rochelle—or more specifically—the Cheshire Cat grin she’s now sporting catches my attention out of the corner of my eye. And in a split second I realize I’d rather lose my job than give her my secrets. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and compose myself.

“I understand.” Shoulders squared and back straight, I walk from behind the bar and toward the exit.

Not another word is uttered as I make my walk of shame in stilettos and a corset to the parking lot. I climb into my Volvo, my head held high and cheeks dry.

On the scale of crappy things that have happened to me, this is at the very bottom.

Screw Rochelle and screw Phil too.

I’ll get a new job.

And I’ll never straighten my freaking hair again.





Twelve




I come to but I don’t open my eyes.

I scrunch them tight, trying to pinpoint what part of me hurts the most. I may have indulged in one or two glasses after I got home. Lucky for me, nothing hurts . . . besides maybe my pride.

I grab my phone to check the time and see that I have two unread text messages. One from Sadie asking what in the hell happened and one that kicks my adrenaline into overdrive.


I’ll be over at 2. Let me know if that doesn’t work for you.

-TK



Oh my God. TK. Today. Crap!

I check the time and mentally break down how long I have until TK gets here—which takes longer than I’d like to admit—and then I shoot out of bed like my mattress is on fire as my ears strain to hear if Ace is up and about.