I’m tired, sweaty, and fucking desperate for a beer—something I never in a million years thought I’d crave.
Alas, something about working a solo shift at Greenies while the place is chock-full of students celebrating the end of spring semester drives a girl to yearn for a beverage that tastes like dishwater.
That should be me, I internally screech as I gaze longingly at the throng of people chugging alcohol I’m serving instead of drinking. I deserve to get shit-faced too; I did just survive freshman year. No, I didn’t survive—I crushed it. Aced shitty classes, dodged shitty men, found surprisingly un-shitty friends who I plan to cling to for the rest of time, even if they did break my cardinal rule by, shudder, falling in love or whatever.
I didn’t crumble and fail and move back home to New York like my highschool friends—a questionable term for people I’m beginning to learn I kind of hate. They didn’t think I could handle the big cross-country move all by myself, nor did they think I was intellectually inclined enough to actually pass classes. But I did. With flying goddamn colors.
Jokes on you, assholes.
Although, right now, the joke is most definitely on me. A summer job seemed like a great idea, a way to pass time and earn some cash so I wouldn’t have to chase Ma for money she doesn’t have, until it came down to actually doing the work.
I could summon my roommate slash coworker slash newfound best friend; Amelia’s holed up in the break room scarfing a pitiful, greasy dinner and hiding from the obnoxiously loud drunken fool she for some reasons calls her boyfriend. I know it would only take minimal begging for her to come running to my assistance but stubborn streak resents the idea of asking for help. It’s very insistent I can manage the chaos myself—Ma likes to say I’m chaos personified so this is basically my calling, right? And, come on, wrangling drunk men, whipping them into shape, bending them to my wiles?
Easy fucking work.
Taking a quick moment I don’t have, I free my hair from its restricting ponytail, fluffing the blonde waves with one hand while slicking on the lip gloss that lives in my back pocket with the other—only a fool goes to war without their weapons. And, as I catch sight of one particular booth laden with strapping young men, I gather every ounce of charm I possess. God knows with these boys, I’m going to need it.
Baseball players.
There’s just something about them. An inherent cockiness. Deeply ingrained, honed showboating skills. The possession of an invisible magnet behind their eyes that connects to the one that must be embedded in my sternum, considering where their gazes are oh-so-often drawn.
Well, most of their gazes.
One, deep brown and always inexplicably warm, remains north of the border as I approach the table, just like it always does every time the Sun Valley Rays’ star catcher graces me with his presence.
He’s an enigma, Oscar Jackson. An uncrackable juxtaposition of a man. You hear rumors of a guy who throws the wildest parties on campus, you picture one thing. You imagine his roommates. Nicolas Silva, breaker-of-hearts who slings his dick around like it’s an Olympic sport. Or Cass Morgan, the second coming of Babe Ruth.
You do not imagine the grimacing man struggling to look me in the eye, tips of his ears painted a blushing pink, fidgeting awkwardly on the edge of his seat as if the woman attempting to hump him has fucking cooties.
He’s blushing, for God’s sake. The beautiful man with the pretty hooded eyes that crinkle at the corners on the rare occasion he smiles who could convince a woman to drop to her knees with nothing more than the husky rumble of the the quiet ‘hello’ he sometimes deigns to offer and is renowned for debaucherous gatherings is blushing.
I don’t get it. I really, really don’t get it. If I had bone structure like that—the man consists solely of sharp, defined angles—I sure as hell would put it to good use. Hell, if he ogled me the way his buddies currently are, I wouldn’t even mind. To be perfectly honest, I’d welcome it.
But he doesn’t.
Ever.
It’s a ridiculous thing, pouting over a man not staring at my tits. I blame it on the chaos thing. And on the only child urge to always get what I want. Not that I want Jackson—just a sliver of his attention would be nice.
And I’m going to get it.
One day, I swear to God if it’s the last thing I do, I’m going to get it.
