Page 1 of My Soul for Sale

Chapter One

Sloane

I can’t believe my eyes when I see a for sale sign planted in the front yard of my childhood haven. The large white Victorian house, with its chipped paint and overgrown garden, needs some work. But despite its flaws, it’s the only place I ever felt safe growing up. The one place Ali couldn’t get to me.

It’s not for anyone else; it’s mine. Bringing my car to a stop at the curb in front of the sign, I grab my phone from the cupholder and type the real estate website into my browser. There it is—the listing, making this nightmare a reality. Someone else can own my house for just two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

When Grandma passed, she left the house to Ali, and obviously she didn't make any mortgage payments. Too busy putting the little she gets in her veins or drinking. Why Grandma didn’t leave it to me, I don’t know. Perhaps, deep down, she clung to the hope that her daughter would overcome her struggles and find sobriety.

Buying it is impossible. I don’t have the means to gather that amount of money. I could try to go to the bank and get financing, but my credit isn’t the greatest, so I highly doubt they’d loan me a sum that big. Plus, I know they’d want my income and what I do for a living; bartending at the Iced Rose doesn’t exactly scream ‘loan me hundreds of thousands of dollars.’

Holding back the tears, I drop my phone back into the cupholder, before slamming my hands on the steering wheel. Blowing out a deep breath, I pull myself together and drive off from the curb, heading to work. There's nothing I can do about it.

Buying Grandma’s house is a pipe dream. I might as well just get used to the idea that it’s gone and soon someone new will be living there, making their own memories. I can only hope that they find the same solace and security in that space as I did.

Despite my sour mood, I plaster on a fake smile as I clock in, throwing my purse and sweater in the backroom before checking the schedule for next week.

It looks like I will be closing almost every night, as usual. Would it kill Kevin to let me open a few days? I’ve been here the longest and do the best work, but of course, Trina gets the prime opening shifts and I’m left closing Saturday, Sunday, Monday, and Wednesday.

Whatever. At least I’ll have a nice stack of cash in hand since he pays me under the table for my hours and I never report my tips. Shady, I know, but I work hard for those fucking singles, so I’ll be damned if I’m gonna share them with the government.

“Hey, Sloane! I was just closing the register. It’s been busy, so I didn’t have time to stock. Sorry about that,” Trina calls as I step behind the bar with my drawer in hand.

“No problem. It looks like it’s slowing down, so I’ll stock before the evening rush,” I tell her. Looking around, there are only three old-timers in here, so I doubt it was too busy. She just didn’t wanna stock and since she sucks Kevin off in the walk-in, she gets away with that shit.

She steps back, creating space for me to drop my drawer into the register. “I knew you’d be cool about it.”

When she heads to the back to put her drawer in the safe, I roll my eyes. Not like I have a choice, asshole. If I complain, Kevin will scold her, she’ll bat her lashes and shake her tits, and then he disregards the problem.

Saturdays are slower until around eight and then the party crowd shows up. So I’ll just stock what I can before then and deal.

That’s what I do. Sloane—the girl who always deals with everything thrown at her because she has no other choice.

As soon as Trina struts her scrawny ass out the door, I go to the back and get the bottles and cans needed to stock the coolers.

“Hey, pretty lady. Can I bother you for another?” a gentleman calls from the other end of the bar.

“Yeah. Let me just drop these PBRs in the cooler and I’ll grab it. We doin’ another Busch draft?”

“Is there a better beer I don’t know about?” He laughs. “I drink Busch and Crown shots, honey. Anything else can take the piss.”

I’ve seen this guy in here before, but he’s definitely not a regular. Clad in black from head to toe, his slicked-back blond hair and striking blue eyes catch your attention. He reminds me of a young Scott Caan.

“One draft coming up. And I’ll tell you what: I’ll even throw in a Crown shot on me.” I close the cooler lid and grab a fresh draft glass, tilting it as I pull the tap lever.

As I slide his draft and shortie to him, I grab his empty and a five-dollar bill from his stack on the bar top.

With a quick flick of his wrist, he shoots the shot back and nonchalantly tells me, “Keep the change.”

Grinning, I complete his purchase and slip the two dollars in change into my tip jar.

“What’s a girl like you doing working in a place like this?” he asks.

“Well, I love bartending, and this place is like a second home. I started here as soon as I was twenty-one and I’m still here.”

“You can’t make much in a dive like this, though, can ya?”

“Enough to pay my bills. But nothing too crazy. Definitely, not enough to help me buy the couple hundred thousand dollar dream house I saw earlier.” Why am I telling this random man my financial situation? Rookie move, Sloane.

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