Page 11 of There's No Us Without You
April—one of my staff members—pulls the old men’s attention to her when she slides up next to Benny and puts her arm around his shoulders. She plasters on a massive smile, those red lips of hers sucking them right in.
Jesus, even at their age, they still think with their dicks.
Leaving the two of them to stare at April, I head down to the basement and grab a tray of clean glasses from the small kitchen. They rattle against each other as I climb back up the stairs, and when I reach the top, I already have a set of eyeballs on me.
“What do you keep down in your little dungeon, Will?” Benny says over his shoulder, his eyes crinkling above a semi-toothless grin.
“Old men who ask too many questions,” I say, kicking the door closed behind me. “I like to chain them up and leave them there to rot. Are you volunteering to be my next victim?”
Benny scratches his chin, his eyes narrowed on me as though he’s not sure if I’m serious or joking. That’s a good thing, though. I’ll let him question my sanity, because the last thing I need is for either of those two to go wandering in search of the expensive shit.
“So,” Benny says, lifting his glass up and ignoring my previous comment, “when are you getting that toilet fixed? You know I only like to shit in the end stall.”
“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, before sighing heavily. “A toilet’s a toilet, Benny. Pick another one or shit your pants. I don’t care.” I drop the tray of glasses onto the bar, sending them crashing together again, only this time one cracks under the pressure. Mumbling under my breath aboutstupid old men, I snatch the broken glass from the tray and throw it into the bin on the bottom shelf. It smashes into several sharp shards, joining the other broken bits and pieces from last night.
I really need to replace the glass with plastic—the breakages are eating into my profits.
April snorts into her hand, before clearing her throat. “Good luck.” She winks as she presses her lips together to hide her grin, then walks away, swaying her hips while giving the men another quick wink over her shoulder. She disappears down the hall at the back seconds later, leaving me to question the company I keep.
It’s Merve’s turn to cackle at Benny this time, the sound of breathless laughter making me grin for the first time today.
It’s a rare occurrence, but it does happen.
“What are you laughing at?” Benny says to Merve, side-eyeing him. “You had to change your jocks before you came here today.”
Merve slams his hand down, his face now a bright shade of red. “Stupid old bastard,” he says. “Go do your business so we can let Will get organised for the night shift.”
Benny rolls his eyes and climbs from the stool. “I’m going, I’m going. Calm down.” He waves a hand over his head as he shuffles his way towards the toilets, mumbling something under his breath.
He returns from the bathroom a few minutes later, buckling his tan belt and adjusting his pants that are way too high on his protruding beer belly. When he steps up behind Merve, he slaps him on the back. “Let’s go, you old prick.” He lifts his chin towards me. “See you tomorrow, Will.”
I salute them. Merve winks and follows Benny out the exit.
Sometimes I miss them when they leave, but that’s only because I have no-one to distract me from my thoughts.
FOUR
Eden
The phoneon the bedside table rings, the ear-piercing sound jolting me awake. What time is it? I swear I only just nodded off, and my eyes are burning from the lack of sleep.
When the incessant trill of the phone doesn’t give up, I groan and attempt to force my mouth to produce saliva so I can swallow down the bitter taste left in the back of my throat.
Turns out tequila and whiskey don’t mix well together, and I became well acquainted with the toilet bowl in the en suite of the hotel room. Only when the entire contents of my stomach had been flushed down the toilet, did I fall into a restless sleep. At least I woke up in the bed rather than on the bathroom floor.
That would have been much more tragic.
I reach for the phone and bring it to my ear. “Hello?” I squeeze my eyes shut as the sunlight streams in through the open curtains, forcing me to throw an arm over them as well.
“Good morning, Mrs Lowenstein,” a cheerful voice screams down the phone—at least that’s the way my throbbing brain interprets it. “It’s concierge here. We just wanted to wish you and Mr Lowenstein a big congratulations on your nuptials and to inform you your breakfast will be up in half an hour.”
My grip on the phone tightens, and a wave of nausea threatens to send me to the bathroom for the third time in two hours.
How much more of my stomach lining do I need to throw up before the seedy feeling will stop?
“Thanks,” I manage to say, then slam the phone back on the holder.
Christ, just hearing the name Lowenstein with aMrsin front of it has me ready to stab chopsticks into my eardrums.
