Page 8 of Famous Last Words
She spins around on her heel and immediately transforms back into a self-assured woman who clearly knows what she’s doing, taking us from room to room, pointing out useless shit like what kind of plaster is on the walls, and where the marble in the bathroom is from. And I must admit, I don’t really care about all that stuff, but I’m quietly impressed by her knowledge, although I’d never admit it out loud.
By the end of the tour, I’m sold. This place is perfect for me. A secure building to stop the unhinged puck bunnies from breaking in, which unfortunately happened more than a few times back in St. Paul. Two bedrooms, so my mom has her own space if she ever comes to stay. Kick-ass views of the city. A patio. A parking spot. And close to everything I need to be close to, as stipulated in my contract.
Keller stops at the sprawling island counter, looking across at Andy and me with her chin held high in a show of confidence that doesn’t fool me one bit. “So, what do you think?”
“They’re asking six even?” Andy speaks first.
She nods. “Yes, but my client is willing to negotiate if presented with the right terms.”
Andy looks down at something on his phone, probably texting my finance manager.
“Okay, we’ll be in touch,” I say.
I feel Andy shoot me a look which I ignore, holding Keller’s gaze. And frankly, I don’t even know if that’s something peoplesay in these types of situations, but the way I see it, Keller deserves to sweat a little given the trauma she put me through back in high school. I know I’m not entirely innocent, but she didn’t shit herself in front of the entire school, half the town, and a whole squad of college scouts.
She glances at me, lips twitching like she wants to say more, but she doesn’t. Instead, her shoulders sag, and she tries to conceal the look of defeat in her big blue eyes with a tight smile. And I realize then that she’s clearly not much of a sales person. No wonder she’s desperate; I can see why she’s on the verge of losing her job.
CHAPTER 4
FRAN
Thanks to a day full of shitty men, I’m late to work my shift at The Exchange, a bar in the lobby of a Wall Street building where I servepretentiousdrinks topretentiousassholes who think it’s okay to playfully smack my ass and make lewd comments just because they tip so generously.
Dressed in my uniform, which is ultimately nothing more than a little black dress so short it should be illegal, I scurry through the dimly lit bar toward the back room, muttering an apology to anyone who’ll listen.
I place my tote bag into one of the lockers and grab a tablet and an apron, pausing to reapply a sweeping of red lipstick and make sure my bun is still as together as it was when I left my apartment.
I’ve been working at The Exchange ever since I was promoted to junior sales agent because, although it was considered a promotion, it came with a significant drop in salary. Working in sales includes the added benefit of earning a commission—something I’ve yet to experience—therefore my retainer at Carlton Myers barely covers my rent, so I needed tofind something that would pay enough and that I could do in the evenings. A few people told me how much servers can make working in the right bars, and they weren’t wrong. On a good month, my tips from working at The Exchange cover most of my expenses. Apart from the occasional sexual harassment, it’s not a bad gig.
“You’relate,” Vera, one of the other servers, teases as she brushes past me, leaving a cloud of sweet perfume in her wake. “You missed knock-off. I made three hundred bucks in tips!” She pulls a wad of cash from the pocket of her apron, theatrically fanning herself with the money.
Damn. Knock-off is always the best time for tips. It’s mostly men on a high after a successful day trading stocks or whatever it is they do down here, probably high on cocaine, spending cash like it’s going out of style, tipping big as a show of who has the bigger penis. It’s laughable, but as a server reliant on tips, I can’t complain.
I groan, throwing my head back. I swear, if I don’t make some decent money tonight, that puck slinging pain in the ass is going to pay for wasting my damn time at Allora. I’ll personally troll his social media accounts and tell all his adoring fans that he has a festering case of chlamydia and a weird goat fetish.
“Sorry I’m late,” I say to Vera. “Work was…work.”
She winces. “Ugh. Not Tadd drama again?”
“Don’t ask.” I wave a dismissive hand.
“Well, I have a casting call on Monday that might run late, so maybe you can cover for me?”
Vera and I have become close since working together. She’s from a small town in West Virginia. A model-slash-actress-slash-server. Her boyfriend is a DJ who has his own residency in a SoHo nightclub.
I never had a lot of friends growing up, so having Vera come into my life now, and the two of us complimenting one another like we do, was exactly what I needed after moving to a city where I didn’t know a single soul.
I smile. “Of course I can cover for you. I hope you get the gig.”
“Thanks.” Vera hands me a rolled up fifty from her wad of cash.
“No, I can’t, I?—”
“Take it!” She stops my objection, tucking the money into my ample cleavage. “We’re a team, remember?”
She’s right. We are a team. Working in a place like this, you have to be.
Grudgingly, I accept the cash, removing it from between my breasts and placing it into the pocket of my apron with a contrite smile. “Thanks, V.”
