Page 2 of Never Date A Player
What I haven’t mentioned to Cali, because it seems like a terrible thing to say to someone who’s struggling with money, is that my mother offered to pay my way through graduate school. I don’t technically need this job. I just refuse to take any more of my mother’s money.
My mom doesn’t work, nor do we have rich relatives. I assume she gets by with the help of the wealthy men that have flitted in and out of our lives for as far back as I can remember. Which is why I’m determined to earn my way through graduate school and create a healthy distance from it all.
Cali takes in the look on my face. “That sucks they’re calling you names, even if you do look like Snow White.” I frown, which she ignores. “Tell them to back the eff off. Better yet, I’ll do it for you.” She cranes her head and glances around. “Which waitress started it?”
Now I’ve done it.
“Cali, do not say anything.” She would too; Cali’s great like that. But sometimes her eagerness to help gets me in trouble. “The person who started it is my supervisor. You’ll make it worse.”
She shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
We pass the last bank of slots before the sports bar, and a waitress I chitchatted with throughout my shift sees me and smiles this large, wide smile I’m beginning to associate with her.
Nessa is petite at about five foot three inches—the extra three courtesy of black pumps to match our cocktail uniform’s midnight satin hot pants and electric-blue sequined bustier. Compared to her, I’m like an Amazon at five foot ten—over six feet in my work heels.
I wave as we make our way past.
“Who’s that?” Cali asks.
“Nessa. She invited us to the dinner party tonight. Tacos. Yummy.”
I’m not entirely comfortable around strangers, but it would be nice to have another friend in town.
Cali shakes her head. “I can’t go, remember? I have a Skype date with Eric. But you should go. It would be good for you to get out.”
Oh God, I forgot about the Skype call. Cali’s right about me going, but not for the reason she’s thinking.
The cottage we rented for the summer has thin walls. I’d rather not be around for the sex-Skyping. And Cali’s boyfriend is on my shit list. He hit on me a couple of weeks ago, which transferred him from absentminded, annoying-boyfriend-of-my-best-friend to a creeper.
If I go to this dinner party with Nessa, it’ll kill two birds with one stone. Cali will think I’m getting out and recovering from my ex, dubbed the A-hole, and I won’t have to plug my ears at the moans vibrating through the walls. Win-win.
And there’s no reason to worry about guys bugging me the way they do when I’m at work in my skimpy uniform. This is a small, casual get-together—not to mention I’ve got blinders on to the male sex. I’m all good.
Pulling up to the Al Tahoe neighborhood in my dented sedan, I take in the houses with rounded eaves and shutters with pine tree cutouts.
The knockoff Swiss Alps look, I decide. Nessa’s friend’s place even has an A-frame porch roof that extends all the way to the ground, giving it the Swiss chalet effect.
I walk up to the front and lift my hand to knock, claustrophobically aware of the roof inches from my face, when the door swings open.
The scent of chiles and grease smacks me in the face, and Nessa is standing there grinning, her straight black hair draped over one shoulder. “I saw you pull up.”
Shouts erupt from behind her and I peer over her head, because she’s short and I can. My gaze lands on a guy with a baseball hat turned backward pounding his fist on a table.
Nessa ushers me through the door, taking my coat and purse and walking them down a hallway. I fidget for a moment and stare down the hall where she disappeared, glancing every few seconds at the two people across the room.
Nessa returns a minute later. “What can I get you to drink?” she says. “Zach has Coronas in the fridge and I made a batch of margaritas.” She waggles her eyebrows.
Margaritas sound awesome, but I’m driving. “Water would be great.”
We enter the kitchen and Nessa fills me a glass from the sink near the food simmering on the stove that has my mouth salivating. She hands me the cup and we make our way over to the others.
The guy with the baseball hat lifts his hands in exasperation at the attractive brunette sitting beside him. “You call that a gulp? Come on, Mira. That’s a baby bird sip. Quit being a girl and drink it like a man.”
A few coins glimmer on the table and a shallow glass sits in the center.
My heart gives a little flutter in my chest. Quarters is one of my favorite drinking games.
I’ve been drinking since I was twelve. My mom thought it would make me worldlier to have wine with dinner—something to do with her French fetish. As a result, my tolerance for alcohol is high. Add good hand-eye coordination that did not come from her—her precision is as good as Cali’s, which is to say nonexistent—and I pretty much dominate at Quarters.
