Page 10 of Broomsticks and Bloodstains
Her usually straightened black hair was in a curly pile on her head, and her turtleneck sweater hugged her slender body like a glove. Growing up, I’d been jealous of her model-like figure. I’d been what my high school boyfriend had termed “Rubenesque.”
Years of hoofing it everywhere I could and practically starving myself in order to pay bills had slimmed me down, but I’d never look like Isabella. The difference between now and then is that I’ve come to love my curves.
“I told you… maybe,” I replied as the coffeemaker sputtered to an end. I filled the cups three-quarters of the way, then added the cream, chocolate, caramel, and a sprinkle of sugar.
“Yeah, and I’ve known you for twenty-two years. ‘Maybe’ means no with you,” Isabella said with a laugh. “Girl, I don’t understand you—this is your chance to maybe get on with me full-time. You got your foot in the door. The pay isn’t great, but the tips from the caliber of clientele we have more than make up for it. Besides, Esteban seems to really like you,” she crooned as she rested her chin in her hand and grinned mischievously.
With a sigh, I set one of the mugs in front of her. “I get it, Isa, but at what cost?”
“What do you mean?”
“Those kinds of people… they look down their noses at people like us. They have more money than brains. And where that money comes from… some of them are dangerous people.” I shrugged as I took a small sip of my coffee to test the temp.
“Who cares?” Exasperation bled through her words. “As long as they keep throwing that money our way, I’ll play the game. Just think about it. At least for the holiday parties. You have to admit, that extra money at the holidays?—”
“Ugh! I know! And that’s the problem. I do need the money.” I leaned forward and rested my forehead on the wood. Then I lifted it up and stared at her.
“Just think about it. It could help you out. I just hate seeing you struggle,” she softly murmured.
It was times like this that I wished Isabella didn’t live with her boyfriend. Then it made me feel shitty for thinking that because I didn’t want her unhappy and Weston definitely made her happy.
“I’ll think about it,” I finally conceded, then changed the subject.
We visited for a little bit before she got up and slipped her jacket back on. “All right, chica. I gotta get these dresses dropped off.”
We hugged and she left. Staying in my PJs, I spent the day cleaning my apartment, then showered. After doing my makeup, I put my hair up in a clip and dressed in a pair of worn but comfy jeans and a tank top. Before I walked out of my minuscule bedroom, I snatched my favorite flannel and shoved my arms in the sleeves.
Then I glanced at the time and hurried out to put my shoes on. I’d taken too much time with my damn makeup, but if I wanted decent tips at all, I needed to play the part. I paused at the stack of dreaded envelopes. My shoulders drooped.
Sometimes, I hated this life. Working two jobs just to keep my head above water, scraping by while my dreams rotted in a pile of debt collectors’ letters. Except now—now I had money in my purse that could cover almost a month’s worth of bills if I stretched it right. A night or two each month would give me much-needed breathing room.
But at what cost?
It doesn’t matter. I can ignore things that aren’t my business.
It’s just a job.
Whatever the people that I serve do isn’t my business.
I pushed away from the counter, grabbed my keys, and forced myself into motion. Sitting still only made the stupid, tempting voices louder.
The late afternoon air was chilly and smelled like rain as I stepped onto the street. My favorite sneakers slapped against the pavement, the noise too damn loud in my ears. I blended into the stream of people rushing to trains, buses, shops, and lives that didn’t seem like mine.
By the time I reached O’Malley’s, with the familiar neon sign flickering in the window, the knots in my shoulders had loosened a little. Though it wasn’t what I had hoped and dreamed for my life, this was my world. Sticky floors. Cheap beer. Music that barely covered the sound of the balls clacking on the old pool table in the back. I knew every face here, every regular and every drunk who’d tried to slip me a phone number scrawled on a dirty napkin.
Predictable.
Safe.
Or at least safer than last night.
I shoved through the door, tossing a wave at one of the cooks through the order window, and ducked behind the bar. Brody lifted his chin in greeting before returning to his conversation with a pretty, dark-haired girl. The way he was leaning in and she was smiling, she might become a regular.
Turning, I hid my grin. Brody hadn’t so much as shown interest in anyone in ages, let alone dated. Secretly, I had wanted to hook him up with Isabella when I first started. Except she’d met Weston and the rest was history.
“Hey, Benito,” I greeted the old guy at the end of the bar with the snow-white beard.
“Hello, hija,” he replied with a toothless grin. “¿Tan Bella como siempre o mejor. Cuando nos casamos?”
