Looking up the rusted staircase to my left, I exhale deeply before taking the steps two at a time. Once I’m at the top, I fling the door open and storm inside.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
No, scratch that. I know the answer and I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to think about anything right now. I just want to clear my mind and push myself to the limit and there’s only one way I can do that right now.
Scanning the large studio apartment I own above the bar, I verify it’s empty and I’m alone before I walk over to my bench press, toss some weights on and get down to business.
I’ll need to shower again once I’m finished because after I punish my body into submission, I’m always drenched in sweat, but at least I’ll be able to tolerate myself. And I’ll be easier to work with.
Inhaling deeply, I bring the bar to my chest. Exhaling, I muscle it up.
Again.
My employees and patrons will thank me for this later.
And again.
And I’ll be able to think clearer.
Again.
And Oklahoma will be out of my head.
Who the fuck does she think she is? Coming into my bar? And what the fuck was up with her face? Who did that to her?
I pump harder, faster.
I’ll also be having a chat with Wyatt about sending a flippant...girl to my door, because that’s what she is—a girl, maybe twenty-one. He’s a lot better suited to employ someone like her, so why would he send her to me? What in the world would I do with her...in my bar?
Not happening.
Chapter 3
Avery
It’s been a week. A whole freakin’ week. And I still don’t have a job. I’m not complaining. I know people search for work for a lot longer and are a lot more desperate than I am. Plus, I’ve been enjoying my slow mornings, painted in the bright, crisp hues of the early Louisiana sunshine.
While on my job search, I’ve found interesting spots to stop and hang out. I’ve walked barefoot through parks and window shopped through the French Quarter. I’ve drank in the free atmosphere and soaked in the deep culture—street art, jazz bands, second line parades. But my funds are running low and I only have a week before I’ll have to find another place to stay, and I was hoping I’d have a job by then and know how much I’ll be able to afford.
The dreaded what ifs have started to settle in.
What if I can’t find a job?
What if I run out of money?
What if I’m forced to go home?
I’ve decided that when I get down to my last hundred dollars, if I still don’t have a job, I’ll concede defeat and go home. I won’t have another choice.
When I was talking to my mama yesterday, she voiced her concerns and tried to get more information about what happened between me and Brant. Apparently, his mama was at the drug store when she stopped in to get Daddy’s blood pressure meds a couple days ago and she mentioned that Brant hasn’t been himself and she can’t get him to take her calls.
My mama tried to get me to agree to calling him, but that’s not going to happen. I know I’ll eventually have to talk to him, and I will. I’m not a chicken shit. And, despite what happened, I’m not scared of him.
Okay, maybe I am. A little.
I still can’t believe he hit me.
I can’t believe he went from someone I would’ve trusted my life with to someone who’d make me question its safety.
Who is he?
Where did the Brant I used to know and love go?
Thankfully, the split in my lip is almost healed and the bruise below my eye isn’t as angry as it was the first few days. It’s still there and noticeable, but it doesn’t look like I just lost Fight Night.
Pulling myself out of bed, I quickly shower and dress, pulling my hair into a high ponytail. The pink I normally dye it has faded into my platinum blonde. I like it. It’s still pink, just not my normal, vibrant fuchsia, but it’s pretty. And it’ll have to do for now, because after paying up my room for the two weeks and buying gas and food, I’m down to a thousand dollars. It’s enough for now, but not enough for long.
I give myself a quick look in the mirror and take a deep breath. Despite everything, I feel lighter and happier than I’ve been in a while. This city feels good. It feels like somewhere I can be myself.
All the more reason I’m going to find a job and I’m going to make it. I’m not ready to go home.
Someone out there is in need of someone like me. I just know it.
“Go get ‘em, Avery,” I whisper to myself in the mirror.
Walking out of the neighborhood I’m staying in and into the French Quarter, I make a beeline for the coffee shop I’ve already grown accustomed to. I think that’s important. Both the coffee and finding a shop that suits you. It’s the sign of a good fit. I would go to The Crescent Moon every day, if it was closer. But it’s a nice walk, plus a ride on the streetcar, so I’m thinking, it’ll be a once a week thing. Maybe later today, after I stop at a few more places and check on job openings, I’ll treat myself. I intentionally avoided it on Sunday and Monday because I remember what Wyatt said: Shaw is a regular on his days off. After our showdown in his bar last week, I really have no desire to see him again.
He was surly.
No, scratch that.
He was an asshole. Grade-A, prime choice, top-of-the-line, asshole deluxe.
Just thinking about him pisses me off all over again. He only hires men? How sexist can he be?
When I make it to Neutral Grounds, I get the cheerful “hello” I’ve come to expect.
“Hi, CeCe,” I call back with a wave and a smile. Yeah, I’m already on a first name basis with my barista. “Just a drip,” I tell her as I walk up to the counter. I’d love to have a cappuccino or a latte, but I’m being frugal. So, fancy will have to wait.
“Any luck finding a job yet?” she asks as she turns to get a cup and fill it up. What’s really awesome is if I stay and chat, which I’ve done a time or two, she’ll fill it up as much as I need, which means breakfast is a reasonable two dollars and nine cents.
“No, nothing.” Sighing, I lean on the counter and place my correct change by the register.
She gives me a look of pity and genuine disappointment, offering me a “sorry” before setting down my coffee along with the caddy containing the cream and sugar.
“It’s okay.” Instead of whining like a baby, I set about fixing my coffee just like I like it—four creamers and one sugar. “Something is bound to come up, right?”
“It will,” she encourages, busying herself with making a fresh pot of coffee. “Oh, I did see that the bar across the way put a help wanted sign in their window a day or two ago...maybe it was yesterday?” She shrugs, turning around with a contemplative look. “I can’t remember, but I bet, if you head over there, it might still be up. That is, if you don’t mind working at a bar.”
I look out the window, across the way, and wonder out loud, “Come Again?”
“Yeah, just on the corner.”
I don’t know why, but my blood starts to boil and it’s not the coffee. “Thanks,” I tell her with a smile as I hold up my cup, trying to hide my anger. What an asshole! A week after I come looking for work and he puts up a help wanted sign? Like he didn’t know he needed help when I was there? Oh, that’s right...he only hires men.