Ms. Atwood laughs again, but it goes from a tinkling to a full belly laugh, and I have to stop myself from joining in, because it’s a tad contagious.
“They really are too polite to pass as human, aren’t they?” she agrees, and I give in and giggle with her.
“I have a really good feeling about you, Delta. I promise that all you have to do is guard the gate at the Perdition Estate. You wouldn’t be the first to question what the catch is, but I swear there isn’t one. It’s a draining position which can take a lot out of you, but I think you’re up to the task, and you’ll find it very rewarding,” she tells me with a wide reassuring smile that helps me feel instantly at ease.
I take a deep breath and smile right back. “I’m available as early as this weekend,” I tell her, and she claps her hands once excitedly and rises out of her chair.
Well, fuck. If luck be a lady, then I’m going down on her tonight.
“Perfect!” Ms. Atwood cheers, like it’s the best news she’s heard all day. “Missy will get all of the paperwork sorted, and you can start Sunday at dusk.” She reaches out, and I abandon the best chair ever to stand and shake her hand again.
“Excellent. I’m excited to get started,” I supply professionally as I bite down on the squee that wants to come ripping out of my throat.
Play it cool, Delta. Pretend that people offer you easy, well-paying jobs all the time. Nothing new here to get squealy about.
Any reservations I have over the fact that Ms. Atwood hasn’t expressed concern over my lack of experience or anything else is chased away by my daydreams of not having to avoid calls from debt collectors and being able to catch up on all my bills. Shit, I’ll finally be able to fund the repairs that my shack of an old house needs. And I might even be able to trade in my cantankerous moped for a new car in just a couple of months, especially if I can do overtime.
This job is perfect, and even though it has the feel of too good to be true, I’m not going to worry. Hell, I’ve earned this good luck break in my life. I’m going to be grateful for it instead of scaring it away with logic and suspicion. At this point, there isn’t much I wouldn’t do for this kind of money, so I chase away my concerns with a broom and shout good riddance as I slam the door shut on their ungrateful asses.
Ms. Atwood walks me to the glass door and pulls it open, and I thank her again for her time and the job offer before I trace my steps back out to the receptionist. As the receptionist, Missy, gets my information, I can feel all my pent-up financial stresses start to float away.
Things are turning around for me. I won’t be foreclosed on and kicked out. I won’t have to start over or try to file for bankruptcy. I’m going to have a new job, making a shit ton of money, and benefits. I can actually go to the dentist for that cleaning I’ve been putting off. Now all I need to do is find a boy toy who’s just as emotionally unavailable as I am but is mind-blowing in bed.
Yep, things are finally looking up.
2
“Could you send this back for me, Delta?”
I turn at my coworker’s voice, immediately noting the pinched expression on Vicky’s face. She’s golden-blonde and pretty, in her mid-thirties, and she’s been working here about as long as I have. It’s busy tonight at Ballpark Brew House, since Sean put up the Going Out of Business sign. I guess all the town drunks want to get in a few more times before we close for good.
I take the bottle of beer from Vicky and immediately see the sediment settled on the bottom. “Shit, he’s serving expired beer?”
Vicky nods. “Customer complained that it tasted spoiled. But if I take it back to the bar, Sean will rip my head off, and I’ve already dealt with him screaming at me tonight. He’s in a piss ass mood. Even worse than usual,” she grumbles before swiping a finger beneath her eyes, trying to fix her running eyeliner. “Can you take it for me?”
I cringe slightly as I stuff my notepad in the back pocket of my jean shorts. They’re faded and a centimeter shy from showing cheek. They’re paired with knee high baseball socks and a T-shirt that’s supposed to resemble a jersey, but it’s so old now that most of the number one on the back has peeled off. This beat up old jersey matches the rest of this place, though.
“This is my last night, Vick. I don’t want any shit from him,” I tell her honestly. “I just want to keep my head down, earn my tips and my last check, and leave.”
“I know, I’m sorry to even ask,” she tells me, before worrying her bottom lip. “But he told me he doesn’t want to talk to me again for the rest of the night.”
God, Sean is such a horrible boss. Vicky is pretty meek, so I feel bad that she even has to deal with a guy like him. I don’t like dealing with the prick either, but for the most part, I’ve just learned to shut up and take it. I’ve needed every damn penny from this job, and I couldn’t afford to lose it. “Alright, I got it. Just cover Home Base for me, okay?”
Vicky lets out a puff of relieved air. “Thanks, Delta,” she says before darting over to the table full of middle-aged men sitting at the back to take their orders. Her uniform is just as tight, short, and faded as mine, but we’re used to it by now. It’s not like Sean would actually order us new uniforms or do any kind of updates to this place. It’s not in his nature to give a fuck about anything other than himself.
Taking a breath, I try to mentally and emotionally prepare for having to deal with Sean. I already had to give him my abrupt notice, and he wasn’t happy about it. Didn’t matter to him that he put all of us out of work by closing the bar in the first place. Any inconvenience is like a personal affront to him.
I walk through the section of high top tables, half of them missing stools and looking more like kindling than a place anyone would want to sit for a fun night out of games and drinking. The floor is sticky under my sneakers, and I spy a spot on the wall where a signed picture of A-Rod used to be. Now there’s just a clear view of peeling paint and an empty, stained wall. Sean the Shithole probably pawned the photo, like he has most everything else in this place.
Back in this bar’s glory days, our uniforms were much more authentic and cute, rather than rundown and sleazy. The baseball bases on all the tabletops were shiny and unstained, and the bar shelves were decorated with pristine and protected signed baseballs between high-end liquor bottles. There was always a game on the flat screens, and we even had a cook who served epic ballpark food. But ever since Sean took over after his Uncle Ollie retired, he’s run this place into the ground. I hate that he ruined Ollie’s legacy.
Ollie was a damn good boss and an even better man. Smart, kind, and he treated this place with respect, including his employees and customers. I loved working for him, but as soon as Sean took over two years ago, I knew that everything that made this bar great was as good as done.
I used to like working here because it reminded me of my dad. He loved baseball. He took me to games when I was a kid, and we always gorged on hot dogs and soda while cheering from the nosebleeds. He worked in construction, so when he had a slow year and couldn’t afford tickets, he made sure we watched all the games at home together during the season. It was our thing. I still make sure I watch them every year on my own, and despite the fact that Sean has ruined Ballpark Brew, he damn well won’t ruin baseball for me.