I’ve worked up a sweat stripping the beds, hauling trash from the room and wiping up all the messes and I’m down to vacuuming when I see the glitter all over the carpet.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I mutter.
The vacuum picks up a little of the glitter, but I have to get on the floor and lint roll most of it up. It takes forever, and I silently curse whoever thought glitter was essential to the party last night.
When I knock on the door of Jake’s suite, I’m prepared for our inevitable verbal sparring match. There’s no answer so I run my key card through and let myself in.
The suite is empty. No strippers or hot, towel-wearing assholes in here today. I clean in silence, surprisingly feeling slightly disappointed Jake isn’t here.
His trash cans have no used condoms and the place is nearly spotless. There’s a towel hanging over the shower door in the bedroom and the bed was slept in, so I know he was here.
I smile when I see a bottle of his fancy bourbon on the kitchen counter, an empty shot glass next to it.
A life like Jake’s is foreign to me. I’ll never be able to afford a suite like this, even after I finish school. I was a little unfair to him, insinuating that he doesn’t work. I could tell from the lines of muscle up and down his body that he works hard. He just does a different sort of work than I do and he gets paid a hell of a lot more.
He doesn’t have to be an ass, though. If I were rich, I wouldn’t bitch about the size of my bottled water.
When I’m done cleaning, I take my bag of dirty linens down to the laundry and return my cart to the housekeeping storage room. Fortunately, I don’t run into Tony.
When I’m done with work I clock out and walk to the library, glad I threw my accounting textbook into my bag. I study for a couple hours and then head home to change clothes for my shift at Lucky’s.
In theory, I’m opposed to wearing a low-cut shirt to get more tips. But in practice, I’m broke, so I wear a black scoop neck T-shirt that’s respectable but still shows a little cleavage. I slide into my favorite, most worn-in jeans and dark ballet flats, take my hair down and put on makeup.
Lucky’s is only a little over a mile from home, so I always walk there. When I arrive, most of the customers in the bar are eating dinner. I won’t be busy for another hour or two.
With wood planked walls covered in framed news clippings of old Chicago news and other throwback memorabilia from the city, Lucky’s has lots of regulars. It’s got a good atmosphere. The owner, Gary, only has music from the ’80s and ’90s in the jukebox, so I spend my nights here listening to Bon Jovi, Debbie Gibson and Michael Jackson.
I head behind the bar to make sure I have plenty of clean glasses and a full stock of ice to start my shift.
“Hey, Miranda,” another bartender named Tommy says.
“Hey.”
“How’s it going?”
“Fine.”
I have to be careful not to be overly friendly with Tommy or he’ll ask me out. It’s happened a couple times already. He seems like a nice guy, but I’m just not interested.
“You got a boyfriend?” he asks, brushing his shaggy blond hair out of his eyes.
“No, I’m not dating right now. Too busy with school and all.”
He nods and doesn’t press it any further. I’m relieved when he leaves and I take over the bar. Traffic picks up around seven and I get into a rhythm of making drinks and keeping track of who needs a fresh one.
I’ve just finished making six strawberry daiquiris for a group of women when I look up at the next customer and my eyes meet a familiar gray-blue gaze.
“Hey, Miranda,” Jake says.
I lower my brows, confused. “What are you doing here?”
He shrugs. “Came by with a buddy for a drink.”
“We don’t have Evan Williams 23 if that’s what you’re planning to order.”
“Can I get two Heinekens?”
“Sure.”
He’s wearing a black baseball hat with his team’s logo on it, a plain gray T-shirt and an unbuttoned flannel. For some reason I never pictured him looking so ordinary. Probably because I know that underneath his clothes, Jake’s anything but ordinary.
“How’s your night?” he asks when I set two opened bottles of Heineken in front of him.
“It’s good. You want a tab or should I close you out?”
“A tab would be good.”
His eyes stay on me as he takes a swig from one of the bottles. I feel a stirring sensation in my belly. Apparently my body didn’t get the memo from my brain about not liking Jake Birch. Worried he’ll see interest in my expression, I turn my back to him and go to the other end of the bar to clean up empty bottles.
I sneak a few looks around until I see him standing at the end of the bar with a tall blond guy. He looks like he’s in his twenties, too. Jake is broader in the shoulders than the other guy.
A couple women start talking to them and I sigh inwardly. It’s that easy for a man like Jake. Just show up somewhere and here comes the pussy.
I force myself not to look at them again, sure Jake plans to shoot me a smirk as he’s leaving with one of the women. But fifteen minutes later, two barstools clear and Jake and his friend sit down on them.
“Another Heineken?” I ask, looking back and forth between them.
“Miranda, this is my teammate Tuck,” Jake says. “Tuck, Miranda.”
“Hey.” Tuck gives me a small smile and a wave.