Man Candy (33 page)

could make them pretty big if I

concentrated, but I mostly just loved the

soft poof they let out when they deflated.

Or the crackly pop they made when they

burst.

My first bubble popped, causing

Maya to glance over at me. She rolled

her eyes. She didn’t understand my gum

addiction, but I didn’t understand her

love of juicing basically everything.

Every day she came in with some new

mixture she had made up in her juicer.

She was convinced there was a tonic out

there for any ailment. I didn’t have the

heart to tell her it all basically tasted the

same. Like liquid grass.

She sidled over to me now with

today’s concoction. It smelled like old

carrots, but she was sipping it like a

martini.

“You are so weird,” I informed her.

“It’s good for the skin,” she insisted.

“Not that you have a problem with that,

you zit-less bitch.” It was said with

love.

“Hey, I’d kill for your hair and you

know that.” I told her. She did have

beautiful hair.

She flipped it over her shoulder.

“Juice, baby.”

I rolled my eyes. “Juice did not make

your hair that way. That’s all genetics.”

But Maya wasn’t listening. “Love

me, love my juice,” she said, heading

back to her end of the bar.

“That’s why you’re still single,” I

teased.

She gave me the finger. And a smile.

Best friend ever.

We had just opened, so the bar was

practically empty. Slow nights were

pretty much the only time Maya and I

could talk on the job.

I loved being a bartender, but

weeknights were the absolute worst.

Barely anyone came to the hotel bar

during the week. We got a few guests,

but most of the clientele worked nearby,

so it was large groups coming for our

Happy Hour deals. That meant a rush of

people ordering before seven and then

standing around nursing their $5 beers

while they caught up on work gossip.

Drinking was more perfunctory during

the week, which didn’t really equal a

flowing tap or chatting up the bartender.

Everyone would be driving home

afterwards and no one wanted to stay

downtown too late. For me, that equaled

a lot of time alone at the bar, standing on

my feet and waiting for them to leave.

I lived for weekends, the bar filled

with the crush of crowds from the hotel,

convention center and all the nearby date

joints. The air was always filled with

excitement and sex, and the adrenaline

could carry me all the way past closing

and beyond. On a night like that, I might

have held eye contact with Mr. Gin-and-

Tonic for a few seconds longer. Direct

eye contact was usually all it took to get

him to book a room in the hotel.

And all my relationships were one

night stands. I wasn’t interested in

relationships and even if I was, my life

just wasn’t set up for them. There were

too many other things in my life that

were way more important than coddling

some man’s ego. Because that’s what

relationships seemed to be. I had learned

that the hard way. Some guy who had

found my sexuality and sex appeal

exciting until we started dating – then it

had become a liability. Something to be

guarded and monitored. And if that

wasn’t bad enough, I found there was no

room in those relationships for the

person that mattered the most to me – my

brother.

Not a lot of people understood that

Mikey needed stability and routine. That

he wasn’t your average twenty-year old.

My brother had a form of Down

syndrome, which manifested in a lot of

obsessive behaviors, most of which

centered around his favorite show,

Doctor Who. There weren’t a lot of

people who could tolerate his single-

minded focus on the Doctor and his

companions. So there weren’t a lot of

people that I allowed to participate in

that part of my life.

My brother was precious to me. My

best friend, my biggest cheerleader. And

he came first. Always and forever. I had

yet to find a guy who understood that. A

guy who could put his own needs aside

to support me once in awhile. So I said

goodbye to being a girlfriend and

embraced sluthood fully. And never

looked back.

But I was a responsible slut. One

who had strict rules for one night stands.

Use protection, obviously. I was on the

pill and always had condoms in my

purse. Never go down on a guy unless he

went down on me first. You could tell a

lot about a guy by his expectations of

foreplay. The guys who weren’t

interested in my orgasm were ones that

didn’t get the pleasure of experiencing

theirs with me. I didn’t do selfish sex.

And last, but not least, I never went to

their house and never, ever stayed the

night, no matter where we were. I was

very much a wham-bam-thank-you-

ma’am and damn proud of it. It was a

policy that worked out well, though I

still joked with my fellow slut, Maya,

that we should get a commission from

the hotel for how much extra business

we gave them.

For the most part, there was nothing

better than a round of good sex to end

your evening, but tonight just wasn’t the

night. I caught Maya’s gaze as she was

taking orders at the other end of the bar.

With one single raised eyebrow, I could

tell she was feeling as bored as I was,

though she angled her head towards a

guy in the corner indicating that she

definitely wasn’t going to end her night

bored. She wasn’t as strict as I was with

her one night stands, when she made

them book a room at the hotel it was

because she wanted to stay at a five star

hotel and order something off the room

service menu.

“Lawyer?” I asked when she came

back to my side of the bar. The guy was

wearing an expensive black suit,

probably handmade, maybe Italian. That

meant money. In Los Angeles that could

mean lots of things, but despite the

obvious quality, it was still a pretty

simple, serviceable suit, which usually

was reserved for attorneys.

“Good guess,” she leaned down to

grab a bottle of seltzer. “Agent.”

I let out a whistle. “Suite or

penthouse?”

“Suite,” she pulled back the collar of

her shirt to show me the room key tucked

into her bra strap. “He’s only a junior

agent. But I’m still ordering the

waffles.”

“You’re obsessed with those

waffles,” I poked her side playfully.

“How many times have you had them

this month?”

She gave me a naughty smile.

“Four.”

“Damn girl,” I whistled, giving her a

once over, though I knew I’d never see

any evidence of those waffles on her rail

thin body. Though she was blessed with

a supermodel’s metabolism, Maya was

also kind of obsessed with fitness and

ran marathons like they were going out

of business. She was always trying to get

me to join, but the only kind of exercise I

was interested in was the kind that ended

with an orgasm.

“You don’t even know, Nicole,”

Maya licked her lips. “I don’t think

there’s anything better in life than great

sex followed by these waffles. They are

smothered in dulce de leche, topped

with vanilla ice cream.”

“I guess I’ll just have to take your

word for it,” I interrupted, not interested

in watching her get orgasmic over these

waffles. Again. Between the waffles and

her juice, she was obsessed. Besides,

getting a guy to order room service was

definitely not my thing. I didn’t have

time to linger after sex and I didn’t want

any of the guys I slept with to get the

wrong idea. I couldn’t risk them getting

attached and I’d had too many close

calls lately – men were so sensitive

these days.

I glanced back at Mr. Gin-and-Tonic,

who was still casting fervent glances in

my direction. And not “ooooh baby, the

things I would do to you” kind of

glances. The “you seem like a nice girl,

maybe my mom would like you” kind of

glances. Yeah, he was totally a long-term

kind of guy and I was not that kind of

girl. At all. Not anymore.

“What about you?” Maya glanced

around the bar, which was only about

one third full. Slim pickings and she had

definitely snagged the best option. Mr.

Junior Agent was watching her with a

gleam in his eye. A very specific kind of

gleam. One that promised sex. And

waffles. And never calling again.

“Anyone catch your eye?”

“Not tonight.” I turned my back on

Mr. Gin-and-Tonic. Definitely

relationship material. Definitely not for

me.

“Really?” Maya frowned. “No one?”

“They all scream commitment,” I

told her. “I’m on a bad luck streak,” I

crossed my arms. “The last two guys

practically begged me for my number

afterwards.”

She grimaced. “Ugh. Let’s hope my

agent doesn’t want to talk about his

feelings.”

“What is with guys these days?” I

asked. “It seems like half of them think

that when I say ‘one night stand’ I really

mean ‘but secretly, I want to be your

girlfriend’.”

“And they accuse our gender of

being the clingy one.” Maya rolled her

eyes. “Remember when that guy kept

sending flowers to the bar?”

“Peony Pete!” I laughed. “How

could I forget? He did not know how to

take no for an answer.”

“I know!” Maya giggled. “I know

I’m hot, but come on!”

“I would have sent you roses,” I told

her.

“That’s because you’re a classy

broad.”

“The classiest!” I readily agreed and

then sighed. “Why is a good one night

stand so hard to find?”

“You’d think it’d be a piece of cake

in Los Angeles,” Maya shrugged. “Guess

we’re just looking in the wrong place.”

“Not according to my mom,” I told

her. My mom was a tabloid junkie and

according to them, all the men in Los

Angeles were cheating on their wives. I

kept trying to tell her that she couldn’t

judge the entire population of a city on

the actions of a few philandering

celebrities, but she was still deeply

concerned for my honor. I didn’t have

the heart to tell her that my honor was

long gone. That it took off around the

first time that she did. But I was doing

my best not to bring that up. We were

starting over. She was trying. I was

trying. Which meant humoring her, a lot.

“My mom is convinced I’m surrounded

by manwhores.”

“I wish!” Maya exclaimed. “I

thought becoming a bartender would

guarantee an endless supply of men with

commitment issues.”

“Me too,” I shook my head. “I guess

we should have specified the kind of

commitment issues we were looking for.

Namely, the not-interested-in-it kind.”

“Men,” Maya sighed.

“Seriously,” I lifted my hands.

“Where’s a good manwhore when you

need one?”

Hours later, after Maya went upstairs

with her man-of-the-evening, I went

home to where my brother was parked in

front of the TV, watching the 2013

Doctor Who Christmas Special.

“Hey, buddy,” I ruffled his hair as I

passed by to drop my purse off on the

kitchen table.

“Twelve,” he pointed at the screen.

“Oh, is this the first time he shows

up?” I asked innocently. I was referring

to the twelfth incarnation of the Doctor,

who was Mikey’s second favorite. Or at

least he had been last week. The list

changed on a daily basis.

Mikey turned around and let out an

enormous sigh. I bit my lip, trying to

hide my smile.

“50th Anniversary Special,” he

reminded me, even though I knew. You

didn’t live with Mikey and not know the

exact moment a new Doctor was

introduced, even if it was only for a

brief second.

“Want to help me make some cheesy

noodles?” It was our little routine. Even

though it was almost 2am, I was usually

pretty hungry after my shift and

sometimes this was the only time I got to

have something resembling dinner with

my brother.

He nodded and even though he kept

one eye at the screen, he came into the

kitchen. Cheesy noodles was our version

of mac and cheese, with two boxes of

noodles and one packet of cheese.

Sometimes if I had a good week tip-

wise, I could throw in some chopped up

hot dogs. Unfortunately, tonight we had

to go hot dog-less. But Mikey didn’t

seem to notice, his eyes on the screen as

I heated a pot of water on the stove.