Megaballs

  Once his heated gaze firmly locks in on my boobs, I sweeten the deal. “I’ll stay late and do extra side work tonight. Rolling silverware, polishing the taps, whatever you want…”

  “Whatever I want, eh?” he asks in his creepy Italian accent, while slowly sauntering in my direction. Stopping less than a foot away from me, he doesn’t bother tearing his black eyes away from my chest when he licks his crusty, pale lips. “And what are you gonna do to keep me from writing you up for wearing a dirty and wrinkled uniform? You know you’re breaking rule fourteen-dash-one-little-b under the employee handbook’s guidelines?”

  Is this guy fucking for real with this shit? I bet his wife makes him read the handbook while she’s spanking him at night.

  It takes everything I have not to roll my eyes and smart-off about whatever rule — not to mention law — that addresses sexual harassment, but again, I remind myself that keeping this job is vital. The tips I earn here are, by far, more than I’ve earned at any other job I’ve worked at before, and if Fiona’s going to continue her path to culinary greatness in our kitchen and Farrah’s going to bring a damn sports car home for no reason whatsoever, I apparently need to make all the money I possibly can to keep us from living in a box under the Golden Gate Bridge.

  Typically, Farrah and I just ask our parents for extra money when we get in a jam, and they give it to us after a long lecture about the importance of budgeting for unexpected events, but just a few months ago, they announced they were investing most of their liquid assets into an expansion of our family’s Phoenix-based funeral home business and sending my brother to Scottsdale to open two new homes.

  Yeah, I know… Farewell Funeral Homes — fucking hilarious, right? Kids at school used to have a field day with our last name and the fact my family is just as comfortable around dead people as we are around living ones. And if you’d have asked me back then, I probably would’ve told you I preferred the dead people on most days. Still do, if I’m being honest. People are assholes.

  “My shirt is dirty?” I play stupid.

  Swallowing my pride and pretending to be an idiot leaves a tart bitterness in my mouth, but I can only assume it tastes better than some stranger-who-is-desperate-enough-to-pay-for-sex’s jizz will if I end up hooking on the streets to pay rent. Plus, I really need those new bras and panties.

  At least with Johnny, I know this is a game that will never go anywhere. The man is all talk until Paula, his five-foot-nothing Italian wife whose parents own the restaurant, shows up, and then he morphs into a pathetic, pussified excuse for a man, who cowers to her every demand. It’s truly a spectacle to watch him run to fetch her a drink each time she shakes the ice cubes inside her empty glass in his direction, or drops to his knees to rub the arches of her feet when she complains about having to stand for more than fifteen minutes at a time.

  Seriously, the guy is a spineless schmuck who gets off on the miniscule amount of power he has over the restaurant’s employees, which in and of itself makes him even more of a douche-canoe. So back to the original point I was trying to make, no, I don’t have any problem allowing him to think he’s in control if it means keeping my own ass out of trouble.

  “Yeah, there’s marinara sauce on the shoulder and what looks like dried, uh…” Johnny’s face turns as red as a pepperoni when I tug on the hem of my shirt, purposely causing the neckline to dip down far enough to expose the white lacy edge of my one decent bra while pretending to inspect it for stains. “Y-yeah, there’s some dried white something on the chest area.”

  I see the splotch of alfredo sauce he’s referring to and chuckle to myself. I really want to lie and tell him it’s splooge from when I blew the guy from table eleven last night in the bathroom and really mortify him, but I’m afraid he may think of it as an invitation and not realize I’m just being a smartass, so I refrain.

  “No one should notice that tiny spot unless they’re staring directly at my boobs, and with the affluent, high class of clientele we have here, I’m sure that won’t be an issue.” I smile my fakest smile, nearly choking on the thickness of the bullshit coming out of my mouth. “And I’ll get that marina off the sleeve with a wet nap from behind the bar.”

  Grunting, he adjusts the perma-chub he sports in his pants and nods.

  That’s it, old man. Succumb to the power of the titties. You know you want to.

  “All right, Finley,” he croaks, his Adam’s apple bobbing hard, “just don’t fucking let it happen again. I’m tired of paying people overtime ‘cause you can’t get here on time. You owe me fifty silverware before you leave. And if Paula shows up tonight and says something about your shirt, you’re on your own with that.”

  “No problem. Thank you so much, Johnny,” I reply, as relief courses through me.

  Rolling silverware sucks ass, but at least I’m not going to be filling out applications tomorrow. I whirl around to go clock in and thank whoever’s been covering for me, and with a dramatic sigh, I push through the swinging doors and plaster on my fake I-love-waiting-on-you-hand-and-foot smile, instantly forgetting all about sleazy Johnny as I focus all of my attention on draining these loaded fucks of every last dollar I can. It’s game time.

  After I clock in and tie the short apron that holds my pen and notepad around my waist, I slip Julia a twenty-dollar bill to apologize for being late and thank her for covering for me.

  Snatching the money from my hand, she smirks, and tells me, “All my tables have cashed out except for the JT over at seven. He just sat down a few minutes ago and ordered a root beer, the non-alcoholic kind, if you can believe that crap. But he is wearing a Rolex, so there’s still hope.”

  Laughing, I pivot on my heel and head toward the lone businessman at table seven—or JT’s as we like to call the good-looking ones, because of Justin Timberlake’s song “Suit & Tie” — to introduce myself and let him know I’ll be back shortly with his drink. Do grown-ass men actually drink old-timey root beer?

  However, when I approach, he’s on a phone call, and from the sharp tone of his voice and the choice words he’s growling, it’s not a very pleasant one. Quietly backing away before he detects my presence, I rush back up to the bar to get his drink first, thinking he’s probably going to need it after all that grumbling.

  Retracing my path back to the grouchy JT who ends his call when I approach with his root beer, I have to bite my lip to refrain from making a snarky comment about his beverage choice, considering he is in the bar area and all. I pour the frothy, dark brown liquid into the mug and set it atop the white tablecloth in front of him. Then, just as I open my mouth to ask him if he wants to start with an appetizer, like our award-winning calamari or bruschetta, the man peers up at me from his phone and I’m dumbstruck by the devastatingly gorgeous face staring up at me. To call him a JT is a complete disservice to his utter hotness; Justin Timberlake only wishes he’d look this good.

  “I, uh…” Words fail me as my brain goes on the fritz while I can’t stop gawking at him.

  His dirty blond hair — short on the sides and back, longer up top — is finger-styled so perfectly it looks like he came straight from the salon chair. All hard, straight lines and uber-manly, his clean-shaven jaw shows off his flawless complexion that radiates with a natural tan that could only be earned by spending hours out in the sun.

  And his eyes… sweet Mother Mary, those eyes. I’ve never seen anything like them. A unique blend of blue and green, they remind me of the crystal clear waters of Havasu Falls, where my family used to vacation every summer. Hypnotizing. Captivating. I could swim in his irises all night long. Preferably naked.

  “Yes?” he prompts, as he cocks his head to the side, rudely interrupting the laps of skinny dipping I was in the middle of. “You were saying something?”

  “I was?” I ask absently, unable to pull my gaze from his despite the heat of mortification burning my cheeks and continued lack of brain activity.

  His perfect forehead wrinkles with a mixture of what appears to be
agitation and alarm as he leans closer, his stare intensifying. “Are you okay? Is there something wrong with your eye?” he asks, pointing at my eye.

  My hand flies up to my face, covering the still-leaky red eye, and I nod like an idiot. “Oh yeah, I uh… uh, there was a fire earlier and I got poked in the eye, and then all the smoke… but I’m okay now.”

  “A fire?” His own eyes grow wide as he leans in his seat, looking past me and over to the doors leading back in the kitchen.

  “Oh, not here. At my house, before I came to work,” I rush to explain, as I lower my hand back down to my side, inadvertently banging the table with my knuckles in the process.

  Since Lady Luck is apparently at odds with me today, the contact with the wood not only sends a sharp pain shooting through my hand to my wrist, but also jostles the full mug, causing root beer to spill all over the tablecloth and onto his lap. You’ve gotta be kidding me. I’ve been here less than ten minutes, and it’s already a nightmare.

  “Shit,” he hisses, pushing his chair back from the table as I reactively grab a napkin off the table and start cleaning up the mess.

  “I’m so sorry, sir. So, so sorry,” I apologize profusely, while bending over and dabbing at the wet spots on the front of his navy pants, my scrambled brain not registering what I’m doing until my fingers brush up against the bulge behind his zipper and it stirs underneath my touch.

  Wincing, I let go of the napkin and stumble back away from him, my face now blistering from the humiliation of the entire interaction. At this point, I can pretty much kiss any idea of a big tip goodbye. I just need to get his order and get the hell away from him before I do anything else stupid that might lead to a complaint about me to—

  “Finley! What in the world are you doing?” Paula shrieks, as she rushes from the front door where she just walked in, over to me and this poor man, who is still trying to dry himself. I really must’ve done something to piss karma off.

  “I-I-I didn’t mean to,” I stammer, my focus darting back and forth between my incensed boss and the businessman. “It-it was an accident. I’m sorry.”

  With a menacing scowl etched deep in the lines of her face, she shakes her head, and grumbles, “And the marinara on your shirt? Was that an accident too? Your shift started less than a half hour ago. Next thing I know, you’ll somehow catch the kitchen on fire.”

  A snicker escapes the hot piece of man-candy, and I hear him mumble, “Too late.”

  My chin snaps to the side as my jaw drops open, but I quickly recover when I see the laughter twinkling in his beautiful eyes, which somehow makes them even more spellbinding than before. Before I can sputter any other stupid words out, he shifts his focus to Paula and says the last thing I ever expect.

  “The marinara and the drink were both my fault, ma’am. I seem to be having a run of bad luck today, messing up everything I touch,” he lies smoothly, as the corners of his perfect lips slowly curve into a smile to slay all smiles I’ve ever seen before. Complete with a dimple cratering each side of his cheeks, the look he gives her is so damn magical and mesmerizing I’m pretty sure I hear birds singing in nearby trees and see the sun shine through the windows, piercing through the layers of gray haze resting low on the city to land directly on him. Shit, an angel may have even gotten her wings.

  Paula sighs like a teenager who just got her first kiss by her dream crush and her entire body relaxes, no longer stiff and on high alert. “Are you sure, sir?” she asks, batting her eyelashes while turning her back on me to face him completely. “I’d be happy to offer you a free dessert for any trouble she may have caused. It’d be my pleasure.”

  “That’s not necessary, but thank you. Finley here,” he leans slightly to the left to meet my gaze, mischief written all over his face, “hasn’t caused any trouble, but if she wants to serve me up something sweet after my meal, I doubt I could say no to her.”

  And another pair of panties that will need to be replaced…

  Paula, who seems to suddenly remember I’m standing right here too, looks over her shoulder at me and clears her throat. “Our guest’s streak of bad luck ends here at Impasta. Make sure he’s well taken care of and he gets all the dessert he wants,” she commands, then stalks off to the back of the restaurant, yelling for Johnny.

  Dumbstruck by whatever just happened, I watch her until she disappears into the kitchen, then turn back around to face him. “Wha— why… what was that all about?” I finally spit out.

  “Look, I’ve had a shit day, and between a fire, getting poked in the eye, and spilling a drink all over your first customer of the night, it sounds like you have too,” he assumes correctly. “So I thought I’d help you out. Maybe one of us can get our luck turned around.”

  With an easy shrug of his shoulders and a wicked glimmer still dancing in his eyes, he reaches up with the napkin he’s holding and swipes at the spot of tomato sauce on my shoulder. The gesture is kind and considerate, but when he pulls his arm back, my head jerks toward him and causes me to stumble forward and fall in his root-beer-dampened lap, my hand grabbing his crotch the only thing keeping me from face-planting in the same spot.

  “Owww!” I hiss through my front teeth, as I attempt to hurriedly stand back up, but I can’t and pain shoots sharply through my scalp again, nearly bringing me to my knees. Now wouldn’t that be a sight for Paula to walk back out and see — me on my knees while groping his junk through his trousers. Hey, she did tell me to make sure he was taken care of.

  “Hold on, we’re stuck together,” he announces, as if I hadn’t already figured that out. I’m not sure how he managed to get his watch caught in the bottom part of my braid while swiping at my stain, but he did, and now it’s a knotted mess.

  I watch helplessly as he tries to untangle his wrist from my hair, and if the situation isn’t bad enough, my dirty mind can’t help but wonder what it’d be like to be at his mercy in a completely different scenario. One that, again, involves me being naked with him. Good heavens, get a grip, Finley.

  I realize he’s making no progress on separating us, so I grab hold of my braid with one hand and his corded forearm with the other, and yank my head upward as hard as I can, finally freeing myself, ripping out at least twenty strands in the process.

  Rubbing my head at the root of the pain, I can’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness of this entire interaction. It’s like anything and everything that can go wrong for me today, has done just that. Is it Friday the Thirteenth and I didn’t realize?

  “Sorry about that,” he apologizes, concern wrinkling his forehead. “Are you okay?”

  I shake my head and wave him off with a light chuckle. “No worries. I’m good, and we’re even now. Thanks again for covering for me with my boss. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it,” I say sincerely. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do, get you a dessert or whatever. I’m really sorry I got you all wet earlier.”

  “Maybe I can return the favor later, after you get off tonight,” he proposes, hiking an eyebrow up in a sexy smirk as he leans in, and whispers, “I prefer to eat my dessert in bed.”

  The pain from the hair debacle dissipates immediately as my insides melt into a warm, sugary goo, and suddenly, by the grace of the great sex goddess above, I remember how to flirt. “What about crumbs in the sheets?” I whisper back, playing innocent.

  His gaze falls to my exposed cleavage and his tongue sweeps over his bottom lip, triggering my thighs to clench together as I suppress a moan. “I lick up every last drop, darlin’. Nothing goes to waste in my bed.”

  I’m about ready to tear off this damn apron and drag Mr. Sexy Eyes out the door, insisting he eat his dessert first. I don’t give a shit if it ruins his appetite or not. But a second before I act on my impulse, the hostess comes up behind me to let me know she just double-sat me.

  Mr. Sexy Eyes overhears her and grabs his menu, scanning it quickly. “I’ll have the chicken marsala and another root beer for here,” he announces, purposely brushin
g his fingers over mine as I take the leather-bound binder from him, “and a crème-de-Finley to go. Heavy on the sugar.”

  Unable to muffle the giggle that bubbles up in the back of my throat, I nod and grin. “I’ll go put your order in now. The dessert may take a while to prepare.”

  “I’ve got nowhere else to be,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “Just keep the root beers coming, and whatever you do, don’t start any more fires. At least, not without me.”

  Finley

  THE NEXT HOUR flies by as the bar area at Impasta rapidly fills up with people getting off work, ready to put another week at the office behind them with a drink or two and few laughs with friends. I easily find my groove between the numerous customers, balancing serving food and drinks with small talk and entertaining, but my attention never strays far from Mr. Sexy Eyes, who has been on the phone ever since he propositioned me to be the dessert in his bed later tonight.

  Though I’m not usually a fan of one-night stands, as I’m reminded daily of what the result of one can be when I look at the fire-starting Fiona, I’m also not an idiot. This guy is hands-down the best-looking human being I’ve ever laid eyes on, like one of those people you think only exists in magazines after numerous rounds of Photoshop edits. That, or he’s a gay GQ male model, but he definitely seemed interested in my sweet girlie parts. And in addition to the magnitude of his sheer physical awesomeness, he also lied to keep me from getting in trouble, so I definitely owe him a thank you and an orgasm. Right? You know, a tit for a tat kinda thing. Make up for however I pissed karma off earlier.

  I feel his eyes follow me even while he talks on the phone as I flit around the cocktail area, especially when I’m near a group of three fresh-out-of-college banker boys who compliment and flirt with me every time they call me over for something. Not a one of them is even close to my type, or on the same planet of hawtness as Eyes, but I play along with them, milking their tip for as much as I can while simultaneously enjoying the hard stare of displeasure radiating from table seven.