Megaballs

  “Hey, gorgeous girl, one more round of Heinekens when you get a chance, and another basket of bread,” one of the young guys rasps in my ear from behind, as he places his hand at the small of my back.

  “Yeah, of course, sweetheart,” I reply, paying more attention to the growl I think I just heard from across the way than the guy talking.

  I glance over to where Mr. Sexy Eyes is, and even though the phone is still glued to his ear, the frown on his face is definitely directed toward me and the Tappa Thatta Assa frat boys. His gaze briefly dips down to where the guy’s hand lingers on my hip then raises back up to meet mine, the possessive gleam triggering a flutter in my core.

  With an impish smirk, I turn to head to the kitchen to grab a basket of bread, but before I make it back out to the front of the restaurant, Paula catches me by the elbow.

  “Have you taken the gentleman at seven his dessert yet? I haven’t seen it come through,” she accuses, hands on hips, resting bitch face in full effect. “I’m waiting to make sure you don’t cause him any more problems before I leave. I know that spill wasn’t his fault, but the customer’s never wrong, Finley, so I didn’t argue with him. But you better make sure that man leaves here happy. He needs our tiramisu, and we need people like him eating here more often. Maybe if Johnny sees how he looks at me, he’ll realize how lucky he is.”

  I really have no idea how to even respond to that, so I simply nod, and mutter, “Okay. I’ll put in for a tiramisu.”

  Escaping her as quickly as I can, I fly through the swinging doors and skip up the service bar to grab Larry, Curly, and Mo their beers. As I circle my fingers around the necks of the bottles, I pivot to the left to head back out to my section, when I stutter-step as I notice Mr. Sexy Eyes isn’t in his chair. A seed of uneasiness plants deep in my stomach as my eyes dart around the restaurant, searching him out… but I don’t see him anywhere. That’s weird.

  Calm your tits, Finley. The guy is probably just in the bathroom or went outside to finish his phone call.

  I drop the Heinekens off without engaging in conversation then go to check on the rest of my customers, my attention ping-ponging from the front door to the hallway that hides the restrooms. Waiting for him to come back.

  Five minutes pass, and no sign of him. The seed sprouts.

  At ten minutes, I go outside to look for him, but come up empty. Roots develop and the seedling thrives on the steady stream of apprehension pumping through my veins.

  When I come back inside, Paula is mean-facing me through the round window in the door that leads to the kitchen. She knows something is wrong. She’s got the instincts of the mafia… which, now that I think about it, she probably is, but I don’t have to worry about that at this moment. I’ve gotta find Mr. Sexy Eyes. He hasn’t had his dessert yet — the tiramisu or the crème de Finley.

  My first thought is to barge into the men’s bathroom myself, but in the event he is in there with a case of the root beer bubble guts — he has had four of them since he got here — I’m sure that won’t be a visual I’ll want playing through my mind later when I’m naked underneath him. However… if there’s one person on this planet who could make shitting sexy, I’d bet it’d be him.

  But I’m not really wanting to take my chances and be wrong. Or lose my job when all the other customers who might be in there complain about the cocktail-waitress-gone-Columbo. This might be left-tilting San Francisco, but all-gender restrooms are not a thing. Yet.

  It’s now been fifteen minutes, and leaves are shooting out from the stalk. Before doing anything stupid, I ask one of the busboys to go check for me, but when he comes out and shakes his head no, flowers explode from my plant of despair and I realize the unthinkable has happened.

  He left.

  Rushing over to where he sat, I try not to assume the worst, but as I survey every inch of the small square table, all I see are some garlic bread crumbs sprinkled across the white tablecloth and an empty glass beer mug sitting on top of a piece of paper. I snatch up the piece of paper and skim over it as nausea rolls through me like a tidal wave.

  No… NO… NOOOOOOOOO!!!!

  A lottery ticket for the multi-state Megaball lottery with the numbers 05-06-09-12-14-25 stares up at me, and for several seconds, I just stand there. Frozen in disbelief. It’s then I notice there’s a message scribbled on the back, and when I turn it over, I read to myself, “Sorry, Finley, emergency came up. If you win, buy me a barrel of root beer and a lifetime supply of red licorice sticks. Good luck.”

  Good luck? Was he serious? Good fucking luck?! He already knew the terrible luck I was having today, and not only did he renege on his offer to turn it around with sexual favors, but his leaving without paying his tab, on top of everything else, safely puts this in my top five bad luck days of my life. Okay, maybe that’s a bit overdramatic, but it’s definitely top three of this year.

  Fuming, I storm off into the kitchen, the pressure in my chest increasing with every stomp of my feet. I want to scream… cry… throw shit… but I can’t do any of that, because, of course, Paula is waiting for me with a most displeased scowl on her face and a smirking Johnny by her side.

  “Where is he? Where did he go? What happened? What did you say to him?” she demands loudly, as all the other servers and the cooks watch on with wide eyes like they’ve got front row seats to a damn show. “He never got his tiramisu!”

  Sucking in a deep, not-as-calming-as-I-hoped-for breath, I shrug my shoulders and pretend like it’s no big deal. “He had a family emergency and had to leave. I’m sure he’ll be back another time for the dessert. He left happy, just like you wanted, Paula.”

  She narrows her black eyes on me and leans forward, her way of trying to intimidate me. “How do you know he was happy? Did he leave you a good tip?”

  “Yup, the best I’ve had since I started working here,” I lie, and force a smile. There’s no way I’m admitting to her that he left without paying, or I most definitely will be looking for a new job. I’ll use my own money to cover his meal and pray the karma gods pay him back for screwing me over. A lifetime of erectile dysfunction seems about fair.

  “Well, okay,” Paula huffs, crossing her arms over her saggy boobs, not knowing what else to say, “but I better see him back in here sometime soon, or…” As her words trail off, she realizes activity around us has stopped, as all the employees are more interested in our exchange than working. “What are all of you staring at?” she barks, nostrils flaring, arms swinging wildly around her head in a spot-on impression of Ursula from The Little Mermaid. “Am I paying you morons to just stand around? Get back to work! All of you! Or I’ll replace everyone tomorrow!”

  Like someone hitting the ‘play’ button, unpausing the scene, bodies begin moving and the normal hustle and bustle of the kitchen resumes. I exhale the pent-up breath burning in my lungs, relieved I at least still have my job. Turning around to head back out to the bar area, I pretend I don’t hear him, when Johnny calls out to my back, “I’m watching you, Finley Farewell!”

  I bet you are, asswipe. I bet you are.

  It’s a little before ten when I finally clock out and leave Impasta. I had been cut from the floor first when business started to slow down, which normally would’ve bothered me, but after the events of today, I’m more than happy to go home early. I rolled that damn silverware as fast as my little fingers would move then turned in my money to Johnny, ignoring his smug simper and roaming eyes. At this point, I’m just thankful I still made a little over three hundred dollars even after paying for the walked tab.

  Stepping out into the late August night, I wrap my arms around my chest and shiver, wishing I had remembered to bring my sweater with me. I’ve been in San Francisco with Farrah and Fiona now for a little over two years, and I still haven’t gotten used to the chilly year-round temperatures here, especially in what should be the dead heat of summer. I’m willing to bet it hit at least a hundred-and-five at my parents’ place today, and they probably thought that
was a cool front blowing through. One day, I want to live somewhere that actually has all four seasons, but for now, I’ll take the cold gray haze if it means I don’t have to work in a funeral home the rest of my life. Though, after dealing with the living population today, maybe I should rethink that.

  I tuck my chin to my chest and start walking toward the bus stop on the corner, hoping it’s not too long of a wait before the next bus comes by. Even though our townhouse is only about a mile away from the restaurant, and I often make the trek on foot when coming to work, I’m not stupid enough to do it alone at night. A twenty-one-year-old girl wearing a sheer top while walking the streets is only asking for trouble. And as much as I want to hurry to get home, with my run of luck today, I can only imagine what — or who — I might encounter. Better to not find out.

  Nearly a half an hour later, I hop off the bus and dart down the street to our house, grimacing at the convertible sports car sitting out front. The one that now has a parking ticket under the windshield wiper flapping in the wind, mocking me. I grumble out a string of choice curse words as I trudge up to the front porch, ready to rip my sister a new one if she’s still awake.

  Unlocking the door, I step inside to find Fiona sitting on the couch watching reruns of Hell’s Kitchen, while Farrah snoozes next to her. The stale smell of smoke lingers in the air, and instantly, like a bad spell of déjà vu, tears fill my left eye and begin streaming down my cheek. At this point though, all I can do is swipe them away and laugh at the absurdity of it all.

  My niece’s beautiful face lights up when she sees me as she hops off the sofa and rushes to hug me. “Aunt Finley, you’re home! How was work? Did you make lots of money?”

  “Hiya, squirt!” I exclaim, scooping her up in my arms and kissing her forehead. “I did pretty good. Enough to buy us a new microwave tomorrow,” I tease, as I tap the end of her button nose.

  She scrunches up her face and hangs her head. “I’m super sorry about that. I promise it won’t happen again.”

  “I know you are, Fi. Don’t worry about it,” I reply, ruffling her curly blonde hair as guilt for making her feel bad stabs me in the gut. “Things like that are bound to happen when you’re training to be a Junior Masterchef, right?”

  “Right.” Her bright, toothless smile reappears as she nods up at me. “Are you hungry, or did you eat at work?”

  “I ate a little bit while I was there, but I could sure use one of your signature ice cream sundaes. Do you wanna make me one while I take a quick shower and change out of these smelly clothes?”

  With another nod and a kiss on the cheek, she skips off to the kitchen to get started on my order. If I’m not getting an orgasm tonight with the hottest businessman on this side of the Mississippi, a coma-inducing foodgasm with one of Fiona’s sundaes is the next best thing.

  I untie the short apron from around my waist and set it up on the bar, pulling the wad of cash out and laying it next to it before disappearing back to the bathroom. After a fast, scalding hot shower, I change into a tank top and cotton pajama pants then hurry back out to the living room for my dessert and to watch a little TV before bed.

  I settle in to my ‘spot’ on the worn recliner just as Fiona emerges from the kitchen, carrying a ginormous bowl filled with brownies and vanilla ice cream, topped with chocolate syrup, caramel-covered popcorn, cinnamon, and two cherries — one for each of us. She crawls up onto the chair with me as I scoot over to make room for her narrow frame, a position we often find ourselves in together late at night.

  “Looks delicious, squirt. Thank you,” I tell her, with a big grin as I grab one of the spoons.

  For several minutes, the only sounds in the room are Farrah’s soft snore and Gordon Ramsey’s bitter British voice giving the winning chef of the show a backhanded compliment, while Fiona and I destroy the diabetic’s dream in my lap. Neither of us bothers to get up to snag the remote when the local news starts, but after the anchor runs through a quick summary of the day’s headlines — most of them dreadful and depressing — she announces that there was one winning ticket in the two-hundred-and-seventy-million-dollar, multi-state Megaball lottery drawing earlier in the night. The numbers flash on the screen as the news goes to a commercial break and I unintentionally growl at the reminder of the ticket Mr. Sexy Eyes left. The ticket that cost me nearly fifty bucks of my own money.

  “What’s wrong, Aunt Finley?” Fiona asks, her gaze bouncing back and forth from my face to the TV.

  I shovel another bite of creamy, calming calories into my mouth, waiting to swallow to answer. “Oh nothing, Fi. Just some idiot at work tonight left me a lottery ticket instead of paying for his meal, and seeing those numbers reminded me of it.” And of his stupid, gorgeous face.

  Her big brown eyes grow wide with optimistic yet unrealistic hopefulness. “What if it’s the winning one?” she whispers, like other people might be listening. “We could be rich!”

  I chuckle and shake my head. “We have a better chance of getting struck by lightning and getting bit by a shark on the same day than we do of winning the lottery, squirt. He was just a good-looking man with bad intentions.”

  “Did you keep the ticket? Maybe he was like your fairy godfather.”

  Shrugging my shoulders, I glance up at the bar where I left all my stuff. “Yeah, I think it’s up there with my money, but it doesn’t matter. It’s not the winner and I’m not Cinderella.”

  Fiona scampers off the recliner to look for the worthless piece of paper. I hate for her to get her hopes up over something that’s never going to happen in a million years, but it’s probably best she learns now not to believe in miracles like winning lottery tickets or magical fairy godparents. It doesn’t take her long to find it mixed in with the dollar bills, and with a promising smile she rushes over to grab the remote control, rewinding back a minute until the winning numbers are paused and displayed on the screen.

  Her head bobs up and down as she checks number-by-number from the paper to the TV, then back to the paper. I sit and watch, waiting for the inevitable look of disappointment to wash over her face, purposely saving some of the melted dessert for her to help me finish off before bed. But when she finally turns to look at me, her expression is unreadable, and all she says is, “Maybe I should call you Aunt Cinderella, cause today is your lucky day!”

  Ice cream flies through the air as I spring to my feet, the biggest glob landing directly on Farrah’s chest. With her eyes still closed, she shoots up from the couch with an earsplitting shrill, and yells, “For the last time, Pepe, no more frozen chocolate bon-bon boobies tonight!”

  Finley

  “OPEN UP, BIG boy,” I prompt, a wicked smile tipping up the corners of my mouth as I straddle Mr. Sexy Eyes’ chest, wearing only a lacy bra and matching thong in the same shade of red as the strawberry I’m dangling in front of his face.

  Slowly lowering the fruit between his parted lips, I hold firmly on the stem while he sinks his teeth into the ripe berry and moans around my fingertip. A sharp surge of desire shoots through my body as pink juices seep out and trickle down the sides of his face, pooling in the craters in his cheeks. The mere thought of it being my own sticky nectar smeared across his perfect mouth causes my upper thighs to clench and my hips to rock forward slightly as I hiss in a sharp breath through my teeth.

  “Delicious,” he rumbles, as his eyes drop to where our bodies touch, my panty-clad pussy pressed into his washboard abs, desperate for friction to soothe the sudden ache in my core. “But I was hoping for something a little… sweeter.”

  My ovaries cry tears of joy under his heated stare that I think can literally dissolve the thin fabric of my lingerie straight off my body. A whimper escapes from me, and his eyes snap back up to meet mine, a smirk playing roguishly over his masculine features.

  “You have something in mind? Maybe some cheesecake or tiramisu?” I try to play off the overwhelming effect he has on my body with a little bit of sassiness, but I barely get the last word out before I??
?m flipped onto my back and pinned between his solid frame and the mattress. I try not to hone all of my thoughts in on the thick steeled shaft wedged expertly between my legs, but when it twitches against my clit, I close my eyes and purr like a damn cat in heat. Oh, dear Mother Mary, I’m in trouble.

  His lips brush softly across mine before he leans down, and growls in my ear, “Shut up, Finley. A good woman never lets her man go hungry.”

  A tiny something in my brain whispers that I should be offended by his comment for the sake of women’s rights activists over the last century, but him referring to himself as ‘my man’ trumps all else and I find myself nodding in agreement, as I rasp, “Well, by all means then, this good woman’s dessert buffet is open for business.”

  Susan B. Anthony can roll over in her grave all she wants; I need his mouth on my body. Stat.

  Gradually sliding down my body, he unfastens the clasp on the front of my bra and immediately palms my full breasts as they’re liberated from the lacy restraints, massaging them and rolling my nipples between his fingers until they’re tight and tingling. My head rolls back onto the pillow as he captures one rosy peak between his teeth, flicking it with his tongue then sucking and kissing it before worshipping her twin sister.

  “You taste sweet as candy, darlin’,” he chuckles, raising up long enough to catch my stare, “but I’m still hungry. I need more.”

  “Yes, more,” I beg with pleasure and a lazy nod, while burying my fingers in his thick hair and squirming underneath him. “Eat lots more.”

  Mr. Sexy Eyes slides his way down toward the foot of the bed, leaving a fiery wake in his path of kissing lips and nipping teeth against my hypersensitive skin, until he’s kneeling between my spread thighs. With one sudden jerk of his arm, he rips the thin scrap of scarlet material from my body and tosses it to the side, and the depths of his blue-green gaze that once seemed infinite, darken into a molten sapphire stare as he focuses on my exposed pussy.