Rita
It’s not the kind of bar I imagined.
Scar Scarfoni is a martinis-in-the-lounge kind of guy. He likes high-end everything, from suits to cars to whiskey. He works hard, earns obscene amounts of money, and spends like he’s never heard of the word retirement.
He’s not shy about it, either.
But this place is a dive. There’s a drop ceiling-an actual drop ceiling with probably-not-but-maybe-asbestos tiles-and fake wood all over the walls. Neon signs advertise beers I’m pretty sure don’t exist anymore, and some ancient-looking faded pictures of retired Boston sports stars are tacked up on the walls-with actual tacks.
It’s quiet at four in the afternoon. Scar scowls around for a moment until he leads me to the far end and deposits me at the end of a curving bar in the shadows of what I assume must be a kitchen. Or maybe where they send discontinued beers to die. “You’ll stay here,” he declares.
“I thought the meeting wasn’t until six,” I say, blinking rapidly. “You want me to sit here for two hours?”
“It’ll be three or four hours by the time I’m finished.” He looks at me, head tilted. “Can you handle it, Rita?”
My jaw works. This man’s an absolute masochist. How he thinks it’s even remotely rational to ask me to do nothing but stare at my phone for three or four hours in a bar that smells like puke, cheap whiskey, desperation, and cigarettes, without at least a glass of wine, is beyond the pale, but fine, I’ve done worse.
I really need this job.
“I can handle it, Mr. Scarfoni.” I bat my eyelids at him.
He doesn’t like that. “Remember. Don’t come looking for me. The meeting will be in this bar, but we are strangers from here on out. The prospective clients don’t know you’re accompanying me, and I don’t want to risk losing their business over something so minor. Do you understand?”
“Understood.” Although I have to wonder why he’d bring me along at all. Maybe Mr. Grumpy-Asshole is afraid to fly alone?
Doubtful.
He turns to go, but stops midway. “And Rita? Let your hair down. You look like you’re at a business conference. You stand out too much.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “But you told me-” I stop myself before I get in more trouble. “Yes, Mr. Scarfoni.”
He grunts in reply before walking off.
God, the sort of things a pretty face can do for a man. Anyone else and I might’ve gone full-on crazy. The bastard told me to dress business-formal. But somehow, Scar gets away with being a total pushy jerk.
I tease out my hair, massage my scalp with my fingers, and order a club soda.
Time to settle in.
I have no clue where Scar went and I don’t care. There’s a baseball game on TV, which is just about the least interesting thing in the world, and the bar’s starting to get more crowded. I sip my drink, order wings and fries, and start texting anyone that might be around to chat. I start with my mom-no reply-before moving on to Cait.
Rita: You won’t believe where I am right now.
Cait: Mt. Everest? Are you losing your fingers just so you can text me? I am totally worth frostbite.
Rita: I doubt you get service at the top of Mt. Everest. And you’re not worth frostbite. Maybe a mild discomfort at best.
Cait: There’s definitely service at the top. You’d be shocked the sort of marvels technology can work.
Rita: I’m in the middle of a dive bar in Boston “working” right now. I’m actually on the clock.
Cait: Really? For your hot boss?
Rita: My hot asshole boss, yep. But I’m not allowed to drink.
Cait. WOW. He’s a monster!
Rita: You have no idea. I’m stuck here for the foreseeable future listening to the most cliche Boston accents discuss sports ball events I don’t really understand or care about. At least I have wings.
Cait: Are they any good?
Rita: That’s the worst part. They’re awful. And yet I’m going to eat every single one. Remember when I was vegetarian?
Cait: I do remember. When did that stop?
Rita: When I came to work for Mr. Asshole.
Cait: That’s Mr. Hot Asshole to you.
I grin to myself as I go back and forth with Cait for a while. In college, we were best friends, basically inseparable, at least until she met her now-husband Joshua (not Josh, Joshua). They got super into homesteading stuff, canning food, growing vegetables, wearing recycled whatever, composting, blah blah blah, stuff that I’d actually like and be super into if they didn’t make it some excessive competition. As soon as we graduated, Joshua used money he inherited from his rich grandparents to buy land out in Kentucky, and they’ve been there ever since.
Which means I’m sans-BFF. That wouldn’t be so bad, but I did my undergrad at the University of Pennsylvania, which means most of the friends I made are from all over the country.
I moved back to Texas and realized-I had nobody left, an ever-increasing debt load, and parents that recently decided they wanted to explore their sexual horizons, and apparently weren’t afraid to talk to their daughter about it.
Which is about as gross as it sounds.
Anyway, my parents are in Florida now.
The great Rita-exodus. Anyone and everyone in my life decided that when I returned to Texas, it was time to skedaddle.
Leaving me in a crappy apartment with my falling-apart car that’s one piece of loose duct tape away from being a total wreck.
The only decent thing I have going for me is my rock-climbing gym membership.
Which I really can’t afford, but I’m pretty sure I’d lose my mind if I couldn’t go climb at least once a week.
And I have Mr. Gorgeous-Asshole to follow around.