Big Girls Get the Blues (2 page)

He’d hooted when he laid eyes on me, and actually said, “Oh yeah, I love it.  We can start having fat chick night once a week!”

I could have flicked him off, or slapped him, or called him an asshole. 

But
I punched him in the teeth.

M
y father, Arthur D’Angelo
,
didn’t raise any wimpy children
—e
specially his little girl.  He taught me to throw a
mean
right hook by the time I was seven.  And I had never been one to suffer fools gladly.

So when I punched the owner of
Temptations
in the teeth, I rung his bell and knocked out one of his front teeth.

They called the cops, but the officer that showed up—a burly man in his early forties by the name of Bradley—just laughed
his ass off and let me off without even a warning.  He couldn’t stop laughing long enough to say more than “Go…”
 

With j
ob number three
I didn’t even get out of my car.  I’d emailed my resume and a recent picture to a want ad I found
in
The Tribune
. 
The man who called me the next day to do a phone interview had a slight German accent—or maybe it was Russian…who knows nowadays? 

He asked if I could start that night.  There was going to be a special party, and he needed extra help for it.  I’d start my regular shift the day after.

The Bar was called
Fat Freddy’s
.  It was way up Bishop Avenue, and off down a wickedly
twisty
alley.  I stopped at the front door.  There was a dim, fizzling blue neon sign that proclaimed the building was
Fat Freddy’s
.  The windows were blacked out, and the front door was thick oak with no windows.

But what bothered me most was the huge honking gray wolf that sat on its haunches in front of the door.  Its eyes burned like yellow flames in the darkness.  It let its mouth
lull
open to show me a
nightmare
of sharp, sharp teeth.

I stamped on the gas and got the hell out of there.  I watch
True Blood
, and if that wasn’t a freaking werewolf my ass was a size two.  I didn’t need any more drama in my life
, s
o living La Vita Sookie Stackhouse, or Anita Blake…or even Buffy
, wasn’t a turn on.

So now I was off to job number four.  I was pretty sure it wouldn’t wield any real excitement—my dad had gotten me the job for crying out loud.

I was dressed in tight fitting jeans and a top—though fashioned out of silk—that had enough material to actually cover my ample assets.  After all, the clientele where I was headed mostly had seventy percent heart-blockage…the rest carried around portable O2 tanks.

I had my hair done up in a kinky curly twist.

My new job was tending the bar at the VFW on the South Side.  The place wasn’t even on East Carson Street.  It was so small it didn’t even rate a parking lot.

But when I walked into the little bar I found it merrily busy, a mix of young and old ex-military sifting around, being sociable, real smiles on their faces.  A young guy behind the bar spotted me and waved me over.

I moved gingerly through the crowd, not wanting to accidentally knock any of the frail old guys—or their frail old wives—on the floor.  Breaking a patron’s hip would be a hell of a bad way to make a first impression.

“So what can I do for you, beautiful?” the guy behind the bar asked
.  Hi
s
smile
was
nice, his dimples just adorable.

“I’m looking for Vince.  I’m supposed to start work tonight.”

His smile dimmed and he lost the dimples.  “I’m Vince,” he said, and then wiped a hand over his face.  “Can we just forget my possibl
y
inappropriate greeting and start over?”

Crap!  Not here a minute and I already had the freaking manager walking on egg shells.  But at least it hadn’t been my fault.  He
’d been
the one that had started flirting.

“Relax,” I said, taking a look around the bar and pulling my denim jacket off
and handing it to him
to keep behind the bar.  “I used to work at a strip club—” Vince’s eye brows shot up. “—as the bartender!”

His mouth made a silent O.

This was going to be fun.

“So I’ll start by bussing the tables out here real fast,” I picked up a serving tray from the end of the bar, “And after I get the refill orders, then you can give me the abbreviated tour.  Okay?”

Vince breathed out a sigh of relief, and then handed me a black apron.  So I got to work, collected the empty glasses and beer bottles,
taking
refill drink orders as I went.  In less than ten minutes the floor was cleared, and everyone was happily sipping their fresh drinks. 

Vince  invited me behind the bar and showed me the quirks of the cash register, told me the drink prices—I’d guessed pretty close already—and then took me into the back to check out the liquor  storeroom and the cooler.

That’s when I noticed Vince had a limp.  Nothing too noticeable, but it definitely looked painful.

“Did you get that in the Army?” I asked, and then
realized I had just met the man.  Asking how one got a limp wasn’t something you just nosily asked the moment you meet someone.

“Nah,” he said with a good natured shrug.  We were headed back out to the bar area.  “I was born with this.  But my dad was in the Marines, so he helped me get this job right out of high school.

“Oh,” I said, mentally berating myself for being such a tactless nib-nose.  God
,
I hoped he didn’t tell my dad I’d asked that.  Arthur D’Angelo would tan my hide, even at the age of twenty-nine.

Patsy Cline was singing about walking after midnight when we got back to the bar proper.  I told Vince that he could go take care of any paperwork he needed to get to
in the back
.  “I’ll be fine.”

“Okay,” he said, and then leaned in to whisper, “You don’t look a thing like your dad.” And with that one final possible flirt, Vince walked back to his office.  I tried not to evaluate his limp.  I was a nurse…well, I hadn’t worked as one since six months after I graduated, but I still had my license up to date.  But I knew I wasn’t a physical therapist.  So I really didn’t have any way of evaluating anyways.

The night went quickly.  I served some mixed drinks, a lot of beer, and a few shots.  By the end of the night I was hungry—the VFW only offered pretzels and chips—and though the patronage tipped with every drink, I think I only had about fifty bucks in my tip cup
.

That was depressing.

But I liked it there, and the customers were polite—not one of the old guys had even pinched my ass.  Maybe after I found a good paying job I’d keep this one part-time.

The crowd had thinned out when my dad sauntered into the
building
and took a seat at the bar.  I gulped.  I was actually going to serve my father a drink?

But when he looked at me, a proud smile on his lined, handsome face, I could
n’t
stop myself from smiling back.

“Bud?” I said, raising an eye brow.

“Lite,” he sighed, patting his thickening middle.  “Your mother has me on a diet.”

I had to smile.  My mother wanted to keep my father in mint condition.  If she could have, she’d have left him in the original packaging
…with bubble wrap.
 

I popped a bottle of Bud Lite and set it down on a cocktail napkin.  Dad pulled out his wallet to pay and I held up my hand.  “Your money is no good here.” And I pulled a couple bills out off my tip cup and cashed him out.

“You know I’ll leave a big tip anyways,” he said with a knowing grin.

Yeah, I knew that too.

He picked up his beer, took a pull and set it back down.  And then he made to get up.

“Now I have to go to the head.” My dad said miserably.  He liked getting old just about as much as
my
mother liked him getting old.

The Head is the restroom.  My dad
had been in the
Navy
for twenty years
.

He strolled on back to the men’s room, smiling and greeting friends as he went.  My dad was a popular guy.

And just like the curse he was, Quinn walked into the bar the second my dad disappeared out of view. 

Damn, damn, double damn…

His melted chocolate eyes shot straight to me, and I literally felt a hot surge of bald faced lust shoot up from my suddenly inflamed nether regions.  My nipples even got hard.

He smiled as if he knew my body was happy to see him, even if I wasn’t.  He came over to the bar and took the seat right next to where my dad’s drink sat.

Oh, this was going to be awkward. 

So how do you know my little girl? 

Oh, I just had sex with her a couple times—once in the strip club, and once at her apartment, in her bed.

Fucking fabulous!

“This bar is for members only,” I said flatly, crossing my arms over my
chest
…well, under my breasts.  Girls with breasts like mine ha
ve
to settle for crossing our arms under our breasts.  It was just another cross to bear.

Quinn pulled out his wallet and handed me his membership card.  He was a member of the VFW in Bloomfield.  That meant he lived not far from
Frisky Kittens
.

“Your dad in the service, or do they just let ex-cops join out of courtesy? 

His smile didn’t waver but his drowning deep
brown
eyes did sharpen.  “I was a Marine
: s
erved in
Afghanistan
and in
the Gulf.”

I gulped.  This guy was a constant surprise.  And this surprise made me feel really bad for giving him a hard time.  My dad had taught me to have respect for those who were
or
are in the armed forces.  He’d tear me a new one if he thought I acted any different.

“What can I get you then?”

His eyes softened…and he looked me up and down.  I was pretty sure what he was thinking.  But he said, “Jack, neat.” And I turned and poured him three fingers in a rocks glass and sat it down in front of him.

He nodded and took a gulp.  He wiped his thick, delicious looking lips on the back of his hand.

“We need to talk.”

No…no we d
on’t
.
  “I’m at work.”

Quinn surveyed the bar and then shot me with a knowing look.  “It’s dying down, so I think you can spare a few minutes.”

“It’s my first day.  I don’t think the manager would appreciate it.”

He sighed and slouched for a beat, but then straightened and shot me straight through with his sexy gaze.  “I’ll just follow you home after your shift, so you might as well—”

“What did you just say?” my dad said, cutting Quinn off and placing a white knuckled fist on the bar right beside Quinn’s drink.

I’d never heard my father speak in anger.  He was a real raid back guy.  But he was
an ex-Navy officer, and he didn’t take discourtesy well, especially when he heard it being heaped on his little girl.

Quinn turned and stared at my father.  “That’s no concern of yours.”

Okay, that wasn’t a good thing to say…

Dad leaned forward, and when he spoke his voice rang with hard edged anger.  “That’s my daughter you’re speaking to…so it damn well is my concern.”

Quinn had been turning away from my father, but jerked his gaze back to him, his spine straightening, and the miffed expression draining from his face, replaced with a sudden wide-eyed respectfulness.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Quinn said clearly.  “I didn’t know.  I apologize.”

“You shouldn’t be talking to any woman like that, son.  I hope you’ll remember that in the future.”

“Yes sir, I will.”  Quinn actually looked genuinely relieved when my dad straightened and took another pull of his beer.

“Now, tell me son…”
—
Uh
oh
—“H
ow do you know my
Bev
?”

Please, please, please don’t tell him the truth!

Quinn looked to me and I tried to relay
EDIT!
in the wide, desperation in my eyes.

“Well, sir…I know your daughter from her former place of employment.”

Okay, that wasn’t too bad. 

But my father’s face turned bright red, and he set his beer down hard enough to sound like the gabble of a judge. 

“So, you must be that Quinn
fellow
I’ve heard about.”  My father turned and glowered at Quinn.  “That would make you the reason my daughter had to quit her job.”