No Pink Caddy (ACE Book 1) (3 page)

A set of purple and gold Mardi Gras beads dangle lazily from a branch of an oak tree reaching like a man stretching over the pot-holed road. They’re a bit faded from the months of sun and rain, but they make me smile. Festival season will soon be here.

Eddy’s Bar is two blocks north and then one block west. It’s the definition of a neighborhood watering hole. You’ll never see it featured in the
Big Easy City Guide
. It’s owned, shockingly, by a guy named Eddy. He’s probably fifty, looks seventy, and acts twenty. No one else is employed at Eddy’s Bar but Eddy. He even cleans the joint. I asked him once why he doesn’t have waitresses, a bar back, or janitorial help. His answer? “Who the fuck wants to deal with payroll?” I’d offered my human resources services in exchange for free drinks. He’s never accepted my help.

The bar is long and thin and sandwiched between Joe’s Muffuletta shop and a dry cleaners owned by Whistling Willie’s niece and her husband. See, this is why I refuse to leave my neighborhood. Where else can you have a quarter of a muffuletta and a cold beer all while dropping off thrift store clothes at my favorite homeless guy’s niece’s store? The answer is nowhere.

“Evening,” Eddy growls as I walk into his establishment. The walls are brick and the ceiling is covered in tin tiles. Benches line the walls, with tables and chairs on the other side. There’s a stage as you walk in and in front of the only window, but I’ve never actually seen anyone perform here.

I wave as I walk past him. “Hi Eddy. How’s it going? I’ve missed you too.”

Eddy doesn’t respond but I didn’t expect him to. He pops the cap on a beer bottle and slides it down to Doctor Jared.

I survey the scene, spotting Ivey and Cherry (not their real names, but it’s what they go by) at a table in the back of the bar. They’re strippers at one of the chain clubs on Bourbon Street and share an apartment about a block from here.

Big smiles and waves are exchanged. They yell for me to join them over the music Eddy has blaring.

“Cherry, those are some fab shoes.” I point at her glossy red high-heels probably six-inches tall. They could be taller. I’m a terrible estimator. My leg goes straight. “Look, my boots are like their ugly cousin who is only let out of the basement for a family reunion.”

“We’ve got to do something about your clothes, girlfriend.” Cherry scowls as she eyes my appearance. “Men don’t like frump and you’re Exhibit A: Frumpy.”

Some might find this insulting. Not me. Anytime Cherry or Ivey, for that matter, give me fashion tips, I do the opposite. I’ve thought about featuring them on my YouTube channel. I bet girls could learn a lot about their sexuality from strippers.

Ivey asks, “You need a drink?”

“Always.” I nod.

While she does a controlled fall/wobble to the bar, I take a seat and check out the rest of the crowd. It’s pretty light. Cherry begins updating me on her sister’s Maury Povichish drama with her baby-daddy while I let the story go in one ear and out the other.

There’s someone who I don’t recognize sitting in the other corner of the bar by the window and stage. He’s by himself. The bar is dark, only lit by the amber glow from old sconces which line the wall, so it’s hard to make out his features. He’s wearing a fedora, which further shades his face, a plaid shirt, and jeans. People-watching is one of my superpowers. In less than two seconds, I can make up the life story of anyone I observe. Unfortunately, I forget sometimes what’s true and what I’ve fabricated.

Case in point is Jared, who slams the beer that Eddy opened for him. When he first started coming here, I imagined he was an oil rig worker who was on his ten-day leave. That was why he had a stubbly beard and looked exhausted. I maybe mentioned the story to Ivey and Cherry, who ran with it. Turns out Jared is actually Doctor Simpson who runs Charity Hospital’s ER. I visited with him one night. His wife left him because he works too much, but he can’t seem to slow down. When she gave him the ultimatum to give up some of his hours or she was going to leave, he bought her a house down the road and had the divorce papers drawn up. That’s actually a true story. I didn’t make it up. Now, every time he comes and goes from his house, he sees her new husband’s car in the driveway and her son’s tricycle on the porch. He said that’s why he hangs out at Eddy’s.

“I tried to offer him my services, but he didn’t want a piece of Cherry,” she says as she drags her bright red fingernail through the condensation ring on the table.

I must look at her with a puzzled expression thinking she hit on Doctor Jared because she replies, “Loner in the corner.” She gestures at the guy in the fedora. “He was scratching in a notebook and didn’t even look up.” Cherry adjusts her rather large breasts while she shares her encounter.

“Well, you know if he’d actually taken a look at you, he wouldn’t have been able to say no.”

“That’s what I’m sayin’.” She winks. Her lips are the reddest shade of red possible. I always marvel at her makeup. She wears so much. And it’s dramatic. If I wanted to wear that much, I wouldn’t know how to mix so many colors and shades and highlights and paints as she does to achieve her look.

We laugh as Ivey places three drinks on the table. “What’re y’all talkin’ about?” She cocks her hip and gives us a conspiratorial wink.

Cherry fills her in.

I spend the next hour buying them drinks while I quiz the girls about their sexcapades. I go to Catholic mass every Sunday and went to an all-girls Catholic School until college. I feel like my religious parents handicapped me in the sex department.

Ivey and Cherry are a wealth of information. Sometimes they’re referred to as “my friends” when I’m making a video or writing about dating.

At eight forty-five, they give me a hug each and head to work, and I make my way to the bar. The place has filled up with a few more regulars who all greet me warmly. This is my home away from home. Not that I drink all that much—okay, I do, and these people are my friends and neighbors. We’ve built a community around this watering hole.

I slide onto the bar stool next to Jared. “How ya doin’?” I ask, concerned about him. He looks worse than normal and reeks of alcohol. His head is hung and his stubble is entering beard territory.

“Just found out she’s pregnant again,” is all he says while he takes another sip of his drink, which is no longer a beer and so strong that I can smell it combined with his body odor. I signal for Eddy to call him a cab. We take care of our own at Eddy’s Bar.

“I’m sorry.” I don’t think there’s much else to reply with. I am sorry. I’m sorry he couldn’t step away from his career for long enough to be a husband. I’m sorry that he can’t get over her. I wish I could fix his problems, but instead I’ve made him my cautionary tale. The role of Doctor Jared is played by my fictitious friend Carl. He teaches my followers about making sure they aren’t getting serious with a man who’s married to his career.

I spot the bright yellow cab out of the corner of my eye. “Jared, it’s time to go home.”

My heart aches. I’d give anything for a man to love me like Jared loves his ex-wife. If I knew who she was, I would knock on her door and beg her to move away from him. What’s she’s doing is cruel.
Like you using Tripp as a date when you know how he feels about you.

Doctor Jared looks at his drink and then at me with large glassy, watery eyes. “But I’m not finished.”

Kissing his cheek and giving him a side hug, I say, “You’ll feel better tomorrow.” Biggest lie ever told, but he needs to leave.

Standing up, I take Jared’s hand and help him to his feet. He’s been drinking for a long time or had a lot of drinks in a short time—I’m not sure which, but I’m not prepared to support all of his weight when he drapes himself over me. We both tumble to the ground in a heap. On the way down, I gracefully hit my elbow on the thick wooden bar and my head on the cement floor.

Both injuries scream with pain. Well, that’s not entirely accurate I decide. My head aches, and my elbow throbs. Jared’s knee is in my crotch and he uses my shoulder to push against so he can sit up to examine me. Doctor Jared is determined to make sure I’m okay, but in his sloppy, drunken state, he gropes my chest.

If Eddy has security cameras, I’m sure he could make a wheelbarrow-full of cash off of our antics. I’m trying to get a medium-sized fortyish grown man off of me while said grown man sloppily tries to examine my injuries. He keeps mumbling, “Sorry MmmmKaaaa.”

It’s awful. He’s squishing me and I’m not strong enough to push his lethargic weight off. Then, all of a sudden, Doctor Jared is removed from my pelvis and taking his
tune in Tokyo
hands with him.

I sigh in relief as I begin determining if I’m actually injured. Rubbing my elbow helps disperse the throb. It’s fine. Reaching up, I try to pinpoint where the ache is in my head.

Closing my eyes for a brief moment helps keep the room from spinning. When I open them again, the fedora-wearing stranger stares down at me with an ugly little
V
between his wide, gorgeous blue eyes.

“You okay?” His accent isn’t Cajun.

“Yeah,” I reply as I try to sit up. He kneels next to me in this crazy yogaesque pose. My teacher would be super impressed with his flexibility. He places two hands on my shoulders and applies enough weight that the meaning is clear. I’m to stay here until he thinks I’m really okay.

“You hit your head.” His voice is raspy but sweet with a melodic quality to it. I can’t explain it but well, I like it.

“Not hard.” I reach back and touch the source of my pain, causing me to wince.

He uses his fingers like a comb and runs them over my scalp. I must admit it has been a long time since someone made me want to purr. It’s as good as a shampoo head massage at the salon.

“Hard enough.” His face is thin, but his cheek bones are high and defined. I’ve only seen sculpted features like his on male models, but there’s a ruggedness to him that screams he’s never walked a catwalk in his Calvin Klein underwear. He’s older than me, but I can’t decide how old. Lines spider from the corners of his large, almond-shaped eyes, and I wonder if they are a permanent feature of his face or if they’re present from concern.

My elbow no longer throbs but my head is foggy. I don’t think I’ve drank enough to earn this discombobulated feeling so it must be the knock I took.

“My boobs suffered quite a beating. Maybe you should examine those.”
Sweet Mother of Jesus, did that just come out of my mouth?
My Catholic prim-and-proper mother just grabbed her rosary and said one hundred Hail Marys on my behalf. I’ll blame it on the two rum and Diet Cokes I’ve had. No. It was the bump my head took. Yes! It knocked my brain-to-mouth filter off-kilter.

He drops his head back and laughs. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down on his long neck. I’ve never thought an Adam’s apple could be sexy, but on Fedora Guy, it could be considered pornographic. That’s when I notice his perfectly straight white teeth. They’re actor or newscaster white. Nobody has naturally white teeth like that, but then I get distracted by his full lips. They’re a shade of plum and look swollen, as if they’ve been stung by bees. They’re so pouty. He’s very pretty, but in a bad boy sort of way. I immediately determine he’s a reality TV star. Then, my brain reminds me that I watch most of the big shows and I don’t recognize him. Maybe he isn’t famous. The super-white teeth could be because he’s vain. That’s not out of the realm of possibilities. His shirt, jeans and boots tell me he’s probably an oilfield worker. But then there’s the fedora . . .

His fingers pinpoint the source of pain. “I feel a knot. That’s good. As long as there’s a knot, you should be fine.” He reaches under my arms and helps me sit up. He positions me against the leg of a fixed-in-place bar stool.

“Really, I’m fine. Let’s just pretend the boob comment’s because of the bump on my head.”

Immediately, his eyes travel south. A grin plays across his lips. “S’okay. They’re nice tits. I can see why that asshole went for them.”

My face flushes with anger and my blood pressure spikes. “You don’t know him. Don’t call him names. Doctor Jared is going through some rough times. Trust me. He would’ve never behaved that way if he hadn’t been trying to pay off Eddy’s credit card debt.”

“Sorry. Call ’em as I see ’em. He injured and took advantage of a pretty young girl.” Fedora Guy pulls the eyelid up on each of my eyes. “Are you dizzy?”

“No. I’m really fine.”

“I’m going to help you to your feet. If you start feeling funny, let me know.”

“Kay,” I respond, and offer him my hands.

He grasps them, and his callused fingers smart against my smooth, moisturized skin. Desk job hands meet working man hands. Theory is correct. He does something in the oil and gas industry.

Once I’m standing, he grips my hips and stares into my eyes. “Still okay?”

I feel as if I’m being probed, but then this beautiful little smirk pulls his left cheek up and I find myself smiling back.

The fog has cleared. “Yes. I really think I’m fine. Just a good knot to show for my efforts.” I reach back and grasp my hair into a ponytail, so thankful I wore my unused rubber band as a bracelet, while my bangs still cover my eye. I’ll give Eddy credit. He keeps one hell of a clean bar. There’s not an ounce of sticky bar yuck in my hair.

At full height, he’s a head taller than me—well over six feet, but the fedora could be adding inches. He’s also thin, but muscular. His red, plaid flannel shirt skims his chest and arms nicely. It doesn’t look like it was purchased in the men’s department at Wal-Mart. The buttons look higher quality. That’s one of the tricks of thrift store shopping—check the seams and buttons for workmanship.

He takes my hand, and I note how well we fit together. I have large hands for a female. Most of the time when I hold hands with a guy it’s awkward, like we can’t find a way to lace our fingers together. With Fedora Guy it feels natural, as if we’ve been holding hands like this for years.

He leads me to the table where he was sitting. As we walk, I glance around, noticing Doctor Jared is gone and so is the cab. Someone must have helped him leave.