Brett
SHIT, them waitresses can’t get enough o’ me!
Sure, that might sound like a slice o’ heaven to most men, but for me it wasn’t nothin’ but a fuckin’ pain in my ass. And I aimed to squelch the romantic hopes of each and every one of them fresh-faced college gals who was fixed on gettin’ themselves a little taste of their wrong-side-of-the-tracks boss man. Yeah, might as well add “turnin’ off horny chicks” to my already jam-packed job description.
Most of the time I got that there job done real easy-like, with a coupla sharp words and one of them “evil eye” dirty looks that I was so good at. But there was this one particular young lady—yup, there was always one bad apple in the bunch—who I just couldn’t manage to shake off. No, sir. Fuckin’ determined, that’s what Megan Trasker was. That there cocktail waitress had them coffee-colored cat eyes o’ hers superglued right onto my ass, which wasn’t no public property. In plain words, I didn’t have even a spark of interest in the girl, seein’ as I wasn’t no longer on the market—y’know, all married off to Cory. Not to mention that she wasn’t interestin’ to me, neither.
The rest of the male population who frequented the B&G didn’t share my lack of interest in the so-called “sexy” Miss Trasker. Them Leighton University wanna-be studs couldn’t barely keep their paws offa her pushed-up boobs and her sturdy, jeans-clad ass. So’s this here situation led to what I’d started callin’ “the damsel in distress game” that Megan liked to play. With me. Which sucked.
IT WENT like this: first, Megan Trasker’d flirt her curvy ass off with Tom, Dick, and/or Harry. And I mean, she’d tease ’im real good ’til the guy got himself a stiffy, and she got herself a response. Next, one of ’em drunken losers would make his move; he’d ask her out, grab her arm, or follow her to the bar. Got the picture? Then all of a sudden, hot-to-trot, “come and get me, boys” Megan morphed into Polly Purebred, all sugary-sweet and innocent as the day was long. And you got yourself one guess ’bout whose job it was to save that bitch’s round ass.
Yes, one knight in shining armor, Brett Taylor, at your service!
And this fucked-up routine was surely gettin’ old.
Looked like another round of “the damsel in distress game” was in progress tonight. Yes, sir. After once again failin’ to score with yours truly in the walk-in fridge earlier in the evenin’, which was apparently Megan’s Plan A, she’d moved on to what I’m gonna refer to as Plan B. So’s she proceeded to drape herself all over this tall, skinny (and super clueless) dude who sported a spiked-up jet-black Mohawk hairdo. Yeah, Mohawk-man pretty much thought he’d died and gone to friggin’ beautiful-babe heaven when light-haired, dark-eyed Megan’s big tits got stuffed right into his face as she’d served him a beer, droolin’ all over him like he was the cat’s pajamas.
In no time at all, he started firin’ off his pickup lines, real noisy and disruptive. Prob’ly already mostly drunk, he was. “Hey, Miss Meggie, where you been all my life?”
Standin’ over by the bar, I could already see where this shit was headin’. Downhill, and fast.
Then one of them pointy boobs got pretty much thrust into the dude’s left ear when Megan leaned over to serve his buddy a brew. “Where do you think I’ve been? Right here, waiting for you, honey.” She kept the volume of her voice on the down-low, ’cause it wasn’t part o’ her game for me to know that she’d been leadin’ him on. But still I could hear her flirtin’ words, since my ears was always perked up for trouble. That there was a part o’ my job.
A soft giggle, a coy smile. Five, four, three, two—“Hey, shithead! Get your hands off my ass!”
I looked over. Just as expected. Guess I can predict the fuckin’ future.
“Brett, Brett! This asshole is manhandling me!” Tears of outrage soon followed. Also expected.
Only because it was my fuckin’ job, I was at Megan’s side in a flash. She wasted no time before turnin’ to me and smashin’ that there hefty set o’ boobs into my ribcage. And for the record, I gotta say that Mohawk-man looked real confused—nah, I’d hafta call that there expression he was wearin’ shell-shocked.
“This animal can’t keep his dirty hands to himself!” Now them crocodile tears was rushin’ like the Colorado River in springtime. “Can I take a minute… to collect myself… in your office?”
I was real proud of myself ’cause I didn’t roll my eyes at her none. See, this here type of scene happened with Megan at least three times each week. “Sure, go on ahead, Megan. I’ll come talk to ya in a coupla minutes.”
Meanwhile Mohawk-man was kinda stutterin’, “B-but, sh-she wanted me. Really, she d-did.” Snappin’ out of his state of horny-shock and divin’ headfirst into pissed-off-ness, he was. “She w-was asking for it!”
Well, that line wasn’t gonna fly at this here bar. I’d seen my own Cory get harassed plenty enough at the Downtown Pub; I wasn’t about to allow no attitude like that fly, not even if it was aimed at trampy Megan. “Sir, I’m gonna hafta ask ya to leave the bar. There ain’t no touchin’ the waitstaff allowed at this establishment, see?”
“But ask anybody—she was coming on to me!” The dude looked around at his buddies for support, but alls they did was shrug and kept suckin’ on their brews.
“Let’s not make this into no big problem ’tween us. It’s simple, sir, ya grabbed ahold of a server, and that ain’t allowed.” Everybody in the bar’d got real silent, and they was gawkin’ at us like we was a made-for-TV movie. Thankfully, Mohawk-man stood up, plucked his jacket offa his stool, and made for the door, all the while shakin’ his head and cursin’ a bit.
I felt it was my duty to shout out after him, “Don’t wanna see yer face ’round here for a month o’ Sundays! And when you do come back, if ya hafta, sit on yer fuckin’ hands!”
Dealin’ with Mohawk-man was the easy part.
Now comes the tricky shit.
After I made sure that all was settled down in the bar, I knew it was time to check on Megan, who was waitin’ for me in my office. Openin’ the door wide, and bein’ damned sure to leave it that way, I could hear the sounds of snifflin’ and whimperin’. Yup, Megan’d planted her cryin’ ass right onto what I sorta thought of as “Cory’s spot” on the couch.
Cory’s spot. Just the thought of the sweet kid made me wanna smile. Surely did.
“’Scuse me, Megan…. Um, I just wanted to let you know that I kicked that there dude outta the bar, and he won’t be comin’ back here for a long while.” Them sniffles still got louder. Okay, looked like I was gonna hafta try a measure harder here. “Um, one more thing—I’m real sorry that happened to ya.” Duty done, ’s far as I was concerned.
So’s why ain’t she gettin’ up offa Cory’s spot and makin’ tracks to the door?
Nothin’ usually goes like you plan it, huh? But on the bright side, the girl’s tears’d pretty much stopped. On a dime, more’r less, which had to make ya wonder some.
“Thank you sooooo much for saving me, Brett. I was sooooo scared!” And in less than a millisecond that there girl’d launched herself right up offa the couch and into my stiff arms.
Workin’ to untangle myself from them perfumey curls and clingin’ arms, I said, “It’s my job to look out for all of the servers—it’s my job.” Uh-oh… I was pretty sure that them pointy-nailed fingers’d got locked solid ’round my neck. “Megan, you gotta let go o’ me, huh?”
Loosenin’ her hold just enough to lean back and look in my eyes, Megan continued with her evenin’s agenda. Let’s refer to it as Plan B, part 2. “You really came to my rescue in there…. How can I thank you?”
I did this kinda karate-spin-kick-thingy (minus the kick part) so as to unhitch the girl offa me the rest o’ the way, and then, like in that kid’s game, I took me one giant step backward. “Ain’t no need to thank me. Was just doin’ my job. Now, I figure that you’re gonna want the rest of the night off, to calm yerself down, right?”
I got this kinda coy nod from Megan: head tiltin’ down, eyes tiltin’ up. Got the picture?
“And I’m gonna have one of them bouncers walk you back to yer dorm.” Got myself grabbed again, I did, this time by my shoulders.
“I want you to walk me home.” Them hands slid right down my arms to my hips. Uh-huh, I’d heard this here song and dance before a time or two… or two hundred.
“Well, I’m sorry, Megan, but I gotta get back to work. You’ll be real safe with Billy Miller. He can take ya back, so’s try to relax and enjoy yer evenin’ off.”
Shit on a shingle! Them spidery fingers was climbin’ north, up my chest now.
“No, Brett… I want you to take me home. And when we get back to my place, I can show you my appreciation for how you saved me from that asshole. It’ll be fun.”
Not on your fuckin’ life, Trasker; this here’s a married man yer propositionin’!
Enough was sure as shit enough. I sorta batted her hands offa my chest, and none too gently, I must admit. “Sit down, Megan.” So’s the pair of us sat down on the couch; I was careful to plant my ass on the opposite end from the spot where she’d planted hers. “We gotta have us a talk.”
Megan’d already started poutin’ like a schoolgirl, so’s she musta sensed the direction I was headin’ in. “What do you wanna say?”
Knowin’ that it usually scared folks off, I started out by sendin’ a level eight (on a scale of one to ten) evil glare her way. Just to set the stage, so to speak. Well, I figured at least it couldn’t hurt, right? “It’s like this, Megan: I am engaged to get married. Got me a fella’ who’s wearin’ my ring.”
The girl fired back with a “so, what?” kinda look. Yup. Silent, but deadly.
“I ain’t even slightly interested in messin’ around with nobody else.” That there was plain-speakin’, huh?
“But your boyfriend doesn’t even have to know that we got together.” Before I could say nothin’, the chick’d lunged across the sofa and had landed her ass pretty much in my lap. “Just come back to my place and we’ll see what happens—it doesn’t have to mean anything—”
I stood right on up, and Megan kinda half slid and half fell to the floor. “I ain’t interested.” And I shook my head hard, not givin’ her so much as a “you okay?” glance.
“Don’t you want to get a little girl-on-boy action?” Standin’ up slowly, she reached behind herself to untie her apron, all casual-like, as if we was discussin’ somethin’ as dull as the weather. “Everybody knows that you’re not even gay.”
Them words hit me like a slap. Took me a second to find my voice, but when I did, I fuckin’ yelled. “I said I ain’t interested, and I ain’t gonna explain myself to the likes of you! So’s you’d better hear what I’m tellin’ ya, Megan, or go find yerself another job, got it?” I hoped the bitch’d quit right there on the spot, but I didn’t have me no such luck.
She sorta strutted all wiggly assed across the room to the door. “It won’t hurt me any if you want to keep on fooling yourself into thinking that you’re gay.” Megan turned around and looked back at me with what I took for an expression of pity. “And I’m perfectly fine to work the rest of the night. I’m not about to miss out on a whole night of tips for nothing.” And with a haughty flip of that shaggy rug of light-brown hair, the girl was gone.
Well, at least I thought she was gone, but I ain’t never been a particularly lucky dude in most areas of my life (’cept for in gettin’ Cory). So’s a moment later, after I’d let my breath whoosh out and my shoulders slump down in relief, that there cat-eyed gaze was back in the doorway, starin’ me down once again. “And one more thing, Brett Taylor, keep in mind that I’ll be around when you come to your senses and realize that you’re straight as a fucking arrow.”
Now it was my turn to be shell-shocked. Alls I could do was stand there and gawk at the now empty doorway. But soon my mind went and got all cluttered up with thoughts of Cory, and how opposite he was from Megan. How sweet and pure he was, how classy he always acted, and how he was the smartest person I’d ever met. Mostly I was just glad that I had a person like him to go home to every night and call mine.
And I decided right there and then that Cory wouldn’t never learn about all of the disgustin’, slutty shit that went on with girls like Megan Trasker. What the kid didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him none. I’d make goddamned sure of that.