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6-Good Grief

PIPPA

Darla, Kat, and Mike sit at a table in the back corner, right next to the jukebox. The tune for the moment is “The Stroke" by Billy Squire. At a quarter a song, the music plays continuously during open hours.

“Hey, Pippa!”

Darla’s dark curls bounce on her shoulders as she waves. Kat, her cousin, busies herself by brushing the crushed husks from an empty stool. In looks, the girls could be sisters. They have the same dark hair, oval faces, and fawn colored skin. Darla’s eyes are hazel while Kat’s eyes are a rich deep brown.

Kat pins me with a hard stare, and orders me to “Sit here, Pippa,” as she points to the now-clean chair.

Well, duh.

“Actually, I was going to sit over there,” I say, pointing to the opposite corner. “Away from you guys.”

“Yeah. Yeah. You know what I mean,” Kat says, flashing me the stink eye. “Next time you can clean off your own damn stool.”

She dusts her hands together. The disintegrated hulls fall from her palms and fingers like fairy sprinkles. After an eye roll in my direction, she picks up her fruity drink, taking a long drag from the straw.

I peel a few peanuts and pop them into my mouth. Inwardly, I smile at Kat’s feisty attitude. Working with Kat for two weeks, I’ve come to learn that way deep down, she’s a nice person. She’s been a great mentor, and I’m thankful for her tips on Mr. Sayle’s likes and don’t likes.

From what she’s told me, the man is hell to work for.

For instance, Kat has warned me never to be late with Mr. Sayle’s breakfast. I’m also supposed to keep my workstation neat, because he hates clutter, and if I’m the last one in the area, I’m to turn off all of the equipment because he hates waste.

“And whatever you do," Kat had said, peeking around me and then looking under her desk for eavesdroppers, “don’t fuck up. Mr. Sayle will fire you as soon as look at you. I’ve seen it happen.”

Since Kat has been so helpful, I tolerate her attitude. But Darla doesn’t. She lets out a loud sigh as she gives Kat the evil ojo. “Reign it in, Kat,” Darla snarls. “Pippa will think you’re a bitch.”

Since there is blood between them, they can call each other whatever they want, but I’ve heard the word "bitch" once too often to just use it randomly.

Kat throws a peanut at Darla. It bounces off her right breast and lands in her drink. Darla fishes it out with a long nail, the whole time cursing her cousin under her breath.

Uh oh.

Something has happened to cause discord between the Puerto Rican Princesses. The negative atmosphere surrounding our table is now thicker than London fog.

“All right girls, simmer down. No need to have a fight over little ol’ me,” I say, holding up my hands in surrender.

“Yeah, they’ve been going at it ever since we got here,” Mike mutters. Kat shoots him a look that would fry an egg in minus ten-degree weather.

Poor Mike.

He has the hots for Kat, but is too shy to make his intentions known. He comes up from the IT floor to visit, his eyes on Kat the whole time as some lame excuse falls from his lips.

Meanwhile, Kat does nothing but act oblivious.

When I asked Kat about Mike she’d said he wasn’t bad, he just wasn’t aggressive. She figured he wouldn’t know the first thing about how to please her in bed.

At the time I rolled my eyes. On the outside, Mike looks wholesome, but on the inside, I sense he can put it down and lay a woman out. His wiry frame is full of cord-like muscles, dark, untamed hair goes past his collar, and the gray eyes behind his vintage glasses are stunning, a beautiful, glowing silver like a newly minted nickel. With his own apartment, and car as well, the man is a catch.

Too bad Kat doesn’t think so. It’ll be her loss if she misses her chance.

Shrugging off my denim jacket, I place it on my lap, rolling up my sleeves before getting down to business. “Okay, guys. What’s going on?”

The girls shoot dagger-like glances at each other before they look away.

Okay, so no answers from them.

“Tell me, Mike. What’s going on?”

Mike opens his mouth, but Darla speaks, or rather screeches, first. “She embarrassed me, Pippa!” Darla grips her glass so hard it looks like it will shatter at any moment. “Justice was talking to me and then Kat just had to butt in and tell him I have a boyfriend.”

The first time we came as a group to the bar, Darla made her desire for Justice known while Kat had only secretly drooled over him. In the laws of la familia, first come, first served.

Darla has dibs, but the woman does indeed have an on-again-off-again-creep-of- a-boyfriend named Diego “Colgar” Busigó. Diego stays busy at doing a whole lot of nuthin’ and treats Darla like a dirty dishrag.

Kat and I have both told Darla to quit his ass, but she goes back to him, time and time again.

All I can think is that he must have a big—

Kat cuts off my thought with an indignant huff. “You know damn well you and that...boyfriend of yours were together,” she says, pointing her dripping straw in Darla’s direction. “Don’t try and lie.”

“Yeah, I was with Diego at the time, but that’s not the point. You had to open your big fat mouth—” Darla begins.

“Oh, you bitch!” Kat finishes.

As if on cue, Justice comes over with more peanuts and the promised complimentary cocktails.

Talk about saved by the drink.

He places the peanuts on the table, leaning over Darla so far he’s almost on top of her. Darla’s nostrils flare wide, like a hound on the scent of a rabbit.

I’m so glad I never fell under his spell.

Justice is a great guy, but he’s ruined many a woman for anyone else.

Or so I’ve been told.

When my former boss hands me my usual seltzer water, I take a long and grateful swig. Mike gets a beer on tap, and Darla and Kat both receive a strawberry daiquiri with whipped cream on top.

Once Justice dispenses the drinks, he squats and starts whispering to Darla. She giggles and bats her eyelashes like a bad actor in a silent movie.

Kat lets out an unladylike snort, downs the rest of her fruity concoction and starts on her daiquiri, using the straw to scoop the whipped cream into her mouth.

Mike slumps down in his chair, watching Kat’s every move. His steel-colored eyes fail to hide the desire he has for my girl.

Something needs to be done about that.

“Hey, Mike. Come with me a sec, okay?” I grab his hand and pull him from his stool before he has a chance to protest. I then lead him over to the jukebox. Since this is a matter of urgency, I get right to the point.

“You like Kat, right?”

Mike stares at me as if I’ve spontaneously caught fire and brimstone shoots from my mouth.

“Urm,” he says, staring at the jukebox.

Was that a yes, or a no? I’m going to take it as a yes.

“Mike, you’re trying way too hard with Kat. The only way to make her fall for you is to ignore her.”

Mike swivels his head back. “What? How do I do that?”

“You see that woman over there?” I point to a petite redhead on the fringes of a group of college kids at the end of the bar.

“Yeah?”

“Go up and ask her if she knows if there is an ATM around here.”

He pulls his chin into his neck. “Why would I do that?”

“Because once Kat sees you talking to Miss Red, her eyes will be on you the rest of the night.”

Now, I’m not sending Mike off on a fool’s errand. Kat has talked about him. That’s why she didn’t openly stake her claim on Justice in the first place. The woman just needs some incentive. A push in the right direction. When she sees Mike—a guy who will treat her like gold—take an interest in someone else, she’ll sit up straighter than a dog begging for a treat.

I brush a speck of lint from Mike’s shirt and straighten his collar. “And when you come back to the table, don’t talk to Kat, okay?”

“Yeeeeaaah, okay,” he says, with doubt of my wisdom visible on every inch of his face.

I should smack him. I really should.

Instead, I give him a slight push. He walks a few hesitant steps then turns back for affirmation. I flap my hands, effectively sending the baby bird from the nest. Mike gives me a small smile before he straightens his shoulders and makes his way to Miss Red.

I turn to the jukebox, digging a quarter out of the front right pocket of my jeans. The money rattles in the slot before disappearing into the innards. Dancing my fingers along the ivory-colored keys, I search for the perfect song.

This will do.

My selection of “These Boots Are Made for Walking” by Nancy Sinatra is the perfect mood music.

The whine of the guitar and the clink of the tambourine come over the speakers.

Mike taps Miss Red on the shoulder.

She turns and gives him an I’m interested smile.

Kat angles her head in their direction. When her eyes narrow, I laugh to myself.

Mission accomplished.


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