Page 10 of Bucked Hard

She sashays away with her tray on her shoulder, her daisy dukes riding half way up her butt crack.

“Uggggh.” I throw the French fry down onto the plate.

“Eat it, stupid. Don’t let her bother you.” Tabitha leans forward. “You can’t let her see it get to you. That’s all she wants.”

I tug my lips to the side, retrieve the coated French fry and stuff it in my mouth with a satisfied sigh.

“See?” Tabitha chuckles. “That’s as good as sex.”

I chew and swallow, look down at my watch. My ten minutes are up.

“Like I would know.” And with that, I maneuver my tray to my shoulder and put my game face back on.

“Trust me, most guys have no idea what they are doing.” She lifts her drink to her mouth, then pauses. “The fries are better,” she says, then sets her mouth back on the straw.

Honestly, I have no idea which one is better. So I just giggle and make my way back into the crowd.

I’ve taken no more than three steps before my belly begins to tighten. That giant guy, the one fromthattable withthosegirls, is standing there like a carved statue. His friend is next to him, happily gabbing away with their dates, but he’s just standing there.

Looking right at me.

I’m trying my best to give up most of the self-loathing over my weight, but there are times it rears its ugly head. Right now my tank top feels too small, my skirt too short and the waistband is digging in. It’s as if my body is overflowing my clothes.

I hate that Lacy gets to me like she does. I’m pretty sure she hasn’t had the easiest life, and she doesn’t seem to be nice to anyone so I know it’s not personal, but I still hate that she gets to me. The only place I seem to be able to be comfortable is at home on the farm with Aunt Jessie.

She’s taught me to love myself. I’m who I am today because of Aunt Jessie, despite the short time I’ve been there. Not that it’s always that simple. I have these insecurities from my past, and it’s a struggle some days more than others. But at least I don’t wake up every morning wishing I was someone else. Or no one at all.

But with the way this guy looks at me, all of those insecurities come back to light on my shoulders, whispering in my ears. Most of the other girls that work here wear short shorts or miniskirts. But the dress code only says no long jeans, so I usually opt for a nice knee-length, flowy sort of skirt. I’m just not built for sexy.

He’s still staring as I make my way to my section. At least I think he’s staring, it’s hard to be completely sure. Between the dim light, the flashing strobe, his ball cap and the facial hair I could be wrong.

“Stoooop looking at me,” I mutter under my breath as I work my way forward slipping their drinks onto the table mumbling about running a tab.

The guy in the cowboy hat says yes to my question and I turn and get out of there before I completely embarrass myself somehow.

When I’m at work I’m as outgoing as I’m going to get. As if I’m in character, I smile and joke around with the customers. But I still talk to myself. I guess it’s because in real life, I don’t have much to say. Books are my friends. I love to read them and I love to write.

Apart from Tabitha and Aunt Jessie, I don’t talk all that much to people outside of work. Not for pleasure, anyway. So I talk to myself instead.

This is a small town. Everyone knows everyone around here, but this bar has grown and gathers people from all around. I’ve become very adept at sizing up who’s who. City, town, rancher, farm hand, etc. But this guy, with his beard and long hair, has me a bit stumped.

Despite my best effort, I look his way. Immediately, my skin warms and some low voltage courses up and down my back. My eyes are drawn to him, and every time I lose the battle and glance his way, his eyes are pinned on me.

I take care of every table but theirs, half hoping that they’ll leave and half dreading the very same thing. My stomach is knotted up in ten different ways, but I know deep down I can’t avoid them forever. A momentary lapse and they’ve caught me looking their way. The two girls thrust their empty glasses in the air like it’s some sort of salute. I smile and nod, but they just raise their eyebrows and mouth something I know I don’t want to hear, looking impatient.

He’s still staring. The mountain man.

But when the two girls start waving at me and acting annoyed, mountain man breaks his never ending gaze at me, barks something toward the two girls. Their arms come down and they look down at the table.

“Deep breath, it’s just a drink order,” I mutter.

I’m deceiving myself if I think he’s actually staring at me with anything other than impatience. I mean, he may be rugged, but he’shot. Like Viking, sling you over my shoulder and carry you off to make babies kind of hot. And that kind of guy does not look at this kind of girl. That’s not the way the world works.

But he is looking at me, and from the way the hairs stand up on my arms, I not only see him looking at me right now, Ifeelit.

And it feels pretty darn good.

In the time I’ve worked here, I’ve never felt anything like this. Sure, even with my extra fluff and my plain-Jane, down home looks, I get my share of flirting from bar guys. I always assume it’s the beer-goggles talking.

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