Page 23 of The Night Shift
“You wanna get out of here and grab some food?” I offer, genuinely hoping to clear the air.
Cami shakes her head, running a hand through her dirty blonde waves. “Can’t. Lily bailed on her shift. I have to cover for her.”
“I'll wait for you.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to.”
“Don’t lie to me. I know you’re tired.”
“Well, I’m not anymore.” Which is true. I’m not tired anymore. Just a bit on edge. And grossly pissed off.
“What are you gonna do while I work?” she asks.
I glance around the bar, my gaze falling on the rude man who spilled his drink on me. He’s currently sipping on a cocktail at the same far end of the bar and hitting on a woman. A different one this time. She looks like she’s half his age. Definitely over ten years younger than him, and judging by the look on her face, she clearly wants him to fuck off. But of course, he doesn’t. He's leaning in far too close to her, his hand running up and down her bare thigh. She looks away for a few seconds, answering a phone call and I see him reach into his pocket to pull out a tiny glassvial. In a blink, the vial is open, and its contents are being added to the woman’s drink. The sight reignites a dormant spark of anger within me, only this time, it's wrapped in something else, something darker.
My lips curve upwards in a gentle, involuntary smile. “I'm sure I'll find something to pass my time.”
My sister once said to me that getting one tattoo is never enough. That once you get a taste for it, you can never just stop at one. I never really understood her logic — maybe because unlike her, I don’t have any tattoos — but I did understand the raw sentiment behind her statement. Once is never,everenough.
“Again, I amsosorry for barging into you like that. It was totally my fault.”
The man chuckles, his eyes lingering a little too long on my chest where the damp white shirt clings uncomfortably. Josh? James? John? He told me his name, but I wasn’t really paying attention. I’m sure it’s something with a “J.”
“No worries, sweetheart,” says Jake. “You should be careful, though. Could've ruined that pretty little top.” His eyes flick back down to my chest.
“Oh, it's fine. These things happen.” My voice drips with fake sweetness. “So, tell me…” I lean forward, squeezing my arms together to give him a better view of my cleavage. “What do you do for a living?”
John the Moron puffs up his chest. “I'm a doctor. Surgeon, actually. Big bucks, you know.”
Wow. What an embarrassing coincidence. “Wow, that's amazing!”
“What do you do?” he asks.
“Oh, me? Nothing as important. I just go to bars, flirt with men, take them home, and slit their throats.”
Jasper stares at me for a second, then lets out a nervous laugh.
I try to mirror it, forcing a giggle of my own. Well, he can’t say I didn’t warn him. “Um, no, I'm, uh, just an actress. Still struggling a bit to make it big, though.”
“Ah.” His eyebrows shoot up and in a single syllable he’s managed to cast more judgment on my supposed profession than all of my high school teachers combined. “What kind of roles do you play? Anything I might have seen?”
His tone is suggestive and when he places his hand on my knee to give it a squeeze, I have to force myself to breathe through my nose. This is the part I don’t like. Dealing with these feelings festering inside me. Fear, shame, pain. Guilt and confusion. Momentary dread and then complete dissociation. Perpetual emotional numbness. I feel like I’m covered in thick, disgusting, foreign ooze. There’s a hole in my stomach. Every touch makes me feel violated. Hopeless. Angry. So fucking angry all the fucking time. And I don’t know whether to scream or use my martini sword to stab him in the eye.
“Oh, all sorts!” I smile at him, reminding myself that for it to look real the smile must reach my eyes. “Drama, comedy, even some action stuff.”
“Is it enough to make a living?” he asks.
“Well, I live in a cheap apartment with four roommates, and I don’t have health insurance. So, no, it’s not.”
“That's terrible, honey. You shouldn't have to live like that.” His hand starts to creep up my knee, moving over my thigh, and the mere sight is enough to make me feel like there are insects crawling all over my body. But I pretend to enjoy it. Men want to feel like they are being worshiped. I need to make him think that I want him. I need to make him feel as though I want his filthy,dirty hands all over me, even though what I really want is to cut his throat open and watch his blood spill all over the sticky bar floor.
“Tell you what,” says Jonah. “How about I buy you a drink to make up for it?”
“Aww, really?” I flutter my eyelashes like a cartoon cat, watching as he orders me another gin martini, along with a whiskey sour for himself. Whoever said that men are simple creatures forgot to mention that they’re equally fucking stupid with no innate sense of identifying danger. Stupid, insipid creatures that think with their cocks, not their brains. Camille returns with our drinks on a tray and Justin snatches his whiskey sour right away, completely ignoring my gin martini.
Chivalrous.
