Tied
Page 29
Don’t even think about telling me I’m wrong. Where do you think the whole “nice guys finish last” thing came from? Because deep down, some women live for drama.
“Some just want a shoulder to cry on, or a good time. Listen to what they say, watch how they say it, and show them that, at least for the night, you’re exactly what they’re looking for.”
Matthew says, “He looks confused, Drew. Maybe a little demonstration is in order?”
“Good idea.”
I scan the pool area and spot a waitress scurrying across the concrete. She’s got dark, curly hair, pale skin with a hint of freckles. She fills out her uniform nicely—a white blouse tied in a knot at the waist, high and tight, black shorts that look as if they were stolen from Hooters, and black heels. Bingo.
I point her out. “What do you think of her?”
Jack comments, “I’d bang her.”
Warren agrees, “Yeah. She’s cute.”
I wave my hand and call the waitress over. With pad and pen ready she asks, “Hey, guys, what can I do for you?”
I’ll never understand why women set themselves up like that. Try to think like a man, for God’s sake. When a red-blooded guy hears this question? He immediately thinks of at least eight different things you could “do” for him, in about ten different positions.
I give her my most charming smile. “Could you bring us a bottle of Jäger, honey? And five shot glasses please. Take your time, you look busy. We’re not in a rush.”
“No problem. Coming right up.”
She turns away and walks to the bar.
Jack stares. “I hate it when they leave, but I love to watch them go.”
Warren’s staring at her ass too.
So I smack him. Slap. To get his attention . . . and . . . because it’s fun.
“Focus. Look at her.”
“I was looking at her!”
“Not just at her ass—look at the whole package.”
He glares at me, touching his cheek. Then he watches the waitress.
“See how she’s rubbing her lower back? And wiping the sweat from her forehead? How she shifts her weight from one foot to the other? What do you think she needs right now?”
His face scrunches up with concentration.
After a minute, I can’t resist. “Don’t hurt yourself.”
He sighs. “I don’t know—she looks like she could use a nap.”
I smile. “There’s hope for you yet. A nap would be good, but you can’t give that to her. What you can do is make her feel important. Valued. Show her that you appreciate her as a woman, not just a server. Chicks eat that shit up.”
Waitress girl starts to head back over, balancing a bottle and shot glasses on a tray one-handedly. Before she reaches us, I hiss a warning at Warren—just to be safe. “And don’t even think about telling tales to Kate that I’m screwing around. This is for purely educational purposes only. It means nothing to me.”
That’s the absolute truth. It’s like . . . acting. I would have made a great actor. The Broadway kind. Because no matter what an actor feels for his leading lady in real life—when that curtain rises, he performs. Convincingly.
She arrives at our table. “Here we go, guys.”
As she sets out the glasses, I ask, “Is it always this crazy around here?”
“Not always. There’s a podiatrist convention in town this weekend, so we’re swamped.” She brushes a hair from her face. “The tips are good though, so I can’t complain.”
“Sure you can. Everyone deserves to bitch once in a while. I’m all ears.”
She smiles and pours our drinks.
“Better yet—how about you sit down for a few minutes? Take a load off. Have a drink with us? You look like you could use one.”
She’s tempted. But then she glances over her shoulder at the balding, heavyset guy behind the bar. “It’s sweet of you to ask—but I can’t. My boss wouldn’t like it.”
“Sweet is my middle name.” I jerk my thumb toward the bar, “He your boss?”
She frowns. “That’s him. Harry’s a total slave driver.”
I stand and hold up a finger. “Don’t go anywhere.”
I jog over to Harry. “Hey, man, my friends and I are looking to have a quick drink with our waitress.”
He looks over at our table. “With Felicia?”
“Yeah, Felicia”—or, whatever—“and we’re willing to pay for her time. What’s a ten-minute break gonna cost me?”
“Fifty bucks.”
“Done.” I slap the money on the bar and beat it back to the table quickly—before the price goes up. Then I put my sexy face back on.
I pull out a chair and motion for the waitress to sit. “You’re all set.”
She looks surprised. “No kidding?” She looks at Harry, who gives her a nod, then she sits down gratefully. “Wow, you convinced Harry to give me a break? You must be very good.”
I chuckle wickedly. “Baby, you have no idea.”
I sit in my chair and raise my shot glass. Everyone follows suit and we down them together. Then I pour another for the waitress. We chat casually for a few minutes. She tells me about her dreams of becoming a showgirl, which were put on hold because of her mother’s emphysema. I listen oh so attentively and nod at all the right times.
Then I dig a little deeper. “That’s a lot for a lady to have on her shoulders. Does your husband help out?”
“Some just want a shoulder to cry on, or a good time. Listen to what they say, watch how they say it, and show them that, at least for the night, you’re exactly what they’re looking for.”
Matthew says, “He looks confused, Drew. Maybe a little demonstration is in order?”
“Good idea.”
I scan the pool area and spot a waitress scurrying across the concrete. She’s got dark, curly hair, pale skin with a hint of freckles. She fills out her uniform nicely—a white blouse tied in a knot at the waist, high and tight, black shorts that look as if they were stolen from Hooters, and black heels. Bingo.
I point her out. “What do you think of her?”
Jack comments, “I’d bang her.”
Warren agrees, “Yeah. She’s cute.”
I wave my hand and call the waitress over. With pad and pen ready she asks, “Hey, guys, what can I do for you?”
I’ll never understand why women set themselves up like that. Try to think like a man, for God’s sake. When a red-blooded guy hears this question? He immediately thinks of at least eight different things you could “do” for him, in about ten different positions.
I give her my most charming smile. “Could you bring us a bottle of Jäger, honey? And five shot glasses please. Take your time, you look busy. We’re not in a rush.”
“No problem. Coming right up.”
She turns away and walks to the bar.
Jack stares. “I hate it when they leave, but I love to watch them go.”
Warren’s staring at her ass too.
So I smack him. Slap. To get his attention . . . and . . . because it’s fun.
“Focus. Look at her.”
“I was looking at her!”
“Not just at her ass—look at the whole package.”
He glares at me, touching his cheek. Then he watches the waitress.
“See how she’s rubbing her lower back? And wiping the sweat from her forehead? How she shifts her weight from one foot to the other? What do you think she needs right now?”
His face scrunches up with concentration.
After a minute, I can’t resist. “Don’t hurt yourself.”
He sighs. “I don’t know—she looks like she could use a nap.”
I smile. “There’s hope for you yet. A nap would be good, but you can’t give that to her. What you can do is make her feel important. Valued. Show her that you appreciate her as a woman, not just a server. Chicks eat that shit up.”
Waitress girl starts to head back over, balancing a bottle and shot glasses on a tray one-handedly. Before she reaches us, I hiss a warning at Warren—just to be safe. “And don’t even think about telling tales to Kate that I’m screwing around. This is for purely educational purposes only. It means nothing to me.”
That’s the absolute truth. It’s like . . . acting. I would have made a great actor. The Broadway kind. Because no matter what an actor feels for his leading lady in real life—when that curtain rises, he performs. Convincingly.
She arrives at our table. “Here we go, guys.”
As she sets out the glasses, I ask, “Is it always this crazy around here?”
“Not always. There’s a podiatrist convention in town this weekend, so we’re swamped.” She brushes a hair from her face. “The tips are good though, so I can’t complain.”
“Sure you can. Everyone deserves to bitch once in a while. I’m all ears.”
She smiles and pours our drinks.
“Better yet—how about you sit down for a few minutes? Take a load off. Have a drink with us? You look like you could use one.”
She’s tempted. But then she glances over her shoulder at the balding, heavyset guy behind the bar. “It’s sweet of you to ask—but I can’t. My boss wouldn’t like it.”
“Sweet is my middle name.” I jerk my thumb toward the bar, “He your boss?”
She frowns. “That’s him. Harry’s a total slave driver.”
I stand and hold up a finger. “Don’t go anywhere.”
I jog over to Harry. “Hey, man, my friends and I are looking to have a quick drink with our waitress.”
He looks over at our table. “With Felicia?”
“Yeah, Felicia”—or, whatever—“and we’re willing to pay for her time. What’s a ten-minute break gonna cost me?”
“Fifty bucks.”
“Done.” I slap the money on the bar and beat it back to the table quickly—before the price goes up. Then I put my sexy face back on.
I pull out a chair and motion for the waitress to sit. “You’re all set.”
She looks surprised. “No kidding?” She looks at Harry, who gives her a nod, then she sits down gratefully. “Wow, you convinced Harry to give me a break? You must be very good.”
I chuckle wickedly. “Baby, you have no idea.”
I sit in my chair and raise my shot glass. Everyone follows suit and we down them together. Then I pour another for the waitress. We chat casually for a few minutes. She tells me about her dreams of becoming a showgirl, which were put on hold because of her mother’s emphysema. I listen oh so attentively and nod at all the right times.
Then I dig a little deeper. “That’s a lot for a lady to have on her shoulders. Does your husband help out?”
