The Daymakers, page 29
Evie pressed too hard into the sidewalk with a piece of chalk, and it snapped in half. She swore under her breath and sat back on her haunches, picking up the two broken pieces and putting one back into the dented cookie tin she used to carry her chalk. Silently apologizing to her supplies, she returned to the reproduction of Whistler's Mother on her little strip of the Venice Beach boardwalk.
A tourist hotspot, she generally made enough to pay her rent each month just from tourist tips.
At least, she did until yesterday, when the Kurt Cobain wannabe showed up in Old Wild Joe's spot next to her.
It wouldn’t have been so bad if he was terrible, though that would have driven the crowds away too. If he was mediocre, Evie would have been happy. But no, the guy had to be fantastic. His soulful voice was gravelly, giving him a sweet tone that you could listen to for hours. And he drew the crowds alright. They emptied their full pockets into his guitar case, all the while walking right past her section, whispering how very good he was, ignoring the pavement art that she'd pored over for hours, the soles of their rubber walking shoes smudging the edges of her work.
Now, she was going to have to beg for more shifts at the bar just to make ends meet. All she could do was hope that he was one of those flighty musicians who stayed a week and then left. Maybe some music exec would walk past and love him so much that they’d sign him on the spot, and she could have a nice little street stall back. Maybe one of those hippies who sold crystals attached to leather thongs. Sure, they got a little high during their lunch breaks, but at least they always offered to get her a hot dog when they got the munchies.
She was going to have to up her game if she was going to draw the tourists back in. Maybe she'd do some of those 3D works that they loved so much. She was going to have to try to commandeer some more space. But she didn’t think Juanita, who sold handmade Día de los Muertos skulls, could give her any space. Maybe the young Joe Cocker tryhard next to her would give up a piece of his real estate, seeing how he'd come and trampled all over her profits.
She huffed as she messed up a line, and decided it was time to go home for the night. The sun was setting over the water, turning the surface a soft pink color. She loved Venice Beach at dusk.
She noticed the lame Bieber wannabe next to her was packing up for the night too, although she knew that the buskers got some good tips after dark, when the night crowd came out. Maybe he only came down so he could torment her during the day. It was a conspiracy.
Gathering up her little tip jar, she sighed at the measly amount rattling around inside it. She screwed on the lid and stuffed it into her beat-up tote bag. She had to hurry if she was going to grab a burrito from Manny's food truck before her shift at the club started.
She rocked back to stand, when a hand appeared in her vision. She looked up to see the subject of her internal rant proffering a large paw. Ignoring him, she raised herself up to her full five and a half feet.
“Hi, neighbor. I'm Jackson Harper. You rushed off yesterday before I could introduce myself.” He held out his hand again, this time for a handshake, and Evie begrudgingly took it. His fingers were warm and calloused, probably from the steel strings of his acoustic guitar. He didn’t look like he did much hard manual labor. His palms were dry, and his large hand encompassed her own like she was part of the lollipop guild.
“Evie Barry.”
She removed her hand as fast as she could. She wasn't going to think about the broad, muscled chest which was conveniently located in her direct line of sight. Instead, she stared at him in the eye, which was an uncomfortable degree upwards when they were this close. She took a large step backwards.
The guy was hot—undeniably hot. Like, sex on a stick hot. He had hair shaved close to his head, but it looked like it had been blond, judging by the five o'clock shadow gracing the sharp angles of his jaw. He had broad shoulders and a slim waist. Full lips complemented electric blue eyes. A sleeve of tattoos ran from his wrist up under the edge of his tight black tee, and well-worn jeans clung to his thighs like a magnet.
Evie stared hard, searching for flaws. His nose was definitely crooked, and had a small cut across the bridge, like someone had punched him in his too perfect face. Maybe his forehead was a little high, but now she was just clutching at straws.
He cleared his throat, and Evie realized she'd been staring like a crazed fan. “Evie, that’s a beautiful name. Your art is beautiful too. Like, stupidly good. I wouldn't have known the difference between yours and the originals if I hadn't been standing here all day watching you create them.”
The thought of Jackson Harper—he even had a sexy rock star name, the asshole—watching her all day made heat flare in her cheeks. She gave a silent thanks to the fates that the sun had dipped down below the skyline, washing the vibrant colors out of the landscape. In this darkness, he wouldn’t be able to tell that she blushed like a Southern belle. She just mumbled a half-hearted thanks.
“Wanna grab a beer or something? There's a little bar around the corner that’s no more than a hole in the wall, but they stock this amazing Mexican beer—”
“I have to work. There’s been a sudden downturn in tips, and I need to work another job to make ends meet.” She was definitely feeling out of sorts, and this man was the reason. She hoped she wasn't being too subtle for this meathead.
His lips twitched. “I'm sorry to hear that. Maybe they aren't Whistler fans?”
“Or maybe the yodeling from next door is scaring everyone away. What happened to Old Joe anyway? Listening to you makes me long for his off-key country songs.” Her hands balled on her hips. “Look, the street vendors and artists down here on Venice Beach are a community, and we don't really like it when some rockstar wannabe comes in and steals all the foot traffic. Most of us make a living this way. So if you’re going to be a crowd hog, how about you throw around some recommendations to your groupies and perhaps direct them over to Juanita’s skulls, or Jack's snow cone cart. Spread the wealth, Mr. Harper, and the community will stay a harmonious one. Step on too many toes, and you'll find that working down here can become very uncomfortable, very quickly.”
Evie hadn't meant to make them sound like the Mob, and in all honesty, it was probably a bit of an exaggeration. But she so wanted to put this Ken Doll in his place, and he'd danced on her last nerve all day, so she let her tongue run away on her. Again.
He gave her a mock solemn expression. “Maybe everyone else's stalls just need to be better?”
She gave him a burning look, hoisted her tote onto her shoulder and strode away. Standing around making goo-goo eyes at Jackson had made her late, and now she wouldn’t have time to brave the line at Manny’s and scarf down a burrito. It looked like it was going to be juice and saltines again for dinner tonight. Just another reason to hate on Jackson Harper. Fueling the hate was better than recognizing the other burn in her gut.
Lust. She had a serious case of lust for the jerk.
She slammed through the employee entrance of Casablanca's ten minutes later. Casablanca's was a 1940s inspired dance club, and she waved to one of the security guys who was sitting on a stool, guarding the door to the back alley.
She went to her locker and found her uniform freshly drycleaned, still hanging in the clear plastic. It was a deep red dress, with short, capped sleeves and a sweetheart neckline that showcased the curve of her breasts. The long pencil skirt brushed just below her knees. The club drycleaned all the cocktail waitresses’ uniforms, a service for which she was grateful.
She reached into the bottom of the tote bag, grabbing her garter belt and silk stockings, safely tucked away in their satin lingerie bag. She’d tried wearing pantyhose to work once, and in the hot California summer, she thought they were going to melt to her skin. So she allowed herself this one small luxury, and was all the more comfortable for it.
Heading into the employee bathrooms, which were unisex, she ran into Steve putting on his white suit jacket and fixing his black bowtie. She watched him struggle with the silk tie while she washed the chalk off her hands and forearms. When she couldn't watch him screw it up any longer, Evie handed him her dress, and reached up to straighten his tie for him. Steve had been working here for as long as her, and he still hadn't mastered it.
“Thanks, Evie. I wish the big guys would just let us wear clip-ons and save my sanity,” he said with a sigh. It was the hundredth time she'd heard him say it, in his slow Southern drawl. This was a familiar routine for them.
“You could always try wearing a garter and stockings. Putting them on without getting a run is a lot like Edward Scissorhands trying to put on a condom.” She took her dress back from him, and went into one of the cubicles.
She heard Steve’s chuckle as she closed the door, and mouthed along with him, “Ya’know Evie, I'll help you put your garter on anytime you need it. You just say the word.”
Laughing, Evie flipped him the bird above the door of the cubicle, listening to him chuckle again as he left the bathroom. Their daily banter made her feel slightly better after her run-in with Jackson the Jerk.
Steve flirted with everyone—and she meant everyone, no matter their gender. Steve spent so much time jumping the fence that he could have been an Olympic hurdler. But he was a sweet guy. He was tall and well-built, in a down-home farm boy kind of way. His musculature was all from tossing hay bales while growing up. Not that there was much call for hay baling in L.A., but she assumed he still kept fit, because there wasn't an ounce of fat on the man and wow, did he fill out his tuxedo nicely. Coupled with his dark good looks, it made him look like James Bond.
Steve had tried to put the moves on her when they first started working together, but she had a firm “no dating anyone at work” rule. He’d respected that, so instead they'd become friends, and now he was one of her best friends.
She clipped up her garter, and rolled her silk stocking up over her thighs, holding her breath until they were clipped in. She really couldn't afford another pair. Each pair cost her seventy bucks, and it was her one luxury, other than Manny's burritos and a tub of Ben and Jerry's on Friday nights. She shimmied into her dress, the garment hugging her curves, and zipped it up as far as she could reach.
She was short, but Mexican food and ice cream aside, she had a healthy diet and ran every morning to keep herself in shape. She was always going to be curvy, but the early morning exercise kept everything nice and tight. The fact that she had to get into this dress four nights a week—and that her survival relied on tips from rich frat brats whose tipping habits directly related to the tightness of her ass—well, it provided enough incentive to keep her on track.
She brushed out her dark brown hair, letting it fall into its natural waves. Swiping on a few coats of mascara over her long, dark lashes made her brown eyes really pop. Red lipstick slid expertly across her full lips, completing her war paint. She pinned a large white silk flower in her hair to complete her uniform, then left the change cubicle.
Stuffing the dry cleaner plastic back into her locker, she pulled on the leather pumps that sat at the bottom. She tied on a lap apron—decorated with Casablanca's logo and surrounded by black and white lace trim—before loading a few pens and her notepad into the front pocket, and walking out of the locker room. She strode past the security guy, giving him a warm smile. She was pretty sure he was new.
She stopped at the bar, where Steve was double checking the stock for when they opened in fifteen minutes. There would already be a queue around the block. She whistled, and he came over and zipped up her dress the remainder of the way. They truly had a domestic arrangement going on.
She waved to some of the busboys, who were busy wiping down every visible surface, and ensuring the tables were set just right around the edges of the room. Huge palm fronds were stenciled on the walls behind real palm trees, giving the illusion of some subtropical paradise. The VIP area was all dark wood and red velvet couches, which were a pain to get vomit stains—as well as other things—out of, and had to be steam cleaned weekly.
She walked across the black and white marble dance floor toward the back of house, loving the sound of her heels clicking in the near silence. The band was busy setting up on stage, and they'd play light jazz until the DJ came in at ten to take over.
Rick, the bar manager, came over and squeezed her shoulder. Evie wasn't sure if Rick was his real name, or just a persona he took on to run the place. Either way, he was dressed up like Humphrey Bogart, and he was the only man she knew who could pull it off. She'd seen him without the suit and fedora once and hardly recognized him. She preferred the illusion.
“I need you working the VIP area tonight, Evie. We have two private parties with over a hundred guests each—the daughter of some politician or another, and a trust fund kid turning twenty-one. It has the potential to get wild. I'll have Kate and Big Sammie up there helping you, but if you need more hands, give Steve a heads up and we'll figure it out.”
Big Sammie lived up to his name. He was a three hundred and fifty pound Goliath of muscle. Once he'd shown her a picture of his dog, and she'd prepared herself to coo over some massive pitbull, but she'd been in for a big surprise. She’d sworn never to tell anyone that he had a chihuahua, smaller in size than one of Sammie's fists, with the super cute name of Pumpkin.
Rick liked to get worked up into a stressed out state; the nervous energy apparently helped him focus. But in all honesty, it was only going to be as busy as every other night at Casablanca’s. It was a hotspot for the rich and famous, and if Evie had a dollar for every celebrity, sports star, socialite or playboy who came in and ended up puking their guts out in the corner, well, she could retire early.
As a general rule, the clients were obnoxious, and considered waitresses one step above street walkers, but they tipped well, so Evie had learned to grin and bear it.
She got to work, helping Steve stock the bar for the night. Casablanca’s sold more high-end liquor than any other club in this part of town, which meant dropping a crate while hauling it up the stairs was like a whole month’s worth of wages.
The bar was Evie’s favorite feature of the club. It ran along one wall beside the entrance to the VIP area. On either end were heavy wooden doors with huge brass studs, looking like somewhere between a medieval castle’s doors and the entrance to a BDSM club. Between the two big doors was a twelve foot long mirror, reflecting the shelves of liquor stacked neatly in front of it. Behind the mirror, they’d managed to get the name Casablanca’s to glow like a neon red beacon. Even after all this time, Evie hadn’t worked out exactly how they’d made that happen, but she loved the effect.
As the door opened, people started to pour in and she got busy taking drink orders, showing people to the roped-off VIP areas, and cleaning up spills. By the time things really got crazy, the DJ had been playing a set for forty-five minutes, and everyone was well and truly on their way to being drunk. The cool kids were just arriving fashionably late, and the normal folk danced down on the main floor, trying to sneak a look past Big Sammie into the VIP room to celeb spot.
Evie had just pointed out a paparazzi to Big Sammie, who’d stormed off in the guy’s direction like a human thunderhead, when a hand tapped her lightly on the shoulder. She turned to see Jackson Harper standing next to her, dressed the same as this afternoon except for a black leather jacket thrown over his t-shirt. Somehow, as dressed down as he was, he seemed to fit in with the crowd around him.
“What are you doing here?” Evie blurted out. “How'd you even know I worked here? Are you stalking me?” She gave him a hard look, and tried to spot Steve or Sammie in the crowd to catch their eye.
Jackson just laughed. “No, I'm not stalking you. I remembered I'd seen you here before. Plus, your bag had the Casablanca’s logo on it. Didn't take much detective work.”
She was still suspicious, but he sounded legitimate enough. “Casablanca's isn't the kind of place the busking bums frequent very often,” she said, probably unkindly.
He just shrugged. “I got lost one day meeting friends. Then I saw a beautiful woman in a red dress and decided to stay awhile.”
He gave her a charming grin, but she shook it off. She'd been propositioned five times tonight by guys with grins just like that—guys who thought a fifty buck tip and nice smile would get her into the bathroom for a quickie.
She gave him her blankest stare, and he cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Look, I wanted to apologize for causing you problems. How about we have that drink sometime, and you could tell me how to be a better Venice Beach community member?”
Evie had to give it to him, he was persistent. She gave him a skeptical look, and he raised his hands in a placating gesture.
“Really. I'm eternally sorry for messing with your life. Maybe tomorrow night?” he asked.
Or when hell freezes over, she thought. Although, the reasonable part of her mind argued that she needed some of his space if she was ever going to get back more of her customers. Damn the logical part of her brain that worried about things like rent and power bills.
“Fine. I'm free tomorrow night. Though why you aren't busking after dusk is beyond me. Now, excuse me, but I have to work.”
He gave her a sparkling smile, and butterflies fluttered in her stomach. “Okay, tomorrow night. I can't wait.” He threw her a wink, and she forgot how to swallow.
Get a grip, she chastised herself. It's business, not a date.
Grace McGinty, The Daymakers
