Total Bull, page 1
Copyright © 2022 Tiffany Andrea. All rights reserved
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or, if an actual place, are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Paperback ISBN: 978-1990724-19-0
eBook ISBN: 978-1-990724-18-3
Cover Design by: Burden of Proofreading Publishing featuring Graphics by Okssi68 and ValeriyLebedev via CanStockPhoto
Interior Graphics by Design & Beyond via Canva
Contents
Dedication
1. Believe Me
2. Change
3. Tell Me
4. Fall In Line
5. Move It
6. I Come Undone
7. I Hate Boys
8. Cease Fire
9. Empty Words
10. Come On Over
11. Like I do
12. When You Put Your Hands On Me
13. Say Something
14. Fighter
15. Castle Walls
16. Army Of Me
17. Obvious
18. Make the World Move
19. Make Me Happy
20. Light Up the Sky
21. Accelerate
22. Infatuation
23. I Got Trouble
24. Here To Stay
25. Get Mine, Get Yours
26. Blank Page
27. Anywhere But Here
28. Hurt
29. You Lost Me
30. Blessed
31. Deserve
32. Understand
33. Masochist
34. Mother
35. Back In the Day
36. Dream a Dream
37. By Your Side
38. Ain’t No Other Man
39. Mercy On Me
40. The Real Thing
41. Keeps Gettin’ Better
42. Haunted Heart
43. Reflection
44. All I Need
45. Somebody’s Somebody
46. Love Will Find a Way
47. Casa De Mi Padre
48. Epilogue: Feel This Moment
Special Thanks
Also By
About the Author
To my fellow Bookstagrammers,
A sense of community and belonging is not easy to come by in this crazy world. I thank you all for continuing to motivate and inspire me with your creative work, kind words, and love for books.
Believe Me
Angel
“You’ve got to be kidding me, Angel.”
I’m not sure if Hannah is asking me a rhetorical question, or if she wants me to answer, so I stare at her, awaiting clarification. None comes in the following seconds. “No, Hannah, I’m not.” Add in an eye roll for emphasis. “He complained the pasta was overcooked, and the shrimp was rubbery.”
The overworked sous chef, who has just arrived for her shift, sweeps her sweat-soaked hair from her forehead and resigns herself to the reality that she’ll have to remake another screwed up dish. “I’m so sick of redoing other people’s work. I swear, their heads are up their—”
“Incoming.” Fellow server, Vida pushes through the kitchen entrance carrying a tray of more returned food. “Sorry, Hannah. Steak is way overcooked, but the potato is hard.”
Hannah grumbles and mutters some NSFW words, which, anyplace other than a restaurant kitchen, might be frowned upon. Here, the colourful language is readily embraced. She works quickly to replace the rejected food, and I head back into the dining room to check on my customers.
On the way past, the restaurant’s owner glares at me in warning. I’ve been told that if I continue to “over-share” with my customers, I will be without a job. That’s a politically correct way of saying “honest,” which is not embraced here as easily as vulgar language. Makes one wonder.
“How is everything?” I ask the three-person family seated in my section. The mother, father and teenage daughter are all picking at their food, but none of them have any complaints. Their reluctance to eat it tells me I’m in for another sub-par tip. Awesome.
“Fine, thank you,” the father replies without looking in my direction.
I take my cue to carry on, making a sweep of my other tables to ask the same thing. Get the same answer. Everyone else is just as enthusiastic. Thankfully, Hannah’s shift has started, so we can have some happier customers.
The kitchen and dining room are buzzing for the next ninety minutes as we tend to the lunch rush. Our customer base is varied and often eccentric, but they all have one thing in common: they eat here because it’s in their price range. No one in their right mind who could afford to eat somewhere else would choose Harvest. This is the type of place that doesn’t get repeat business. People come for the atmosphere, assuming they’ll get a meal to match, and leave wishing they’d gotten fast food. This is the reason my boss hates me. I warn people away from buying things when I know the chef on duty doesn’t make them well. I caution people not to request the daily special, knowing it’s sat under the heat lamp a little too long. Apparently, this isn’t good for business, but I’m less concerned about his bottom line than I am with the truth.
Honesty is something I value above everything else. Turns out, I’m in the minority there, because other people I’ve come across would prefer to be told lies to spare their feelings. Get real. I’d rather someone have the cojones to tell me I have spinach in my teeth than let me walk around with it. Why is it so uncomfortable for people to speak the truth?
Now that the lunch rush has died down, the other waitresses congregate in the hostess area to chat and regroup before the early dinner crowd appears. This reprieve never feels long enough, but it’s always welcomed.
Same as every other day, when I make my way over to my co-workers, including two chefs who should be in the kitchen, the audible grumbling begins. Way to make a girl feel wanted. Though, I’m not their biggest fan either.
“Hi, Angel,” our hostess Alex seethes.
If I was insecure, I’d take it personally, but I know she’s just upset because I told her the latest tattoo she got was misspelled. That’s not my fault. Maybe she should have checked with someone who had basic grammar skills before she got “Live you’re life” tattooed on her shoulder.
“Hey, Alex. How are the reservations looking for tonight?” I try to shift the conversation back to work because I guarantee if someone asks me about their personal life, they won’t like what I have to say. And, to be clear, I don’t set out to be mean, or say things out of spite. In today’s world, honesty is evidently not the best policy. Not when it comes to building a social circle, anyway.
“Big party coming in that Vida is going to handle, and other than that, just a few couples.”
“Perfect.” The tension in the hostess booth is uncomfortable, so I decide to go find Hannah instead. She’s likely elbow-deep in dinner-rush prep, but I can help her out instead of standing around here dodging the flying daggers being shot my way by people who should actually be helping.
I arrive in the kitchen to find Hannah being chewed out by our head chef, taking the blame for all the returned food earlier in the day.
Nope, I’m not going to stand back and allow that to happen. “Excuse me, Chef?”
Norene turns to glare at me with more hatred than any of my other coworkers were able to generate. “What?”
“Hannah wasn’t to blame for the errors earlier. She only arrived as they were brought back, and she fixed them.” In moments like these, I’m happy that I’ve built a reputation for honesty, because no one questions what I’m saying.
“Why would you stand there and let me yell at you for five minutes if you weren’t the one responsible?” Norene glares at Hannah, now with a new reason to be angry. But believe me, she is not short on supply of harsh words or heated stares. She has plenty on reserve to address the offending parties.
“I’m not going to pass the blame to anyone else. In this kitchen, we’re supposed to be a team. If one of us fails, we all fail.” Hannah never breaks eye contact with Norene, appearing confident and determined.
“How noble of you. Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have other people to talk to.” Norene steps forward, turning back to address me with a nod. “Angel.”
I return the gesture, and as soon as she’s out of earshot, I speak to Hannah. “Why would you stand there and face her wrath? I understand not wanting to rat everyone else out, but at least tell her the truth. If she doesn’t know who is screwing up, she can’t work to fix it.”
Hannah continues chopping produce for future orders. “It won’t win me any favours if I’m pointing fingers. Plus, like I said, we’re supposed to be a team.”
“Stand up for yourself, girl. You are great at your job and don’t let anyone else pull you down.”
“Thanks.” Hannah pauses her task to give me a genuine smile, and I hope she knows I mean every word. I always do.
By the time our dinner rush is waning and I’m given the green l
A doggy daycare I could handle.
I open the door to my two-bedroom condo, which I’ve called home since I turned twenty, and I’m greeted by my sweet American bully, Genie. No less than a hundred people flash a smile at me each day at work, but coming home to see a bully smile warms my heart like no one else ever could.
“Hi, baby girl. What have you been up to all day?”
Genie’s stocky build has her entire body shuffling on the parquet flooring, wagging her tail with zeal. Her caramel-coloured fur with white patches and pink nose make her look like a squishy little ice cream sundae. Her cropped ears stand at attention, and while that’s not a choice I’d make for a dog myself, when I spotted an ad for her online earlier this year, needing to be re-homed, I couldn’t say no to those soulful blue eyes. She quickly became the best part of my day.
Before I take my shoes off, I grab her leash to take her for a short walk. The temperature has dropped since mid-day, but it’s still an assault to the senses walking from an air-conditioned building onto the streets of Toronto. The humidity is stifling.
Genie and I walk around a city block, then return home for a quiet night in, being comforted by modern climate control. Time with Genie is always time well spent. She’s the most stubborn creature I’ve ever known, but she accepts me for who I am.
In the human world, few people have the same appeal.
Change
Damian
I’m so sick of this. Day in, day out, everyone around is eager to please me, jumping at the chance to earn my favour. Why is that an issue? Because no one challenges me. I could say I wanted to fly an inflatable gorilla across the Don Valley Parkway, and no one would bat an eye. They’d say, “yes sir,” and get out an air pump. I could suggest using Webdings as a billboard font, and someone would make it happen. It’s a remarkable feat for a twenty-seven-year-old to be at the top of his game in the advertising industry, but if this keeps up, I’m never going to be any better. I don’t want to peak at twenty-seven.
Frustration breeds tension in my head and I’m desperate to distance myself from my brown-nosing co-workers. I tell my assistant, Paxton, that I’m taking an early lunch, and not to call me unless there’s an emergency. That’s a ridiculous notion—emergencies in advertising—but according to some clients, they happen.
I walk north from my office, which is the opposite direction I go most days. Today, I want something new. I need to distance myself from this life I’ve become accustomed to but will never grow comfortable with. That’s why I left the jacket of my stupid-expensive suit behind—that, and the fact it’s so humid, it feels like I’m walking through soup.
I turn onto King Street, heading west, and a simple, cozy-looking restaurant called Harvest draws my attention. Aside from the immediate notions I have about their terrible signage and advertising material, it’s just what I need right now. Comfort food.
The hostess is a slender redhead with blazing blue eyes and freckled cheeks. She smiles as I approach her station, which isn’t unusual. But when that smile turns from friendly to predatory, it makes me uncomfortable. A lot of guys would revel in the attention, but I hate it. Sure, physical attraction is important, but I’ve dealt with my fair share of disingenuous women trying to use me as arm candy or a meal ticket. Neither of which appeal to me. I want to have an actual conversation with someone that doesn’t involve net worth or how we can be “mutually beneficial”.
“Good afternoon. Table for two?” the redhead asks with a gleam in her eye. The not-so-subtle attempt at questioning if I have a partner joining me.
“Just myself. Somewhere quiet, please,” I snap. I’m not in the mood for this today. Or any day, for that matter.
“Absolutely. Follow me.” She directs me to a section with only one other couple seated in it, and places me at a table near the window. “Angel will be your server. Take a look at your drink menu and I’ll send her right over.” If I’m not mistaken, the woman, whose nametag says “Alex”, is suppressing a smirk.
With narrowed eyes, I reply, “Thank you.”
Seconds later, another woman says, “Hello. I’m Angel, and I’ll be your server today. Can I start you off with a drink?”
I stare down at my menu, not looking up at the woman, though I’m impressed by her promptness. “Just water is fine.”
“Sparkling or flat?”
My mistake for assuming this place wasn’t pretentious. “Flat. No ice. Just water.”
“Very well. I’ll get that for you and give you a few moments to browse the menu.”
When she turns to walk away, I lift my eyes to glimpse the most incredible head of curly hair I’ve ever seen. It’s a combination of dark at the roots with blonde throughout, but not like a neglected dye job. It’s more an intentional creative decision. I’d like to say I stopped perusing her back at her hair, but I’m a red-blooded male and couldn’t pass up the opportunity. The woman is curvy and strong. Instead of browsing the menu, I keep my eyes lifted, waiting for Angel to return, because I want to see the other side of her. Perhaps I should have put more effort into not being a jerk while she was standing in front of me.
The woman returns carrying a lone glass of water on a tray, manoeuvering through the space with an elegant grace. Her facial features are gorgeous. She wears little makeup, if any, because I can’t pinpoint anything specifically. Her skin is a gorgeous light gold, telling me she spends time outdoors away from her job. She’s no more than 5’2”, but my mother always said, good things come in small packages. What appeals to me the most is that she’s not wearing a fake smile. She makes eye contact with me as she returns to set the glass on my table, but she’s not sickeningly sweet like most waitresses are.
“Here’s your water. Have you decided what you’d like to order yet?”
I spent her entire absence either looking at her from afar or wondering about her, so I’m left unprepared to order. “What would you recommend? This is my first time here.”
“It’s everyone’s first time here.” Her eyes shoot wide when she catches herself, and I notice they’re a remarkable shade of brown, like black coffee. They are captivating against her light hair. “We don’t get a lot of repeat customers.” A blush creeps up her cheeks, and I resist the urge to smile.
Cool it, Damian.
“And why is that? I can see myself coming back.” If not for the food, for the service.
Her blush deepens, and now I can’t stop the smile from spreading across my face. You can fake a smile, but it’s a lot harder to fake a blush, and there’s something about a genuine reaction from her that gets my blood pumping.
“Wait until you taste the food. As for what I’d recommend, based on the cooks in the kitchen, I’d go for something they can’t screw up.”
I tilt my head to look at her, curious about her comments. “What can’t they screw up, then? A sandwich?”
“Mmm… I wouldn’t be so sure. If you’re up for it, go with a salad.”
I glance down at the menu, taking in the options available. The salads are the cheapest things on offer, but I don’t think she’s trying to save me money, and she’s obviously not trying to make more for herself. “Okay. I’ll get the tex-mex chicken salad.”
She grimaces. “Are you sure?”
“What’s wrong with that one?” That’s the most expensive salad option, so I figured that was safe.
“Uh. Nothing is wrong with it, in theory. It’s just not a big hit… with these chefs in the kitchen.”
“Okay, well, you tell me which one I should get then, since you seem to know it all.” I flash another smile, hoping it’s clear I appreciate her input.
The sound of a throat clearing behind Angel distracts us both. An angry-looking bald man leans around her shoulder, but he’s about her height, so she closes her eyes and shudders. I assume she feels his breath on her neck.
