worlds and this isn’t some made-for-TV movie where the rich executive rescues the down-on-her-luck street urchin, there’s the fact that he has a temper. He went all Hulk-smash alpha-male on that drunk guy. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to be getting away from? I should just find a nice, sweet, sweater-vest type and fall in love with him.” I sigh, not happy with that scenario either.
Tiff walks out of the kitchen with two big plastic cups filled to the brim with foamed up root beer and offers me one. “Maddie, you’d be bored to tears with Mister Rogers. That’s not you, not your type, and that’s okay, girl. You like powerful guys, and as long as Scott’s using all that testosterone in your defense or to fuck you good and hard, it’s fine.” She takes a big breath, and I’m honestly scared about what she’s about to say if she’s prepping herself to say it.
She continues. “The lesson from your experience with Rich isn’t to play it so safe that you’re bored. The lesson is to choose your alpha guy more carefully. Granted, you just met Scott, but so far, so good. I’m with May on this one. Call him.”
Shit. When both Tiff and May agree, they might be on to something. I’d hoped at least one of them would be on my side and agree that hiding like a scared little turtle, safe from danger and from Danger, was a good idea.
I sigh, taking a big suck of root beer float. Man, that's good. And just what I needed to fortify myself for another shift at the bar.
Thankfully, Tiffany drives tonight, and I catch a snooze in the passenger seat. I know that running with just a few hours of rest is a stupid idea, but rest is a luxury I can’t afford. There simply aren’t enough hours in the day to do the things I want to do, like work with the animals at May’s, along with the things I need to do, like work the bar and get some money for rent. Tiffany jostles me awake as she puts the car in park, and we head inside to do our last-minute freshening up. It’s a tradition for us, two minutes to look our best before facing the crowds.
“Hey, girls, what’s shaking?” Stella asks when she sticks her head in the break room. Before we can answer, she continues, “Saw you on TV, Maddie. You looked good, and May did a great job talking up the shelter.”
“Thanks! Hopefully, it’ll get her some more donations,” I reply, adjusting my lipstick. I look at Stella in the mirror, realizing her cheeks are a soft tawny color, not her usual pink flush. “Stella, you look better today. What’s up with you?”
“Oh, I went to the doctor,” Stella admits. “Got me on something to help with these damn sweats. Not too bad, just a single pill a day, and my doctor says that I’ll be able to stop them in a little while, so I’m not on my first OPP.”
“OPP?” Tiff asks, fluffing her hair. “You’re down with OPP? There’s a song about that,” she says, laughing.
“Very funny. Not like that, you dirty girl. It means old people pills,” Stella grumbles. “You know, the type that once you go on, you don’t come off ‘till you die? Old age doesn’t start until you need a daily dose of something just to haul your ass outta bed in the morning, and I’m fighting with all I got to stay young.” Stella preens a bit, running her hands over her ample curves, which are encased in a modestly slim dress that flounces down around her calves.
Stella leaves, and two minutes later, Tiff and I are behind her, stopping in the kitchen where Devin’s already slinging some hashbrowns and what looks like one of his creations, ‘pork chop fries.’
“See you’re serving up heart attacks already.”
Devin laughs, pulling the basket of thinly cut pork out of the fryer to drain. “Honey, you know I serve up heart attacks every time I walk down the street. I got better buns than Cinnabon.”
“Yeah, well, you’d better cook better buns than them too,” a large, countrified voice says from the screen door to the alley out back. The door opens, and Daryl, Stella’s older son, comes in with a loading dolly stacked high with boxes of food. “So, where do you want them? Let me guess—in the back?”
That’s Daryl, always making cracks and jokes. If it were with anyone