And she brought a fucking textbook to the auditions. What kind of girl brings a textbook to these things?
She’s one of those smart girls. Well bred. Maybe not a virgin, but I bet she doesn’t fuck. She doesn’t even make love. She probably does it making sure there’s as little bodily contact as possible. I saw when she was filling out her survey that she doesn’t like to drink, party, smoke . . . hell, she could be a virgin. She’s just so clean.
They’ve been whipping through auditions, one after another. They finally get done with Cutie’s two friends, and then it’s her turn.
I watch her as she walks away. She’s wearing mom jeans, like she wants to cover up the fact that she has a nice ass.
A really nice one.
After she leaves, I watch the clock on the wall as I sit next to Jimmy, who’s texting with his little brother.
Cutie doesn’t come back. Interesting.
It’s about twenty minutes before they call my number.
The woman looks at her clipboard and says, “Luke Cross?”
“Yeah.”
I follow her through security as she gives me a long rundown of the rules. I don’t listen. “Good luck,” she says to me.
“Right, baby.”
I go inside. This is easily the shit-stupidest thing I’ve ever done. How did I let Jimmy talk me into this? Maybe I should give up Tim’s Bar. Gran always says I work too hard. She’d understand.
No, fuck that. If I lose that, it’s just a blink away from getting my breakfasts from trash cans and sleeping in alleys again.
There is a woman and two men at the end of a table. They study me closely as I enter. “How you guys doing?”
The woman just says, “Him. Definitely. Him.”
I’m confused. “What do you want me for, baby?”
She gives me a wink and leans over and starts to whisper with a guy with a mustache. Mustached guy nods and says, “You look like a man who can hold your own in a fight, Mr. . . .”
“No Mr.,” I say. “Just Luke. Luke Cross. I do okay.”
“Twenty-eight, six three, and two hundred pounds, huh? Grew up downtown Atlanta. So, you a Falcons fan?” the bald guy says, reading what I wrote on the survey.
“Damn straight.”
“Says here you like to have fun. What’s that to you?”
I shrug. “Have a few beers. Watch the game. You know. Kick back.”
“Drugs?”
“Nah. I don’t do that shit anymore.”
“But you were in rehab? For addiction?”
“Yeah. When I was eighteen. Got myself clean and never looked back.”
“You obviously work out,” the woman says, her eyes lingering appreciatively on my biceps.
I flex them for her, give her the full show. Why the hell not? I reach for my shirt. “Want to see my six-pack?”
The woman nods, but Mustache shakes his head. “It says on your application that you were incarcerated for a period of time?”
“Yeah. Ancient history. About a decade ago. Breaking and entering. I did a lot of stupid shit when I was young. For drug money.”
“And as far as schooling?”
“Dropped out of high school when I was sixteen. My parents kicked me off our farm outside of Atlanta, and I haven’t seen them since. Spent two years on the streets until my grandfather caught up with me and took me in. Got me to rehab, got me off the streets, and taught me how to tend bar. He’s kind of my hero.”
The woman swabs at her eyes. What, is she crying? “That’s sweet.”
“Hmmm,” the man says. “And what do you do for work?”
“I bartend at my place. I own a bar. Was my grandfather’s until he died five years ago.”
“And with the money, you’ll . . .”
“Pay off all the mortgages I have on it. Then blow the rest on beer and an entourage.”
The cougar’s looking at me like she wants to take a bite of me. Tapping her pen to her bottom lip. I think she likes me. We have a connection.
I grin at her. “Kidding. About the last part, at least.”
“I want him,” she says suddenly, like she can’t hold it in anymore.
“But he’s—” The mustached pecker puts his hand in front of his mouth so I can’t lip-read the rest. Probably something about me being a wild card who’s destined to give them trouble. Damn right about that.
“I don’t care! He’s perfect. Look at that face. Those eyes. He’s the perfect hunk. Our target demographic will go wild for that face.”