Crazy for You (7 page)

Not that I was jealous. I didn’t have any right to be jealous. Labeck was a free man after all. He could kiss anyone he wanted. We’d been broken up for six weeks now. We’d broken up practically before we were even together.

I’d moved in with Ben Labeck the day I’d been released from prison. We’d spent most of our first weekend together in bed, and then it was Monday morning and Labeck had to go back to work. I spent my days job hunting, scouring the Internet for job openings, registering with employment agencies, and checking the want ads. Nothing turned up until I answered the CRS ad.

Fate is a prankster. Fate gives with one hand and takes with the other.

Because on the same day that Rhonda Cromwell offered me a job, the opportunity of a lifetime opened up for Labeck. NBC offered him a temporary assignment with a crew filming a controversial oil-fracking operation in Montana. They wanted him to start immediately, because the cameraman who’d originally been scheduled had gotten sick.

“That’s wonderful,” I told Ben when he came home, practically vibrating with excitement, picking me up and whirling me around. “I’m so proud of you.”

“You’re coming, too. I’ve arranged everything. It’ll be at least a month.”

I stepped out of his arms. “I can’t. I just got hired at CRS. I’m supposed to start a mystery-shopping job tomorrow.”

“You’re turning down the chance to go to Montana with me so you can be a
mystery shopper
? What the hell is that, anyway? It sounds like spying.”

“It’s not
spying
!” I was starting to get annoyed. I was happy about Labeck’s new
job; why couldn’t he be happy for me? “I’m going to be evaluating businesses. What does it say about my work ethic if I go flying off to Montana ten minutes after I get hired?”

“We’re not flying, we’re driving.”

“What’s this
we
business?
I
wasn’t consulted.”

“I thought you’d be thrilled.”

“Of course I’m thrilled. I’d love to go. But I need this job. It’s not great, but it’s at least the first stepping-stone in my career.”

“Mazie, you don’t need a career. I can take care of you.”

“So you bring home the bacon and I fry it up in a pan?”

Ben Labeck had been raised in a home where his dad, who ran a cabinetmaking business out of a home workshop, made the meals, scrubbed the floors, and chauffeured the kids around, while his mom taught at the local college. So where had the liberated Labecks’ only son acquired the notion that I didn’t need a career because he could take care of me?

Ben scowled. “It’s not like that.”

“That’s exactly what it’s like. You’re trying to run my life.”

“Wanting to take care of you is running your life?”

“There’s a line between caring for someone and controlling them, and you keep stepping over that line.”

His mouth hardened. This was our first serious disagreement and neither of us knew how to deal with it. We’d barely sketched out the rudiments of our relationship. Ben Labeck was smart, kind, brave, and daring, but—perhaps because he was used to bossing around three younger sisters—he also possessed a streak of overprotectiveness that bordered on chauvinism. Now I’d insulted him and wounded his pride. He reacted by closing down. I hated when guys did that. It meant they knew that if they continued the argument they were going to lose, so they were cutting their losses to save face. Ben went to the bedroom, hauled out a suitcase, and started packing.

I wanted to go to Ben and wrap my arms around him, but there was something about the stiff set of his back that warned me away. I just stood there in the doorway, watching, unable to speak, trying hard not to cry.

He went into the bathroom, swept his toiletries off the shelf into a small leather bag, then turned and faced me.

“I’m going to leave tonight, drive all night and all day tomorrow. I should be in Montana by Thursday. Have you changed your mind about coming?”

“Not if you’re going to act like this.” Anger was starting to replace guilt. Somehow Ben had twisted everything around to make me the bad guy.

“Suit yourself, then.” He reached into his pocket and brought out a new cellphone, still in its bulletproof plastic casing. “You didn’t have a phone yet, so I bought one for you. The service plan is already paid for.” He handed me a credit card. “Use this for groceries, rent, whatever you need while I’m gone.”

“I don’t need you paying my bills,” I huffed.

He shrugged, trying to seem cool, even though I knew he was angry.

We stared at each other, each of us waiting for the other one to give in, but we were both too stupid and too stubborn.

“I’ll call you,” Labeck finally said. And then he left.

He didn’t call.

I turned on my new phone and waited all evening, but he didn’t call. Maybe he was too busy. Maybe he’d lost my number. Maybe he just didn’t want to talk to me. I finally broke down and called him, worried that he’d had an accident on the road and was lying in a desolate stretch of the Badlands, swatting away vultures, unable to reach his phone, sending me telepathic cries for help. But every time I dialed, I got a message that said “Your call cannot be completed.”

Three days after Ben Labeck drove off to Big Sky country, I moved out of his apartment and out of his life.

For six weeks I’d managed to convince myself that I was over Labeck. I drowned my heartache in hot fudge sundaes, immersed myself in my new job, walked Muffin on days he didn’t want to stir from his doggie bed, and lied to myself about how much better off I was without Mr. Machismo trying to wrap me in a ruffly apron. And I’d been doing great! Well, satisfactory. Okay—clinging to sanity by the tips of my raw, bloody fingers. Then Labeck had walked into Rhonda’s party, told me he wanted to talk, and set my insides into a spin cycle.

Now, spying on Labeck and Rhonda locked in a passionate embrace, I knew I wasn’t over Labeck at all. If I were over him, would I feel this raging sense of jealousy? Would I feel this overwhelming urge to slap him to his senses, to scream at him to run before this poisonous woman sank her fangs into him?

They broke apart, Rhonda wearing a triumphant smile and Labeck looking as though he wanted to check whether he was still wearing underwear.

“Mmm … that was really nice.” Rhonda’s voice was brown sugar, gritty and sweet. She corkscrewed to her feet, turned her back to Labeck, and pulled her skirt down by sliding it back and forth across her butt. Labeck’s eyes followed, as though he was watching a game of ass ping-pong.

“So let’s go find this great bar of yours, stud,” Rhonda said.

They left the room, turned out the lights, and went out the front door, leaving me alone in the dark with a homicidal spider.

Chapter Nine

Being fired is like falling off a bicycle. You just have to get back on and pedal along until the next pothole bucks you off.

—Maguire’s Maxims

I’m not a thong-type person. I’m not even a bikini-type person. I’m the type who in high school had my period three weeks out of every month so I’d be excused from gym-class showers. Was I really thinking of taking a job that involved serving coffee while wearing undies the size of postage stamps?

I drove downtown slowly, not wanting to be doing what I was doing. It was Tuesday afternoon, I’d spent the morning trolling the Internet for job openings, and I’d come up with zero. But there was still Juju’s offer of employment at Hottie Latte.

If there are no parking spaces, it’s a sign I’m not meant to have this job, I told myself, cruising along North Water Street.

A van shot out into traffic just ahead of me, leaving a large, juicy parking spot only inches from Hottie Latte’s doorstep. I waited for another car to swerve around me and snag the spot, but none did. Reluctantly, I pulled in to the slot.

If the Doyennes of Decency capture me and try to exorcise Satan out of me, it’s a sign that God doesn’t want me to work there, I told myself, getting out of the car.

The Doyennes were nowhere in sight.

I waited for some other human or divine agency to stop me, but no one tried to abduct me into a cult, lure me into a back alley, or set me on fire, so I pushed through the front door, found Juju, and fumbled through my inquiry.

“One of my waitresses just quit—you can start right away,” Juju squealed, before I could even finish, managing to talk, count out the cash register drawer, and nibble on a raspberry doughnut at the same time. “Fill out the paperwork later.”

Hand me a paper bag, I thought, because I was one breath away from
hyperventilating. She wanted me to start
now
, before I had a chance to psyche myself up? But there wasn’t time for me to have a panic attack, because Juju, the human equivalent of a five-hour energy drink, was flinging outfits at me from the lingerie bazaar she kept in a backroom closet. Bustiers, baby dolls, bikinis, tankinis, and cheekinis rained on me, a shower of scanties.

I snatched up the outfit that seemed to have the most fabric per square inch—black satin shorts that would have been a tight squeeze for Slut Barbie, a scoop-necked top over a black push-up bra that lifted my devil’s dumplings heavenward, and heels that felt like stepladders. I changed in the employees bathroom. Ten minutes later, I cracked open the bathroom door and tiptoed out, wishing I could drape something less revealing over my exposed skin—like a sofa cover. Arms crossed protectively across my chest, I reported for duty.

“You look great,” Juju said, swiftly scanning me. She thrust a tray at me. “Now get out there and serve this mocha latte to the guy in the suit.”

“I thought maybe I could hang around behind the counter, slicing bagels or something.”

“Go.”
She shoved me toward a table. Reluctantly, I moved out from behind the counter, blushing so painfully I could feel the blood thrumming in my ears. What if someone I knew came in and saw me? What if—God forbid—my parents flew up from Florida as a surprise and happened to stop here for coffee? What if—the thought stopped me cold—Labeck and Aspen returned for more on-site reporting?

I forced myself to move. My first customer was a balding guy with a spare tire around his middle that forced him to sit a foot away from the table. I set down his order, offering a quivery smile.

“I want something to go with this,” he said. “How fresh are your pastries?”

“They’re from this morning.”

“I don’t like ’em if they’re not fresh.” He eyed my bosom. “
Your
doughnuts look fresh, honey. Round and soft and—”

Juju, clearing the next table, swooped in to my rescue. She swatted the guy on the top of his bald spot with a
Wall Street Journal
. “What kind of question is that to ask a lady? You apologize.”

“Sorry,” he said, his grin indicating that he would probably enjoy being spanked with the market report.

Humiliated, I hurried back behind the counter.

“I cannot do this,” I hissed at Juju. “This is not me.”

“Yes, it is you,” Juju insisted. “It’s your inner you.”

“My inner self doesn’t like its outer cheeks pooching out.”

“Get over it! Look what that guy left you.” Juju waved a twenty-dollar bill at me, and when I didn’t take it, she stuffed it into a coffee can beneath the counter. There were six coffee cans lined up, each with a waitress’s name on it. She’d already labeled a can with my name. Juju swatted my black satin rear with a towel. “Now get out there and hustle. And tomorrow wear a thong.”

Taking a deep, steadying breath, I clopped out from behind the counter, order pad in hand, toward the two young guys sitting at a window table. They wore jackets with the logos of Chicago sports teams, so I assumed they were Flatlanders—Wisconsinites’ derisive term for Illinois residents—here for the Bucks-Bulls game tonight.

“Hi,” I said, coming up to them, attempting a perky smile. “And what are you gentlemen in the mood for?”

Big smirks appeared on the guys’ faces. I felt like slapping myself.
What are you gentlemen in the mood for?
It sounded like a crude come-on. I might as well have had Horny as a Hoot Owl stenciled across my chest.

“I want an espresso, a cinnamon doughnut, and a side of you,” said the guy in the Cubs jacket, snaking an arm around my waist.

If he didn’t let go, I was going to jab my pencil through his eardrum.

“Hey, Miss Delicious, you got a boyfriend?” the other comedian asked, studying my cleavage as though it were going to be on tonight’s pop quiz.

“Yeah,” I said. “Sixto Sanchez—maybe you’ve heard of him?” Sixto was a loose cannon who pitched for the Brewers, a guy known for his volatile pitches and even more volatile temper. “He comes in here a lot. Checking up on things, you know?”

The first guy yanked his arm back. He probably didn’t believe the Sixto stuff, but just in case, he decided to mind his manners. Once they got it through their heads that this wasn’t a titty bar, the guys turned out to be perfectly nice. They both left a generous tip.

A spate of customers arrived between seven and eight o’clock, as people on their way to sporting events or the theater stopped in for a jolt of joe to keep them awake. I got really tired of hearing:

Are your boobs real?

No, I ordered them from a silicone novelties catalog
.

Why aren’t you a model?

Actually, I am. I’m just between
Vogue
covers
.

Do you do lap dances?

Nope. I don’t do pole dances either
.

Can I have your number?

No. But I’ve got yours, buster, and if you try anything, you’re toast
.

Will you sell me your pantyhose?

No. But pat my ass again and I’ll wrap them around your neck until you turn blue
.

My calves throbbed from walking in heels. My toes smarted from being cramped into the tiny toe box of the shoes. My arms ached from carrying trays. My boobs were spattered with tiny burn blisters. But my coffee can was filling up and I couldn’t wait to get home to see how much I’d made.