Wrong then Right (A Love Happens Novel Book 2) (8 page)

Rummaging around near the cash drawer, he held out a pale pink business card, the edges worn round.
Whipped Cream Boutique
was written in raised cursive script. “Go see Carla at this here underwear store an’ get fitted for your uniforms. Marcia’s the house mom here and she’ll take care of ya’. She’ll show ya’ ‘round the place, includin’ the dressin’ rooms tonight. I don’t go in there myself. There’s lady things happenin’ in there that I don’t want no part of. Hairspray and tampons, things a’ that nature. Ya’ make yourself at home, though.”

Hope opened her mouth but hesitated, and he somehow read her mind. “I’ll cover the cost for ya’, honey. You can pay me back from your first check. Waitressin’ pays ten bucks an hour, once a week on Tuesday’s. Ya’ get to keep all your tips.” He nodded, signaling the end of the salary negotiations, and smiled genuinely. Something Hope hadn’t done in days. “You’re gonna do alright here, toots. Ya’ need to hide out from your real life for awhile? Ya’ need to make some fast money? Bubba’s got ya’ covered. If ya’ ever wanna try out the stage and work the pole once or twice, talk to Marcia here.”

And with that, he went back to his cleaning, as if she wasn’t standing there with near abject fear written all over her pale face. Marcia was oblivious as well, engrossed in her dog-eared Vogue. Muttering her thanks, Hope turned on her heel and headed for the door, not sure if she’d have the guts to return. The fast food joint down the road was looking better and better.

But she did return to the club, promptly at six that night, mentally cursing both the sorry state of her life and her ample chest as she wrestled her boobs into a sadistic leather contraption known as a bustier.

Hope hadn’t cried that night as Bubba predicted, but she had thrown up. Twice she’d had to run into the employee bathrooms and upchuck her insides. Bridget held her hair while Marcia wet a washcloth, both of them assuring her this was standard operating procedure when a new girl started. They were too gracious to point out that it was usually after she shook her naked moneymakers in front of a hundred gawking customers and not when she merely served them a cocktail. Marcia suggested Hope have a cup of hot tea on her break. Bridget suggested Hope add a shot of blackberry brandy to it, poo-poo’ing Marcia when she’d flashed the platinum blonde a warning glare. Yes, the fresh faced bombshell wearing a gold sequined thong and matching star-shaped pasties over her nipples had actually said the word
poo-poo
.

When Hope’s inaugural shift finally ended—in the middle of the freaking night—she’d taken a long, hot shower in one of the club’s surprisingly clean private bathrooms, borrowing Bridget’s green apple scented body wash to scrub her skin raw. Before leaving the club for the night, she thanked Bridge and hugged her without thought, because once you’ve barfed with a strange woman’s enormous rack plastered against your back, nicknames and public displays of affection seemed appropriate.

Hair still wet, she’d locked herself in her car, carefully counting the fat wad of cash she’d earned running her half naked ass off, not including the paltry hourly wage she was due.

And then she counted it again, just to make sure her math was correct.

The following night, she’d shown up for her shift early, this time with dollar signs in her eyes and a smile that wasn’t completely phony. And she didn’t throw up once.

CHAPTER SIX

Selling yourself for pocket change? Like mother, like daughter. Daddy would not be proud.

Surprised at the relatively clean content of the text she’d just received, the message not as vile or insulting as some of the other’s, Hope swiped the words away with the slide of her thumb and closed the screen. Not bothering to delete the growing chain of text threats from the blocked number, she dropped the phone down into the empty cup holder with a thud. Her sicko phone stalker must be bored tonight. He didn’t normally send his creepy messages in the middle of the night, preferring instead to freak her shit in the harsh light of day.

Her gaze darted to the rear view mirror anxiously, even though no car was behind her, chiding herself as she did so. She was in the suburbs for Christ’s sake, not the inner city. Mission Hills was hardly a crime ridden neighborhood, the roads predictably deserted as it neared midnight.

Flipping the headlights off as her car rolled to a stop on the quiet residential street, she parked her trusty sedan under the familiar jacaranda tree, it’s majestic canopy of brilliant lavender flowers and thick, scaly trunk providing a false sense of security. The faint glow of streetlights lined the historic Mission Hills district where she parked her car and slept several nights a week, but the affluent residential neighborhood where families flocked to live the good life gave Hope the desired privacy she sought. Once the eleven o’clock news was over and Kimmel started, the lights in the windows went off, assuring her a few hours of restful sleep with her car humbly inconspicuous under the cover of wealthy suburban darkness.

And, of course, her beloved, decades old jacaranda tree.

Sitting one after another along well kept streets named after birds, the quaint homes were usually bustling with all sorts of minivan-ish activity during the day, but they lit up only randomly during the night. A little boy with a tummy ache, maybe. Or a pigtailed girl with a monster under her bed. Both lucky enough to have a parent who gave a single shit, willing to forgo a few minutes of shut eye to tend to their ailing child.

Built mostly in the early twentieth century, the neighborhood was a mix of old Craftsman bungalows, Prairie style homes, and Spanish and Mission Revivals, their variety a perfect blend of solid, sturdy architecture. Some were renovated to their historically charming selves, their slightly slanting foundations overlooked by the rich history the home stood for. And some, while still beautiful in their aging originality, were in need of the healthy budget it took to restore a period home to its deserved condition. A face lift could work wonders, but when you were a hundred years old, a little slanting to the side was to be expected.

Hope had never step foot inside any of these houses, even though she knew them like the back of her hand. Knew when a palm tree was pruned too severely or when a new hibiscus was planted in shade instead of the sunny spot it preferred. Knew when the longtime owners of the butternut yellow Mission Revival over on Albatross Street hung new draperies in every room on the second floor. She knew when one went up for sale and how long it was on the market, monitoring the listing weekly and yearning for the day when she could afford to buy one. The fulfillment of a promise she’d made long before she knew the word
mortgage
.

Back in the day, when it wasn’t considered child abuse to ride in a car with no air-conditioning to speak of on a humid summer day—without your seatbelt buckled—she and her mom would drive through this neighborhood on their way home from Sunday church service. Their fifteen-year-old hatchback stood out like a sore thumb in the prestigious subdivision and if the sight of an oxidized, denim blue Ford Escort coughing out white exhaust didn’t get you noticed, then the sound of a rusted out muffler sure could. But back then, Hope didn’t care. She wasn’t old enough to notice the odd looks thrown their way or the nicer, newer cars parked along the curb. And even though the cracked vinyl seat was hot on her bare legs and would leave a biting indentation on her skin that stuck around long after the ride was over, it didn’t matter. Awed by wide concrete driveways with hopscotch patterns drawn in colored chalk, basketball hoops mounted above garage doors, and ten-speed bikes propped on kickstands, Hope would absorb it all with a pit in her stomach that only an adult would recognize as jealousy. Her eyes would widen with wonder at the brick sidewalks leading to bright white porches, where hanging baskets overflowed with red geraniums and rocking chairs sat empty as families chose to relax on the wide front steps instead. Wreaths with pretty ribbons would hang on the front doors and Hope couldn’t even imagine how much happiness must lay on the other side of them, but she was sure it was as big as the sky.

And that Mommy’s and Daddy’s and brother’s and sister’s were all together, and nobody ever had to stay inside by themselves, in a room above the garage where it was stuffy and scary and lonely. All while the others laughed and ate chocolate cake.

Hope smiled sadly, shaking her head at the silly memory, wondering how the hell she’d ever been so damn naïve. Some guy was probably smacking his wife around right now, in the house down the street. Or sneaking a laptop into the hall bathroom, locking the door behind him so he could jerk off to Asian porn while his clueless wife slept in a cotton nightgown covering her from neck to ankle. Or maybe she knew exactly what her husband was doing and waited for him to leave their bed so she could grab her phone and secretly sext with her tennis instructor, horning in on the much younger man before her slutty friend Rhonda could dig her fake, french manicured nails into him first. These hundred-year-old houses probably held family secrets that could peel the lead based paint right off their plastered walls.

Her phone rang unexpectedly, interrupting her ridiculous musings. The chime was alarmingly loud over the quiet sounds of the night, heightening her risk of exposure.

“Shit!” Whispering the curse, she fumbled for the device and silenced the bells, answering before every dog on the block started barking. “Hey, it’s late. You should be wearing a sleep mask and sawing logs by now.”

Val clicked his tongue, sounding put out. “Well, you see, I’ve got this friend who likes to keep me up at night, fretting and sick with worry. I’m like a wacked out mother hen who needs vodka and anti-depressants to deal with her unruly little chick.”

“You like vodka and anti-depressants.”

“That’s beside the point,” he replied immediately, with an indignant huff. “You’re supposed to call and let me know you’re okay. That some crazy, titty-obsessed pervert didn’t abduct you and... and... I don’t know! Titty fuck you until you lost consciousness or something.”

She stifled a laugh. “Do guys really like that?” Did Mr. Man Candy like that? A vivid image of him doing that very thing to her popped into her mind. It wasn’t at all unpleasant.

“The titty fucking part or the unconscious part?” His voice went up an octave. “Either way, I have no idea. I don’t hang around with the kind of men who like to put their bat in a girl’s upper deck. If you know what I mean?”

“I do,” she said, deadpan. “And as you can hear, I’m fine. I’d be a lot better, though, if I was soaking in a tubful of pink bubbles right now, so my sore feet are really pissed at you. Your roommate situation is cramping my style.”

It had been nearly a month since she’d been evicted and Val had only managed to put her up a dozen times, claiming his asshole roommates didn’t allow squatters. It wasn’t like she wanted her own bedroom. A corner on the worn out couch would do just fine, but he’d faltered each time she’d asked, refusing to fight for her right to stay, even for a couple of hours each night.

“Tell your piggy’s that those sadistic shoes are to blame and not little old me. And trust me, the air in here is so thick with cheap ditch weed that you’d get a contact high from the curb. Not your kind of crowd, Ho-ho.” He paused to partake in said weed, a hint of concern in his voice when he spoke around a choking exhale. “Where are you? And seriously, Hope, are you really okay? Christ, you’re like a freaking real life vagabond.”

“I have a job, Val. A good one. I’m no vagabond.” It sounded so convincing Hope almost believed it. “And I told you, I’m okay. I’m at the Lark Street house.”

Turning to look at the house that her jacaranda tree belonged to, she sighed, dropping her head back against the bucket seat as she took in the clean lines of the noble Craftsman. It was a one and a half story bungalow, unusual because of the recent renovations, the new owner rebuilding the old charmer from the studs up since purchasing it almost a year ago. Hope knew it had been on the market for exactly one day before an offer was made and swiftly accepted, the well loved house—her favorite in all of Mission Hills—slipping through her broke ass fingers.

Marshall would have loaned her the money for it, if she’d asked. In exchange for her soul.

“Hope, you’re gonna get yourself arrested for loitering. People in that income bracket don’t take kindly to strangers hanging around like they’re casing the place. But on the bright side, you’d have an actual bed to sleep in tonight if you ended up in jail.” He laughed, as if joking about homelessness—her homelessness—was somehow funny.

“I gotta go, Val. Your girly voice might wake the natives and they’ll call the neighborhood watch on me. I’m not up for getting violated by the local pokey’s horny lesbian tonight.”

“That sounds like a country song. Hey, maybe you can do that for a career? At least you’d get to keep your clothes on.”

His callous, inaccurate comment sealed it. She’d pretty much had it up to here with men tonight, and that included the skinny jean and mascara wearing ones. “You’re sounding awfully judgy for a guy who won’t tell his mom he likes boys.”

“I could tell her, but she wouldn’t remember it,” he snapped, suddenly angry. “Just like she can’t remember my name or who I am when I visit her.” The silence that followed was broken only by their crackling phone connection before he let out a long, regretful breath. “I’m sorry for judging you, Hope. I know you’re working really hard and I’m proud of you for it. I’m just afraid you’re going to get hurt.” There was a pause and she knew what was coming. “Maybe you should go back to the vineyard and work for your dad. Make money from wine. Wine is good. You like wine.”

She clucked her tongue, wishing she’d never answered the phone. “And with that horrible piece of advice, I’m saying goodnight.”

Tapping the disconnect button, she cracked the drivers side window and inhaled the moist night air, perfumed with the scent of recently mowed lawns and the rain in the forecast.

She rolled her head to stare at the Lark Street bungalow again, a diffused yellow light coming from deep within the house, the consistent glow lulling her frayed nerves. It was always on, like a beacon of safety in heavy fog, and she imagined someone flipping the switch each night at dusk, knowing how desperately she clung to it. It was silly, really, that a single light above a kitchen sink was capable of providing such relief.