Lugging the two cases of Labatt Blue up the stairs, I shudder. The basement here at Bar Jovi is creepy. I always avoid it if I can. It’s dark, low ceiling and supposedly haunted. Mo st times at night I would send Tommy the bouncer down for me. But he doesn’t start until seven and of course Kate didn’t stock at the end of her shift last night. She’s not going to last long around here. None of these little college girls do. They think bartending will land them a rich man if they dress slutty enough. When they figure out the Bon Jovi themed bar caters to poor college kids, drunk frat boys and skeezy old guys, they bolt faster than they can say “I quit”. I’ve been here four years now, and Pauly, the owner still treats me like a new girl. That’s probably because I’m the only girl here that won’t sleep with him, or because he’s just a chauvinist pig. It’s not that he’s ugly, if you like oily Italian hairy men. He has a lot of muscles, a baby face, and an affliction for Bon Jovi and bad eighties music. But I don’t like being a number. I want to be someone special and with Pauly, everything and everyone is a number.
Not that this job allows me to meet anyone special, but a girl can hope. It’s all regulars and most of them call me Chas instead of Chasity. I’m one of the guys. I do shots with them, drink behind the bar and talk sports. I can't help it. Growing up with three brothers and their friends, I ended up with more guy friends than girls. If I did have a girlfriend she ended up just using me to get to one of my brothers. Plus, as the baby it was hard to date. Over protective doesn't even begin to describe my family. That's probably why I'm the only twenty five year old virgin I know. My brothers intimidated more men then I could possibly meet. I barely even go out anymore. It’s just my luck that I hook up with a guy, and one of my brothers or their friends show up. It’s happened more than once. So now, I just work, go home and read, and that’s about it.
Dropping the cases of beer on the floor, I crouch down to fill the coolers.
"Nice, pink thong."
The deep voice that I could pick out blindfolded belongs to Bryan. He is the only customer here I would ever consider being with. He's hot, shaggy blonde hair, green eyes and has a sexy husky voice. He comes in with friends, drinks soda all night, but has fun dancing and flirting. Too bad he's a player. Every night I watch him leave with some drunk college chick or groups of them. That’s a huge turn off to me. Why guys think its great is beyond me.
“Thanks Bry,” I feel my cheeks blush, “You’re here early. Want a Coke?”
I try to covertly pull my pants up. His smile widens and it sends a shiver through my body. Involuntarily I’m trapped by those alluring eyes, and I feel myself getting wet. Why the hell is this guy so hot to me? Sure he has great hair that I can picture myself pulling in the throes of passion. Sure, those green eyes sparkle like emeralds every time he smiles, and sure that laugh is so deep and hot, that just the sound of his voice makes my panties wet. But I have to continually remind myself that he’s a player. Damn it Chas. Even trying to talk myself out of it, my mind betrays me into thinking about him more.
“No thanks, it’s my night off, so I’ll take one of those Blues you have there.”
Settling himself onto the stool, I bend down, popping the cap off a bottle. Sliding it in front of him, I must have a look of disbelief on my face.
“What? I’m not a complete goody two shoes. I do drink Chasity.”
Did I mention he’s the only one who calls me by my full name around here? Yea, and the way it sounds coming from his mouth, is like satiny softness to my ears. He makes me feel like I’m more than one of the guys. No wonder women practically beg him to take them home.
“Well then, it may make picking up some drunk chick that much easier for you. Not that you’re picky