The Dirty Version

  The Dirty Version

  Hadley Quinn

  Copyright © 2017 Hadley Quinn

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting rights under the copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, introduced into a retrieval system, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including without limitation photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. The scanning, uploading, and/or distribution of this document via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and is punishable by law.

  The events and characters in this work are entirely fictitious and of the author’s imagination. Any similarities to individuals alive or deceased are purely coincidental. The author recognizes the mention of brands or trademarks that are not endorsed by said brands or trademarks.

  Content Warning:

  This book contains adult material, including sex and language. It is intended for readers over the age of 18.

  “If life were predictable it would cease to be life, and be without flavor.”

  ~Eleanor Roosevelt

  This book is dedicated to:

  EVERYONE WHO DESERVES A SECOND CHANCE

  because sometimes you weren’t quite ready for the first

  ~1~

  “You wouldn’t want a heart if you knew what the world could do to it. You’re empty inside, so be thankful.”

  I let the Tin Man ornament drop from my fingers to the bare mattress. The sight of him lying there in vast emptiness seemed fitting. Lonely. Lost. The red heart on his chest was so faded it was barely visible.

  How suiting.

  Funny how a cleverly crafted fairytale could produce so many timeless parallels. I’m sure Frank Baum never meant for his Wonderful Wizard of Oz to have multiple analogies to my life.

  Picking up the ornament again, I paused. I was going to mechanically toss it at the trash bag but dropped it in with the rest of the “maybe I want it” box on the floor. I didn’t think it’d ever made its way onto a Christmas tree to begin with, but I’d kept it all these years.

  A souvenir of simpler times, perhaps.

  I reached for the last box to perform another shit job of taping it together. After striping the bottom with a bumpy fifth layer of tape, I flipped it over and began to clear off the dresser. I didn’t care how everything got packed, which was evident by the haphazard piles in each box.

  “Jolie, are you ready yet? Your father is back for the last load. We’re so excited for you, sweetie.”

  My mother. Jill Chambers was forever the optimist.

  She stopped in the doorway, glancing around. I knew she wouldn’t comment about the weight of the moment: my last few minutes in the bedroom I’d occupied for the duration of my eight years of marriage.

  “Your father picked up some paint samples on his way back,” she beamed. “You just let him know which ones you’ve decided on, and he’ll take care of it.”

  I feigned a smile. She meant well, but I wasn’t five, and a spiel wasn’t necessary to get me into my kindergarten class. I was unwilling to play into her game of distractions.

  She noticed the full box I’d finished packing and proceeded to tape it shut. “What would you like this labeled?”

  Shit I will probably burn, I wanted to say. But I answered, “Miscellaneous, I guess.”

  She took the Sharpie and applied the letters in delicate script—like it was a wedding invitation, not brown cardboard that would find its way to recycling at some point.

  At the same time, she eyed me cautiously. “We’ll order in some pizza when we unload at your apartment, okay? Or maybe some Chinese food?”

  My shrug was to indicate indifference, but I added, “Whatever sounds good to you guys. And again, thanks for helping me. You didn’t have to.”

  “Oh, come on, Jo. Of course we did. What else do we have to do?”

  I smiled at the tease. My parents were empty nesters and both retired, so the idea of having one of their kids need them was absolutely thrilling. But I also knew they just wanted to get a better look at my new place and surrounding neighborhood. I was twenty-eight years old, and my mom and dad were still paranoid about my decisions.

  I suppose that was every parent’s right, and with my current situation, I couldn’t blame them.

  My dad arrived and took the remaining boxes. While my mom left with the bag of garbage, I took a second to really attempt to let the moment feel like a good transition.

  It didn’t. I wanted to burst into tears. Fear and uncertainty plagued me, and I truly hadn’t felt peace for a long time. My current world had tumbled to an end, and there I was, taking the final step in my effort to “get over it.”

  Well, I wasn’t over it. Really fucking wasn’t.

  ~

  “Well, maybe you shouldn’t be,” Anna replied after hearing my “woe is me” complaint another time. “You still need time to adjust, babe. Give yourself a break. Or maybe you should just say fuck it and paint the town red for a bit.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Right.”

  Anna sighed and gripped my hand at the bar where we’d met up to chat. The men at the nearest table were smitten with stupidity, and even though they couldn’t hear us, I swear they’d been watching us for some type of lesbian activity. I guess I couldn’t blame them. Anna was one hot mama. I’d give anything to have her shimmery black hair and dark blue eyes. And maybe not her full rack, but just a bit of it.

  Still, I wasn’t in the mood for horny Neanderthals.

  “What are you staring at, jackass?” I snapped at the one who was gawking the most.

  He only narrowed his eyes at me, but his buddy next to him laughed. The six on the stupidity scale jumped to an eight for the pair.

  I glared at guy #2. “Don’t you have a cousin or two you can go play doctor with?”

  “Oh, my God,” Anna choked under her breath. “Chill, hormones, chill,” she instructed, like she was addressing some other being inside my body.

  Might have been true. I had no idea who I’d become in the past year. Gone was the quiet, small-town girl who was polite to everyone. The last twelve months had ripped me apart, and I’d gradually morphed into something…more diverse.

  “No, I’m not going to chill,” I retorted. “You sound as bad as my ex when you say that.”

  I knew that was going to push the wrong button, and sure enough, Anna’s face transformed from concerned friend to psycho-in-a-pair-of-heels.

  “Hey, watch it, Jo. I’m trying to be your friend here, but I ain’t your fucking therapist. You want textbook sympathy and validation? Pay me for it.”

  She turned on one of those black spikes and left me flushed with embarrassment.

  I deserved it. Truth was, Anna scared me. I had been married for eight years and always catered to my husband’s life. I never had one of my own, therefore, didn’t have many friends. I’d had coworkers at my mom’s accounting firm but never spent time with anyone outside of work.

  Anna was the closest thing I had to a friend in a long time. She’d taken me under her wing when I started waitressing at Timeout a few months ago. Freshly divorced and no college degree, a sports bar was the only place in Berkeley that would hire me after I left my previous job unexpectedly.

  And Anna Turner had told me I’d better learn fast or move on.

  “Hey, what’s the deal, Jo? Your tables are getting impatient.”

  Patrick. He wasn’t the worst manager, but I swear he was up my ass more than anyone else’s. He tsked me before faking a huge smile for new customers waitin
g to be seated.

  “Sorry for the holdup, guys,” I expressed as I delivered refills to table six. “How’s everyone doing? Can I bring you anything else?”

  The four men had been typical sports enthusiasts, all of them boisterously following hockey on the closest big screen. I’d only received a light amount of flirty comments and such, nothing to take offense to or be worried about, so I was appreciative. I approached every table with the sole purpose of doing my job by serving them, but I’ll be the first to admit I wasn’t always as friendly as I could be.

  Anna claimed I ruined my tips because of that reason alone, and I wasn’t going to disagree. I preferred a nice, thick wall to separate me from people and their intentions. But I felt like Anna’s tips were based on the type of heels she wore. I never understood her ability to work in them because I was incapable of wearing heels for even an hour, let alone an entire night.

  “So, what do you think, eh, Jo,” one of the men at table six addressed me, glancing at my nametag. “Think the Sharks will keep their lead?”

  They were probably in their mid-thirties, if I were to guess, and because I normally didn’t take time to interact on a personal level with customers, it was routine to answer with something generic and move on.

  However, I wanted to assess the game. I liked hockey, and truthfully, watching all the sporting events was the biggest perk about working at Timeout.

  I could talk sports any day. It was a comfortable buffer.

  “Hmm, well, three minutes left, a lot can still happen. But sure, yeah, I’m gonna say they’ll do it.”

  “Wanna bet your tip on that?” one of the other guys asked smugly. He was probably the best looking of the four—dark hair and eyes, what I tended to prefer these days. Anything to avoid my ex’s opposite features.

  Normally, I’d brush off the comment, but hell, I felt a bit feisty. “Sure. And if the Sharks win, you owe me thirty percent gratuity.”

  The other three laughed, seeming to mock their friend. One of them said, “Oh, I like it. The true test of a cheap, die-hard Kings fan. Whatever are you gonna do, Sam?”

  Dark-haired Sam took a drink of his beer and wiped his mouth. “First of all, asshole, I’m not cheap. The lovely lady woulda got a tip no matter what. But,” he turned to me with a pleasant smile. “You got a deal, Jo. Thirty percent if the Sharks win.”

  I chuckled as I removed a pair of empty appetizer plates from the table. “And what if they don’t?”

  “You go out with me sometime.”

  I paused mid-motion, nearly dropping the plates from my hand. “Um, excuse me?”

  I’d been asked out on the job before. Usually by men who were either drunk or overly cocky, and I wasn’t into that. They seemed to think I was some piece-of-trash bar waitress willing to spread my legs for just anybody.

  I liked the group of guys, though. They seemed fairly normal. While it was probably too soon to tell, I didn’t get any weird, creepy vibes from any of them.

  Suddenly, Sam seemed to regret his betting terms. “I’m sorry, that’s probably way too forward.” He waved his hand, seemingly calling it off.

  “Ah, you’re giving up too soon again,” one of his friends whispered so I couldn’t hear.

  Except I did hear, and it made me study Sam again. He seemed familiar, and I was sure he’d been a customer before. And after thinking on it a bit harder, I wondered if he was the guy from two weeks ago who told me I probably had a great man to go home to. My initial reaction had been sarcasm, but I honestly hadn’t caught the hint until after he’d left.

  I was ninety-nine percent sure he was the same man.

  “You do have other tables to serve,” Patrick bitched in a low voice from behind. “Either do your job fully or I’ll pull your hours.”

  He was right, so I made a hasty exit from table six and refocused on detaching myself from further personal interactions. I truly did not know how Anna did it. She was the absolute perfect waitress, knowing exactly what to say and do and how to read her customers.

  My suck-ass job skills still had a long way to go.

  As it approached closing hour and many tables had been abandoned for the night, I bit my tongue and listened to Patrick ream my job performance again while he followed me around to each empty table.

  “You just lack common sense, Jo. You’re not a bad waitress, but you don’t know how to deal with the customers. Tips should indicate how good your service is. Not all the time, but on average…”

  He continued to lecture me when I stopped at table six to pick up the ticket book. The Sharks had actually lost somehow, so I wasn’t expecting a tip. Those guys had also left without making me follow up on my end of the “bet,” which I guess really had been called off. It hadn’t been mentioned again, and I’d gone back to my usual business-only type of service with them.

  “I think I’m going to switch you to lunch shift, Jo.”

  Patrick was still rambling. I opened the ticket book to make sure no one left behind a credit card, and that’s when I froze. The payment had been signed for, but there was also a note written on the ticket.

  Thanks for your beautiful smile.

  I blinked at the cash tip tucked behind it as Patrick informed me I could take more time to “fine-tune my service skills” while working the lunch shift. “Once you learn how to increase your tips—”

  “Worry about your own tip, Patrick,” I cut him off, waving the fifty-dollar bill in his face. “I have a beautiful smile, dammit.”

  I flashed that beautiful smile and walked away.

  ~2~

  “What’s up, Jo?”

  My brother entered my apartment without knocking, without announcing his arrival…nothing. I was glad he could make himself right at home but reminded myself I should probably lock my door now that I lived in a new area.

  I had no idea how weird my neighbors might be.

  “I’ve made zilch for dinner,” I informed him.

  “You think I just drop by for food?” I eyed him knowingly, and he rolled his eyes. “Fine, whatever, maybe I enjoy the food every now and then, but I mainly stop by to see you.”

  Honestly, I wasn’t sure if that were true or not. Drew used to come by for dinner a lot when I was married, especially because my husband was rarely home to eat the meals I’d prepared. Now that I’d moved twenty miles further from his college campus, I saw less and less of my little brother.

  He sat on the couch where my feet were tucked under a blanket. “It’s kinda cold in here, sis.”

  I closed the laptop and set it on the floor next to the couch. I didn’t have a coffee table or end tables, or anything like I used to before. It was really down to the basics. I either sold most of it or the new owners of my house wanted it left behind.

  Like the custom four-poster bed in the master bedroom. God, I hoped they at least got rid of the mattress. They’d be cursed with missionary sex their entire lives.

  “You doing okay, Jolie? You, uh, have heat and stuff and…power?” He glanced around my small apartment.

  “Yes, I have electricity, Drew.” My tone might have come through a smidge defensive, so I sighed and softened my attitude. “I just keep the heat off. Don’t want to be hit with an outrageous bill right off the bat. Need to play it safe until the house sale goes all the way through.”

  He slowly bobbed his head, but I wasn’t sure he was convinced. “You’re still working at the restaurant, right?”

  I crisscrossed my legs under me because he was about to squeeze my feet. I hated my feet touched, and he could be treacherous with that knowledge. “Yeah, I’m still working my ass off so it can be ogled by horny jocks every night.”

  He laughed, but I also heard laughter at the doorway. The door was still cracked open a few inches, but it was enough to see two of his friends in the hall.

  “Wha—? Drew, you just leave ‘em on the doorstep?” I motioned with my hand. “You guys can come in. Sorry for the mess, though, I’m still moving in.”


  The door pushed open all the way, and two of my brother’s sidekicks entered. I recognized them but only knew one by name.

  “Ah, it’s okay, Jolie,” Boxer assured me. “You think our place is any better?”

  I smiled at his honesty, but that was Boxer for you. I didn’t even know his real name, but since the first time Drew brought him by for dinner last year, I’d always appreciated his straightforward nature.

  I was leery of shady, fake people. And with good reason.

  “I can only imagine,” I replied dryly.

  Boxer had this thing about him—his smile—and it was really quite adorable. He’s one of those guys who could say any stupid thing and get away with it because he was charming. In a natural way. Not cocky-charming, just…sweet.

  And he had dimples.

  “This is Corey,” Boxer motioned to his friend. “Not sure if you’ve met or not?”

  I acknowledged Corey with a nod. “Yeah, I’ve seen him around.”

  Corey seemed shy and wouldn’t look my way. “Yeah, uh, we’re on the same baseball team,” he mumbled, motioning to my brother.

  I nodded my agreement. Most of them looked the same on the field in matching uniforms and hats, but occasionally, I could differentiate one from the other. I’d seen Corey before. His freckles were memorable.

  “Make yourselves at home,” I told them. Since my brother and I were on the only couch, Corey took the recliner, and Boxer pulled out the single bar stool from the kitchen.

  “So, this is a cool place,” Boxer observed, scanning what he could see of it. “And hey, I have a friend a few streets away if you ever need anything. Or us,” he acknowledged Drew. “We can help.”

  “Yeah, Jo, how come you didn’t let me know you were moving out?” Drew complained. “We could’ve helped.”

  I shrugged it off. “Really, it wasn’t that much stuff—mostly just my personal belongings that fit in Dad’s truck. Got a jump on this place and took advantage.” I paused for a response, but there wasn’t one. “So, uh, what are you guys up to today? Surely you have better things to do than visit this crazy cat lady.”