Faking Life by Jason Pinter Read Free Book Online

red nails.
    “John. What can I get you?”
    Jennifer put her finger to her lip in mock thought and said, “whatever red wine you have back there.” John nodded and uncorked a bottle of Merlot. “And why don't you pour one for yourself too.” John stopped and looked at her. She offered a lascivious smile. “Go ahead. It's on me.”
    He held back a laugh and brought the bottle up for her to see. “You want to buy me a glass of wine in my own bar?” She shrugged.
    “Can't hurt for a girl to ask.” John shook his head and poured her drink, recorking the bottle and putting it back on the shelf. “Not interested?” she said, a disappointedly flirtatious smile on her face.
    “Actually, I don't drink wine,” he said. John took a shot glass and filled it with Jack Daniels. He raised the tumbler and knocked it back, to Jennifer's evident disdain. He gestured to her wine. “That'll be seven dollars. And my shot's on the house.”
    “That wasn't very nice of you,” she said, a harder edge to her voice.
    “I don't get paid to be nice.”
    “That's a shame,” Jennifer cooed. She leaned over the bar, the vortex of her cleavage opening up to him. She took a thin red straw from behind the bar and flicked it between her teeth. John felt his libido stir. “Because I can be nice when I meet a nice boy.”
    John stared at her for a moment, then broke into peals of laughter.
    “That's it? That's your pickup line? 'I can be nice?' I bet that reels 'em into bed.” Jennifer scowled.
    “Who said anything about going to bed?”
    “Oh come on. I've seen you here before.”
    “Actually, this is my first time at this bar.” John poured a Sam Adams for a mohawked guy in a suit, then turned back.
    “Not you in particular, but girls like you. I see you here every night.”
    “You don't have to be so rude. Besides, isn't it like part of your job description that you have to be nice to customers?”
    “Rude?” John said. “I'll tell you what's rude. You come up here and think your money gives you free access to my underwear? You dance for a while. You pour me a few dozen drinks. Then maybe I'll take you home.”
    “Promise?” Man, there was no quit . John had seen some driven women in his day, but most of them took the hint if he wasn't interested. For whatever reason, Jennifer wouldn't. John shook his head, laughed incredulously. She smiled, the straw spinning faster. She leaned over more, purposely letting her loose-fitting shirt fall a little further.
    “Tell you what Jennifer. Stop by at three-thirty and we'll see how drunk I am.” Her eyes brightened.
    “John, you've got a deal. I'll see you at three-thirty.” She peeled off eight crisp singles and left them on the bar.
    John laughed to himself as he chased the Jack Daniels with a glass of beer.
    He watched a wobbly Sal Marvio dancing in the crowd, his limbs flailing like timber lost amidst a stormy sea. Marvio fell down twice, knocking a drink off the railing, tripping a couple slow dancing in the corner. His cheeks glowed bright red. Either he'd made good use of his time or he'd snuck a few libations while working. John could tell the guy was trouble. He hoped Artie would come to his senses and fire him. Sal was an embarrassment, a fact made even worse since he was Seamus's successor.
    “Hey buddy. Buddy. You still working?” John turned and saw a hand holding a hundred dollar bill out to him.
    “Yeah, I'm still working.”
    Twenty-five bucks in tips. On a Friday night. Absolutely fucking pathetic.
    Despite numerous warnings from Lisa, he'd screwed up almost a dozen orders, ignoring who knew how many more. Finally the customers wised up went to Lisa when they needed a refill.
    Standing outside the bar, Paul gazed at a yellow Post-It note, the brunette's phone number written in smudged red lipstick. He kissed the paper and folded it into his wallet, then flagged down a passing cab. Normally John walked home from the bar, but on nights where Paul stayed until