What Shouldn't Be

Chapter One

The club boomed with every beat of the song. People danced so close that a piece of paper wouldn’t be able to fit in-between them. The smell of sweat and alcohol was almost unbearable, but I was probably the only sober person in Night Life to even notice.

 “Hey bartender! How 'bout you get me and this lovely little lady a drink!” My costumer had to yell over the loud, pulsating sound of the music. He looked like a Jersey Shore wanna be with his fake tan, gelled hair, and he was wearing sunglasses even though the club was dark except for the glowing, colorful lights that blinked on and off on the dance floor.

 “What would you like?” I grabbed two glasses as I waited for his reply.

 The blonde wrapped around in his arms whispered something into his ear. Jersey Shore turned his attention back to me and yelled his order.

 “Get us two Sex Drive Margaritas, on the rocks!”

 The most popular drink at the club, I should’ve guessed. I expertly grabbed the different liquids that were needed to make the drink and twirled them around my fingers, hoping if I gave this guy and his one night stand a show I would get a nice tip. I threw one bottle over my head, caught it with my other hand, and added the liquid to the mixture. I plopped some ice into the blender and mixed the drink together. When I completed making their drinks, in record time after months of experience, I poured it into the glasses. The drinks swished as I slid them across the table to the couple.

 The guy nodded in approval. He placed the money down before walking away with his girl happily slurping her drink. I grabbed the money and was pleased that he left me a $50 tip. He was probably to drunk to realize how much he had left me. Or maybe he really liked my little show of throwing glasses and bottles around. The most likely reason was that he liked my jean shorts that exposed my tanned legs, along with my black tank with the clubs name Night Life written on it. The tank was one size to small and showed a little too much.

 I absolutely hated wearing clothes that made me look skanky. If people left me nice tips for just making them their drinks I would be the happiest 21 year old girl in the world, but they don’t. Tips come from how hot I look while I make the drinks, and I needed the money. Well, my family needed the money.

The rest of the night was a blur of people yelling drink orders and me quickly throwing the drink together. The night was slower then usual due to it being a Monday, but in sunny Los Angeles, Californians always found time to party. Finally, though, it was time to head home. A few people still mingled around as I went to the back room the grab my jacket. Tank, my boss, was lying down on the couch with a water bottle in his hand.

 “Gosh Tank its,” I grabbed my cell phone from my pocket to look at the time, “only 4 in the morning and you’re already hung-over?” He mumbled something

“What?”

 Tank lifted the wet washcloth off his head. “I feel like shit.”

 I laughed at him and shook my head. “You know maybe if you didn’t drink as much as you serve, you could end the night hangover-free.”

 “Don’t you have some where to be, Charly?” Tank grumbled.

 “Yeah, yeah. See you tomorrow.” I started for the door.

 “Wait! Your coming to the venue where we are bartending at tomorrow right?” Tank sat up on his elbows with his eyes squinted.

 I sighed, “Tank, tomorrow is my day off.”

 "I know, but your my best bartender and I would really love it if you came to help. I'll will also pay you double."

 I glared at him, "Fine. What time?"

***

 “Thanks,” I said to the cab driver as I handed him his money. I walked up the sidewalk to my house. My family and I lived in a rough neighbor hood. Houses looked rough (including mine) and unfinished. Lawns were outlined with old, rusty fences, and there was always that one dog that’s bark was so nasty you were afraid to go outside. Our house had two stories with white paint chipped on the outside, reveling gray boards. The lawn had patches of grass and toys that had been left behind by my little brothers and sisters. I walked onto our screened in front porch and then opened the creaky front door that lead to the inside of our crappy house. I hung my jacket up and made my way to the kitchen. I found Mom doing the dishes. She turned around to face me. Her graying red hair was a much older version of my long natural red hair. She had bags under her eyes and she looked absolutely exhausted.

 “Hi sweetheart. How was work?”

 I walked over to her, and gave her a quick hug, “Slow and long,” I replied.

 “Well honey I really appreciate you helping us out.” Mom had always felt really bad about not being able to pay for me to go to college. I did really well in high school and I even got a scholarship, but I couldn’t bring myself to leave her or my 5 siblings. Not with Jason still here. Jason was my dad, but I rarely called him so. He was hardly a father. He worked at a construction company, but he did nothing for this family. He was an alcoholic and he hit my mom even though she denies it. Long story short, I hated my own father.

 “Mom its no big deal, okay? How about you go to bed and I will finish up the dishes,” I told Mom as a statement not a question.

 “No, no, no you go upstairs and get some sleep,” Mom protested.

 “Mom, go. I got it,” I pushed her aside so I could begin to do the dishes.

 She kissed me on the cheek. “Thanks, Charly.” She headed up the stairs to her bedroom.

 I had washed and dried all the dishes by the time Jason came home. He walked into the kitchen with a wobble. Drunk again. He glared at me. “What are you still doing up?” he questioned. He couldn’t even stand without stumbling slightly.

“I got home from work and did the dishes. Now I am heading up to bed.” I started walking towards the stairs, not wanting to talk to Jason anymore.

 He grabbed my arm as I walked by him. His hands had such a strong grip on my arm that I winced in pain.“How much did you make?”

“Um, some,” I stammered.

 Jason held out is free hand, “Give it to me. I, uh, need to make some payments.” Payments my ass. The only payment he had ever made was to the drugstore for some alcohol. I wanted to tell him to go to hell, but he was a 280 pound man while I was a measly 130 pound girl. Odds were in his favor. I slowly grabbed the tips I had made from my jeans shorts and handed it to him. Jason released me from his grip and without one word, headed up to his bedroom. Not a thanks or anything. I rubbed my arm were his grisly hand had touched me. I walked up to my bedroom thinking about how I never wanted him to touch me again.