Stuck Up

Salem ~ Hands Off

Son of a bitch, she got hotter.

Steaming hot droplets of water cascade down my body, washing off the day. A cold shower would be more appropriate for my damn raging hormones, but I won't feel clean if the water's not burning me at least a little.

I'm starting to believe this woman has never been ugly a day in her life. She filled out just right, yet her eyes still hold that icy, condescending glare when she's been provoked. That temper isn't going anywhere, which leaves so much room for opportunity. So much room to poke and prod at the fact that she is not in control, now. I am.

I shake my head and chuckle, turning so the stream hits my back. Connie starts tomorrow. I didn't give her much of a choice; she insisted I give her more time so she can put in a proper two weeks at her current job. It's a damn grocery store – they'll be alright. Her eye twitched when I suggested she'd show up if she wanted the position bad enough. I can tell she couldn't turn me down, though. She's getting $20/hour.

I didn't give her the bartender position. Instead, I challenged her with more of a manager position, hence her pay. She'll take calls, book exclusive parties, and manage our website when she's on the clock. She took the challenge with her head held high, which was extremely attractive to me. She may have been a bitch in the past, but I always admired her work ethic. She was always a busybody.

My father appreciated the idea since he's been running himself ragged trying to handle everything. He has more time to rest and figure out some future plans for the club. I'm also thankful for the fact that I can get back to bar duties and not deal with more customers than I already need to.

I shut off the water and step out of the shower, grabbing my towel from the hook. I glance forward at the portrait sitting at the corner of our sink; it's my mother and I. My father caught a flick of my bubble mustache and beard while my mother was bathing me. I was five, then we lost her when I was six. I didn't know what cancer was at the time, so I didn't really understand what took her from us. When I was ten, I did some more research on it and was angry. I had pieced together that it was lung cancer, and it was because of her nicotine addiction. I vowed to never smoke a cigarette on that day. I'll drink myself to a coma, but I will not touch a pack of Newports. I still love and adore my mother, and I blow a kiss at that portrait whenever I pass by it.

I settle into the living room, wearing my Rick and Morty pajama pants and a black tank. My usual dilemma of what the hell I'm going to do until I fall asleep at 3AM is cut short when my stomach growls. Running a nightclub normally means I order something to eat while I'm at work and eat dinner, then. I'm so tired of outside food, though. On our days off, I cook for my father and I, and I love doing it. My dad ordered Chinese food but I passed on it because nothing sounded good to me.

Now my empty stomach is paying for it. Quietly sneaking past his door, I tiptoe into the kitchen and flick the light on. My father would be so betrayed to learn I cooked dinner and let him eat outside food. He'd never let me hear the end of it. I swear this was not planned, Dad!

Sliders. I want sliders. I scurry over to the fridge and slowly pull it open, taking out the packaged ground beef I was saving for spaghetti. I quickly toss in my seasonings and mix it around in a bowl, before transferring it to the stove. The sizzles remind me how deadly quiet it is in this house, and I aggressively shush at it before smacking my own forehead.

Twenty minutes later, and I've made eight sliders on mini brioche buns. I love to cook. It became a responsibility of mine after my mother died. My father can't cook for shit, so that's when I stepped in. He says I cook like my mother, which is the best compliment I probably could receive.