Gena Showalter
Playing With Fire (tales of an extra ordinary girl)
To Margo Lipschultz-who helped make this book better than I ever could have dreamed.
To Diana Peterfreund (aka Brainstorm) and the League of Extraordinary Gentlewomen (Dedicata, Secret Narration Girl, Themia, Chaptera, Agentextradinara, Blog Girl-who wields the Sword of Buzzsteria-and Comedia). This mighty team braves the wilds of Procrast Nation, constantly fighting against the evil Blank Page, Fickle Muse and Lord Lexicon, who taunts us with wrong word choices. To all of you: Novelique salutes you.
Ordinary-adj [ME ordinaire, fr. L ordinarius, fr. ordin-, ordo order] 1: of a kind to be expected in the normal order of events: ROUTINE, USUAL. 2a: of common quality, rank, or ability. 2b: deficient in quality: POOR, INFERIOR. 2c: lacking in refinement. 3: Belle Jamison.
Résumé of Belle Jamison
OBJECTIVE:
To find an exciting, exhilarating career with the opportunity for advancement and a low rate of employee dismissals
EXPERIENCE:
•Five years Remmie’s Steak House-waitress
•Four and a half years Holiday Escape-maid
•May 18th-May 29th Harrison and Co. Books-dust patrol
•June 2nd-June 20th Kimberly Dolls-assembly line (heads)
•June 25th-July 3rd Rizzo’s Grocery-cleanup, aisle 5
•July 19th-August 1st Hot House Flowers-funeral arrangement specialist
•August 11th-August 13th Professional clown (independent contractor)
•September 5th-September 30th Cutter’s Gym-towel girl
•October 18th-October 31st Wisteria Elementary School -bus driver
•November 3rd-November 9th Donte Aeronautics-nuts and bolts finder
•November 10th-November 12th Jumpin’ Jive Pre-owned Cars-odometer tweaker
•November 22nd-December 1st Beauty and Beyond Salon-hair sweeper
•December 14th-February 5th Cybernet Telemarketing-hang-up preventer
•Two month sabbatical Professional loafer
•April 6th-present Utopia Café-coffee wench
EDUCATION:
•Graduate of Wisteria High School
•Head cheerleader for the Fighting Trojans (Go team!)
•Voted best dressed
•One week at Groomers ‘R’ Us
•Four weeks at LaVonda’s Divine School of Cosmetology
INTERESTS:
Long walks on the beach, sunsets, romance novels, cold winter nights, paychecks, fine dining, shopping, naps, playing the lottery, men in kilts/uniforms/calendars, and massages.
REFERENCES:
“If you do not enforce strict ‘attendance’ policies, Miss Jamison is the perfect candidate for your company.”
– Mr. Ron Peaty, Manager of Utopia Café
“Please give my friend a job. Please.”
– Miss Sherridan Smith, best friend
CHAPTER ONE
ISN’T IT AMAZING HOW ONE seemingly innocent decision can change your entire life? For me, that decision came in the form of a grande mocha latte.
Allow me to explain.
The day began normally enough. Translation: I rolled out of bed thirty minutes late, rushed through a shower and hurriedly dressed in the standard black slacks and white button-up top every Utopia Café employee is required to wear. Unlike the other employees, I left the top three buttons of my shirt undone, revealing hints of the white lace (push-up) bra I wore underneath. Don’t judge. Some people are mammarily challenged and need a little boost. Anyway, if I showed a little cleavage my pervert boss wouldn’t care that I was late. Again.
He might even thank me for coming in at all.
Was it wrong of me to rely on the girls to get me out of trouble? Probably. Did I give a shit? Hell, no. In fact, I un abashedly adjusted them for ample display. I was single, twenty-four and determined to keep this job. Anyone who objected could blow me.
See, my dad suffers from massive heart problems and I’m the “responsible party” in charge of his bills, not to mention the one who finances his stay at Village on the Park, a nearby assisted living center. I would have loved for him to live with me (not that there’s enough space in my one-bedroom efficiency), but it’s best that he stays there. They have twenty-four-hour monitoring and make sure he takes his medications, which he “forgets” to do when left to his own devices.
Besides, he claims he’s never been happier. The women there are “silver foxes,” he says, and eager for masculine attention. Dare I mention those silver foxes cost more than high-priced hookers because my dad is always popping the Viagra he buys from his friends?
I’ll do anything to ensure my dad’s happiness, though, the way he unselfishly ensured my happiness throughout my entire childhood. So I desperately need to keep my current job and get the one I’m interviewing for after my shift.
Can’t be late, can’t be late, can’t be late, I mentally chanted as I searched for my coffee-stained tennis shoes. I’ve spilled more cappuccinos on them than I’ve served to high-class snobs. Needless to say, I’ve served a lot of high-class snobs.
“Aha! Found you, you dirty little bastards.” When had I put them in the refrigerator? I tugged them on, shivering as my toes grew numb from the cold.
Meanwhile, the clock ticked away more precious minutes.
I hastily applied blush, mascara and gloss. You’d think the need for money would inspire me to wake up bright and early every morning no matter the circumstances, but you’d be wrong. I was too tired to do bright and early today, even for a stack of greens. Last night I’d bartended a bachelorette party until 3:00 a.m. Me, a girl who knows nothing about alcohol. Sex on the Beach-sure, with the right man. Fuzzy Navel-uh, shower, anyone? Tom Collins-who the hell?
Of course, I’d pretended to be the expert I’d claimed to be in the interview, mixing anything and everything I could get my hands on. My drinks hadn’t been the tastiest, but they’d certainly created the desired results. By the end of the evening, all of the women drunkenly swore they loved me and my “wicked nasty” concoctions.
The clock chimed the hour: 6:00 a.m.
“Damn it.” I rubbed my tired, burning eyes-then froze when I realized the mascara hadn’t dried. Freaking great. I probably looked like a boxer who’d lost the big match. As I scrubbed my face with a wet washrag, I watered my dry, brittle plants, multitasking to save time. What would it take to make the little green monsters thrive?
Finally ready to leave, I dug my keys out of the fishbowl. How many drinks had I sucked down last night? I didn’t remember dropping my keys in the water. At least the bowl was presently devoid of fish. Martin, my betta, had kicked it a few days ago. Natural causes, I assure you.
“I hope you’re rotting in the sewers,” I said, looking down. No way he’d made it into heaven. The little snot had hated me, had always fanned his gills and hit the glass whenever I walked into a room. He’d been a present from my last boyfriend, aka the Prince of Darkness. Was it wrong of me to wish the ex had died with the fish?
No time to ponder the ethics of that dream now. I needed to go. Dressed? Check. Shoes? Check. Keys? Check. Résumé? Check. I’d stuffed it in my work pants last night in preparation for an interview today. Ugh. Yet another menial job. If only I could crawl back into bed, snuggle under the covers and continue my X-rated dream about Vin Diesel and an easy-squeeze tube of chocolate syrup. Double yum! Something about that bald head drove me wild.
Stop daydreaming, woman. I trudged to the front door just as the phone rang. Sighing, I raced into my bedroom. Probably my boss, Ron, but I wanted to double-check just in case. A quick peek at caller ID revealed it was actually my dad. Late as I was, I didn’t even think about letting the machine pick up. I grabbed the receiver and held it to my ear. “Hey, Daddy.”