Chapter 4

Chapter

Four

Ten minutes after my phone call with Blanche, I wish I was one of those women who pops a Xanax to chill the fuck out. But I don't even have a gummy to take the edge off—what I wouldn't give for a magical sour candy right now.

My coffee's grown cold, and it's too late to make another pot. Sighing, I grab my keys and head to work. The bus stop is only a block away but may as well be a mile. Lost in my thoughts doesn't even begin to describe my mental state. I'm in such a fog I walk right by the damn bus stop and have to double back, riddling the air with fucks as I go.

The ride is short, thank God, and free of old men ogling my tits as I sit in my tiny plastic seat. The Fuel 'n' Fare mini-mart, a.k.a. my own personal hellscape, is crowded with the usual ten o'clock patrons. Suits on a coffee break, middle-aged moms in yoga pants buying donuts, hungover college kids, and a few truckers. Ah, home shit home.

I slide behind the counter, relieving Becky—whose eyebrows remind me of Bert from Bert and Ernie—and paste a smile on my face. It's going to be a long shift .

The slow times allow my mind to wander. Not such a good thing. I need to talk to Gary, the owner, and give him a tentative two-week notice. I hate talking to Gary. He's a mouth breather and personal space invader. Either his pot belly is bumping up against me, or flecks of spit are hitting me in the face every fucking time he opens his mouth. He's a nice enough guy if you can look beyond those things, but when you're wiping spittle off your cheek and brushing off the crumbs his belly left on your sleeve, it's hard to see his niceness. If I could let him know the situation in a text, I'd do it. But this feels like an in-person thing. Ugh.

While I have two weeks to get my life in order in preparation for my year-long stay at the Pleasure Academy, the transition begins tomorrow, which is going to impact my work schedule and force me to swap people for a night shift, which fucking sucks because that's when the crazies come out. Apparently, the usual people who sign a contract know the tight deadlines. I almost asked Blanche if the usual people who signed said agreement were drunk off their asses, but I think that would've gone over like a fart in church. So here I am. About to tell my boss, who just walked through the door.

You'd think bright orange and lime green couldn't get any worse, but then you haven't seen those colors flaunted by a man with an eighties mullet. I highly doubt he even has a party in the back mode.

"Hi, Eden." He squeezes behind the counter and leans in. I smell old coffee and a ham and egg sandwich. "How's it going?"

"Fine, Gary. You? "

He rubs his belly. "Good. Good. Did Becky say anything about the altercation last night?"

I'm lucky if Ms. Unibrow acknowledges my presence. "Nope."

"Huh. Well, just so you know, we had an incident with a patron. Nothing extreme. She was a little inebriated and got into a shouting match with her boyfriend." He pulls out the cash drawer and removes the big bills. "Threw a bottle of soda at him, and it exploded. Cops came, but no one pressed charges."

Oh, the things I have to look forward to on the night shift. "Glad it didn't turn ugly. Say, Gary, I've gotta talk to you about something."

His lips are moving as he's counting a stack of twenties. Pausing, he glances at me from beneath bushy eyebrows. "Oh? What's up?"

How the hell am I supposed to say this? Hey, boss, I thought you should know I'm gonna get my cherry popped on livestream. "So, um, my friend and I celebrated my twenty-first the other day, and, um, I… uh…" My face flames. "This is really hard to say."

He tilts his head, forehead wrinkling.

"Have you heard of the Pleasure Academy?"

His eyebrows shoot up, temporarily erasing the wrinkles around his eyes. "I don't live under a rock."

I nod and look away. "I'm going. To the Pleasure Academy."

Gary folds his arms and studies my face. "I thought they only accepted vir—" He clears his throat and picks up the stack of twenties. "I see. Well." Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle. "I, uh, assume you're giving notice then? "

"Yeah. I mean, it's not a sure thing, but…" My voice trails off as a customer walks in.

Gary finishes his count in record time and waits for me to ring up a guy buying a six-pack of beer. "I know it's none of my business, but you seem like a nice girl. Are you sure you want to do this?"

If a hunk of partially digested egg didn't hit me in the face when he asked the question, I might've had a better response. But it did. It sat on my cheek like a zit begging to be popped. My hands twitch with the need to wipe it away, but I've got manners. I ball them into fists instead, biting my tongue on the WTF about to fall out of my mouth. "I don't want to spend my life working at a Fuel 'n' Fare, Gary." Guilt is a funny thing. You not only feel it, but you also wear it across your face. "Sorry. I didn't mean that."

He waves my apology away. "Nah. I understand. If I didn't own this place, I wouldn't want to be here either."

Now I feel like an even bigger asshole. Go ahead and spit another blob of egg on my face, Gary. You're too nice of a guy to get pissed at. "Thanks. I don't know if I'll actually be selected, but the whole process starts right away. Tomorrow, actually."

"If you want to keep working, you could swap shifts with Becky."

"That'd be great." Drunks and crazies. Yay! I fucking hate the night shift. "Thanks for being cool with this."

He nods and squeezes out from behind the counter. I text Becky and ask to swap, mentally preparing myself for two weeks of hell. Setting my phone down, I ring out a few people and consider the list of things I need to do to prepare .

Inform work. Check.

See a gynecologist and get an all-clear. Oh joy.

Tell my family. Fuck that.

Tell my friends. One down, a few more to go.

Pack a suitcase full of shit I want to take. We're only allowed one.

Try not to regret this decision.

Yeah. It's going to be an interesting two weeks. Either I end up being relegated to the rejection list, or I board a plane to Fornication Fantasy Island.