Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 105175 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105175 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
“Of course.” The request fills me with hope. “Do you need anything else? I can put together a little care package.”
She shakes her head. “No. We won’t be here much longer. We’re headed back to Syria next month.”
“How long will you be there?”
“I’m not sure. I’ll have to ask Jorge.”
“Do you think you’ll have any time off around the holidays?”
Her smile falls. “I’m sorry, honey. The Peace Corps really needs us right now. War and famine have devastated the entire region. If you could see the images of these children…”
Of course. How can I compete with starving children? I feel evil for even considering it.
A locker slams a few rows down, reminding me of where I am. I check the time and cringe. “Mom, I gotta go. My shift is starting soon.”
“Oh, right. Hey, how about I try to call you tomorrow?”
“I’m working late, but I could talk in the morning?”
“We’ve got an all-staff meeting pretty early, but I’ll try you after that.”
“Sounds good.”
When we hang up, I regret calling her in the first place. It’s time to start working and I feel like I’ve just been sucker-punched in the stomach. My emotions are brewing right at the surface, which is a bad starting point for the beginning of the shift. If I run into Mr. Oil Tycoon or any of the other more demanding members, I might not be able to offer up an oh-so-sunny smile. Knowing that, I try to avoid everyone as I weave through the kitchen and main dining room, heading for the loading dock out back where the beverage carts have been left to charge.
The club has three of them, basically souped-up golf carts with coolers on the sides and a small table built into the back for prepping drinks. The person assigned to the beverage cart shift before me was responsible for restocking it and when I open the first cooler, I confirm it’s full of sodas and mixers. Ellie said that on a good shift, I’d have to head back to the club midway through to restock, but I doubt I’ll be able to get through all of this alcohol in the next few hours—unless I run across a rowdy bachelor party or something, which for my sanity’s sake, I really hope I don’t.
I’m finishing up inventory when Brian comes out to check on me.
“Did Ellie explain everything to you?” he asks with his hands on his hips.
He’s the one who wanted me to try out the new job, but now he doesn’t seem so sure it’s a good idea, probably because I’m currently scowling. Before I respond, I painstakingly turn my frown upside down.
“Just about. I haven’t driven the cart yet, but I’m assuming it handles like a normal golf cart?”
He nods and points out the gas, brake, and emergency brake. “It’s top-heavy, so avoid any sharp turns. Other than that, you’ll be okay.”
“Sounds good.”
“And not to put any pressure on you, but we’ve got some important members scheduled to play golf this afternoon, so attempt to look like you know what you’re doing.”
I laugh. “I think I’ll manage just fine. I just have to drive this thing around and make drinks, right?”
Wrong.
The golf course is packed. The club scheduled tee times back to back, so I’m left scrambling from hole to hole like a chicken with my head cut off. Worse, compared to working in the cabana, being out on the golf course is like trying to survive in the wild west. There are rules and social norms inside the clubhouse; guests have to carry themselves with a certain level of decorum. Out here, anything goes.
I’m no prude, but if I have to listen to one more of these golfers drone on about their girlfriend’s tits or ass, I’m going to drive my golf cart into a sand trap. Currently, I’m mixing up three margaritas for a group of retirees who are requesting everything under the sun.
“Do you have top-shelf tequila?”
“Don’t skimp on the limes.”
“Make sure my drink is ice cold.”
“Could I get a little more bourbon in this?”
“You know what? I’ll just take a beer instead.”
I squeeze fresh lime juice until my hands are numb and narrowly miss slicing my finger open on a soda can tab.
“You almost done there, sweetie?” one of them asks.
“Sure thing, asshole.”
“What was that?”
“Oh!” I tilt my head around the side of the beverage cart and smile sweetly. “I said, ‘Sure, when you finish this hole!’”
He grins, drags his gaze down to my breasts, and then turns back to his red-faced friends.
I make sure to give him a little less tequila than everyone else. It feels like a silent victory when he tips me fifty bucks.
“Meet up with us again at hole 9, will you?”
He holds out another fifty.
I smile, take it, and agree to see them there.