Prologue
Istare at you blankly while you sleep on whatever the thread count of these sheets is. Your blonde hair is spread over your gray pillowcase, perfectly matching our sheets. Your breasts are hidden under the loose cotton fabric while you lie there, fast asleep on your side of the bed in your post-sex euphoria.
My life with you started like any stereotypical high school archetype. The rich football player who got good grades because no parent wanted an idiot for a son, and the blonde cheerleader from the well-off family. Our relationship began as a manipulated picture. A picture of us hand in hand in expensive tuxedos and silk dresses. A vision clouded with us walking happily to high school parties–our faces covered in fake plastic smiles.
I thought I loved you then. Your smile, your long blonde hair in loose waves, your tight athletic body.
It was everything I was supposed to like and eventually love one day. My lust for you has always been in full effect. I wish I could say the same for love.
I once looked at you like a prize to be won. A petite, shiny trophy I could put in a large display case. One that was filled with expensive furniture and decor that does nothing but show off our wealth and status, and appeals to your every whim, taunting me with its meaningless use.
Do you see the lackluster of our marriage, or are you still trapped in the fantasy money has put us in? Are your eyes still filled with dollar signs when you’re lying in this large bed with a man you promised your life to?
Mine are long gone, and I’m left with the what-ifs. What if I had decided not to give in to the same role as my spoiled parents and their circle of rich friends? What if I had married for love and not for someone who would only look good hanging on my arm as a trophy wife? What if I had chosen a simpler life? Maybe I would be happy in what may be a smaller house with fewer objects, and I would finally get to do something for myself, not things to please other people. For once, I would be that simple man rather than a man molded to look good for my family name, with an abundant amount of money in my account, and the expectation to provide for the two of us.
Perhaps you already see it in me. The far-off look and the distant look in my eyes. Maybe you can tell while I'm on top of you, only to fulfill our ultimate job of adding to the spoiled and rich population. I see you as you put on your best show for me. I know you’re thinking about someone else. Maybe your tennis instructor, someone you met online or at the country club during the numerous times you insisted on going alone, or maybe he is a fictitious man from your books.
If you want me to be completely honest with you, my dear, it doesn’t matter to me, because all I can think about isher.
This isn’t how it used to be. Our life is just a picture of what you see in shopping catalogs, filled with price tags and gleaming objects. That’s all our marriage is. One big shiny picture.
Hello, Listeners
Rain falls softly on my black umbrella, the noise faint against the splashing of my boots in the puddles on the sidewalk. I casually put in my wireless earbuds as I move in and out of crowds of people headed toward me. Even in the rain, this city never sleeps.
The deep melody of his voice seeps into my ears. “Hello, ladies and gentlemen.” The smooth and slightly mysterious tone sends a shiver up my spine. I can’t tell if it’s the timbre of his voice echoing in my ears or the crisp October air that causes goosebumps on my arms beneath my black leather jacket. Maybe it’s a bit of both.
“Yeah, hey fuckers.” A wide smile covers my face as the producer and co-host chimes in. I know it’s him by the slight Manhattan accent in his voice.
“Ladies and gentlemen, if you’re new here, this is the Manhattan Murders Podcast. Thank you so fucking much for tuning in.” His voice is like whiskey, warm as it slips through me. It’s a sound that ignites a burning in my veins. If it could be bottled, I would take shots of it all day.
I finally make it to my destination: The Neon Rose Lounge. There are no free Fridays forthisbartender. The job always demands my weekends.
Through the glass double doors, I watch my best friend Jace wipe down the bar and prepare for tonight’s crowd. He cleans the black marbled surface down with what’s left of the white, tattered rags we store under the bar.
Pulling the front doors open, they squeak as I walk inside. He looks up when he hears my boots hit the hard wooden floor. I set my black purse on one of the small, dark wood surfaces of the round tables just as I always do before we officially open for the night. These empty tables and their matching chairs will be full in a matter of hours. Mostly by drunk men trying to pick up unsuspecting women who are drinking with their friends.
“Bitch, about time you showed up.” His neon pink hair stands out next to the dark paint on the walls. Italmostmatches the hot pink lettering in The Neon Rose sign posted above the door outside. I smile as I remove my earbuds, knowing it will be a new color in a matter of a few days.
“What the hell, Jace. I’m early.”
“Girl, I know. I needed some time to talk shit before the men come crowding in thinking they could fit in between those thick thighs of yours.” He teases.
“Well, be my guest! Shit talk away, baby.” My pale cheeks turn a bright shade of red that matches the vibrant color of my hair.He always knows just what to say.
“Shit talking? Who are we shit talking about?” Our boss, and owner of The Neon Rose Lounge, joins in. The sound of the heels from her knee-length boots comes tapping towards us as shemakes her way closer to the bar. Her maroon hair bounces on her purple-sweater-covered shoulders. Her speed picks up as she eagerly walks in our direction.
“Oh, honey, the fun has just begun.” Jace’s voice lightens. His silver nose ring catches my eye as it shines from the glow of the Edison bulbs above us.
“Who do you think will grace us with their presence tonight?” My boss’ face turns into a small smirk.
“You think the guy with the neck tattoos will be here?” I ask, half laughing, trying to hide my distaste for the regular patron.Anyone but him.He comes in every Friday in hopes that he can take me back to his place. He pulls his dark, greasy hair into a ponytail that shows his badly done neck tattoos. Whoever drew on the crooked lines must’ve had a difficult time drawing through the constant sweat that pours from his tan skin. Just the idea of being alone with him is enough to make my stomach turn.
“Girl, I hope not. Son of a bitch never tips. It’s the least I need from him. Maybe he’ll take his hair down so I don’t have to see those nasty ass neck tattoos of his. Motherfucker thinks he’s God’s gift to women.” Jace’s voice rises, with his arms getting more animated.You good, Jace?I can’t help my mental question as my eyes widen when he talks about the regular creep that comes in.“Janice,” Jace continues. His mannerisms completely transform as he changes the subject. “Do you think your man will come in tonight?” My boss jumps at the thought. Her admirer comes in every day and orders the same drink: a Manhattan.How fucking original.He stares at her and only her from behind his wire-rimmed glasses. He never takes his eyes off her figure as she patrols the bar. Poor guy probablythinks it’s romantic, maybe even a twisted form of admiration, but it’s just fucking creepy.
“Oh God, I hope so.” She lets out a loud sigh. “The tips he gives are what keep this bar going.” She makes her way to the kitchen, but not before giving Jace her exaggerated wink.
There is always a light on in the kitchen. I don’t spend too much time there. There are a few guys who only work back there. I guess you could say they cook the food for this place. By that, I mean warm up pre-packaged frozen appetizers, pour some chips in a bowl, and maybe cut up some vegetables. I’m sure the kitchen has its busy moments, but out here is where the action is. Plus, it's the best place for a girl to get tons of tips.
