Rock'n Tapestries (7 page)

“Sooner
or later, we need to have this conversation.  I’ve spent years dissecting us,
trying to figure out what went wrong.  I agonized over whether I was pretty
enough or sexy enough, if it was something that I said or did. But it wasn’t
me, was it?  There’s something inside
you
that won’t let you take that
final step. God, you stupid son-of-a-bitch, you could look for a million years
and never find someone who loved you as much as I did!”  Tears welled in my
eyes.  I wanted to hit something in frustration. “And you felt that way about
me too, and that’s why you did what you did.”

I
hit a serious nerve with
that
little comment.  I could feel his heart
racing under the palms of my hands.  It was the answer I’d spent five years
trying to find.

For
the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like a failure.  If I could just
get him to open up to me…

He
reached up, closed his hands around mine, and held them against his chest.  His
eyes glistened with tears.  He kept opening and closing his mouth, but I knew
he wouldn’t be able to speak without sounding weak, so he wasn’t going to speak
at all.

I
had to give him an out, let him make a graceful exit.

“I
appreciate everything you’ve done for me. Helping me move and all. The painting
is beautiful. I’ll treasure it always.  I’m glad you stayed with me for a while
tonight. Thank you.”

With
one quick, guilty glance into my eyes, Asher was around me and out the door.

I
didn’t sleep a wink the first night in my new apartment.  It felt strange and
smelled funny, like dust and old things.  It wasn’t home.  And the whole
argument with Asher had my gut in knots.

Sometime
past midnight I managed to drowse off, only waking when morning light began to
filter between the curtains. I stared at the antique copper and glass light
fixture overhead, a hundred random thoughts skittering through my mind.

 I
noticed there were at least two decades of dead flies resting on the inside
bottom of the frosted glass.  I made a mental note to clean it. If I were going
to spend time staring at the ceiling and thinking things over, I didn’t want to
look at fly corpses. 

Suddenly,
I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what happened between Asher and me. Maybe it was
just better to let our past lie in the grave with a stake through its heart. 
Maybe I didn’t need perspective after all.

At
that moment, I wanted nothing more than to hole up in my apartment for the rest
of weekend and think.  Too bad I had to work that night.

Reluctantly,
I threw back the covers and rolled out of bed.

Willow
met me at the door of Tapestries that afternoon.  “What did you do to Asher? 
He’s a real grouch today!”

I
shouldered past her with a scowl on my face. “I really don’t want to talk about
it.”

She
was smart enough to let it rest.

We
got busy very fast that Saturday night. The Bugaloos were playing, and they had
a large fan base. Despite the sissy name, they attracted a crowd that was
predominantly bikers.  We were packed floor to ceiling, and it was hard to get
through the mass of bodies with a tray. I finally resorted to delivering drinks
two or three at a time without it.

Around
midnight, I mentioned to Marybeth that maybe we should cut down on the amount
of alcohol we were serving.  More than once that night, I’d had a strange hand
under my skirt.

“Can’t
do that, Chels.”  She glanced over the crowd then peered back at Scott Dreyfus
with a scowl.  “If they wanna keep drinking, I gotta keep serving.” 

“Then
I’m going out to my car to get a pair of shorts to put on under my skirt.  The last
guy I served pulled me down in his lap and nearly had my undies off.” Though
the weather was starting to get cold,  I always kept a pair of shorts in my car
just in case.

“Do
what you gotta do, sweetheart.  Just let me or Scott know if anyone makes you
uncomfortable.” She glanced over the crowd again.  I knew she was talking
tough, but these guys intimidated her too, and she was as badass as anyone I
knew.

You
get felt up once in a while when you’re a waitress in a bar. Instant asshole—just
add alcohol, and all that.   I’d become a pretty good judge of who was just
showing off for friends and who was serious about getting under my skirt.  A
gentle knee to the stones or a heel jammed down on a foot was usually enough to
get an aggressive drunk to back off. If that didn’t work, we called out the big
guns—Marybeth, Scott, and Mr. Dreyfus. We tried not to get too physical with
our patrons though, especially when we were that crowded.  Even a small fight
could quickly escalate into a drunken riot.

I
slipped out the back door to the parking lot and retrieved the shorts from my
car.  When I turned around to go back, I ran into a group of four scary-looking
bikers.  They’d surrounded my car.

I
clenched my fists.
Son-of-a-bitch!
 

“Get
out of my way. I need to get back to work.” I glared at each of them one by
one.

The
biggest dude was already fumbling with his zipper.  “I’ve got some work for you
right here.” He leered at me with a mouth full of stained and rotted teeth.  I
winced. His breath was eighty proof.

This
was serious shit.  These guys meant business.

I
feinted to the left, but they moved with me.   I then twisted to the right,
shoving the skinny guy blocking my path with as much force as I could muster,
and sprinted toward the back door of Tapestries.  They were stumbling around,
drunk as hell.  That was my only advantage. 

I
was moving like a freight train when I hit the door.  I grabbed the handle,
squeezed, and jerked. I had it open a crack just as they got to me.  One of
them snagged me around the waist and pulled me backward, but I wasn’t about to
let go. They yanked, I held on, and the door swung wide.  I dropped the shorts
I was holding, latched on to the handle with both hands, and screamed at the
top of my lungs.

“Marybeth! 
Somebody!
Anybody!  Help! Help me
!”  

More
hands were on me now, prying at my shoulders and arms, trying to break my hold
on the handle. My body was parallel to the ground; I could feel my hands
slipping…slipping... I screamed louder, harder.

In
the space of a heartbeat, Marybeth and Asher were there. Marybeth, who was no
slouch in the muscle department herself, seized me by the upper arms and pulled
me against her.  I was shaking like a leaf. I would’ve been sobbing, but I
couldn’t breathe.  Asher advanced on the group with a butcher knife he’d
snatched from the kitchen. 

“Four
against one,” he said calmly. “Hardly seems like a fair fight, boys.”

The
bikers didn’t look so tough now.  The one who’d been ready to unzip his fly
held his hands up in front of him.  “We was just lookin’ for a little fun,
that’s all.  Didn’t mean no harm.”

“I
bet the lady thinks otherwise. “ Asher spun the knife around in his hand like a
ninja with nunchucks.  It surprised me.  Where had he learned to do that?

 “You
owe her an apology.” He stepped toward the group.  “Let’s hear it.  Now.”

They
all mumbled some version of “sorry” and melted away into the night.

Marybeth
held me tightly. I think she was shaking just as much as I was. “Jesus Christ,
Chelsea, if you wouldn’t have gotten to the door... I need a fucking
cigarette.”

Asher
was suddenly in front of me.  “Are you all right? They didn’t hurt you?”

“I’m
not hurt.”
Scared out of my mind, pissing down my leg, but not really hurt.

With
both of them supporting me, we went back into the bar.

Of
all the reactions Scott Dreyfus could’ve had to my near-kidnapping, the one I
got blew me away.

The
next afternoon Scott pulled me into his office alone, shoved me into a chair,
and ranted and raved for ten minutes.  I barely heard a word of it. It was only
when he started in on Asher that I lifted my gaze up to him, my own temper at
the boiling point.

“….and
then fucking Asher tries to play hero by pulling a fucking
knife
on
those guys! Patrons! Customers!  Now they’ll never come back, and those bikers
drop some serious coin when they come in here!”  Scott leaned over me, his
hands gripping the armrests of the chair I was sitting in.  He was practically
purple, spitting all over me every time he opened his mouth.

“I
was almost kidnapped, you douchebag!” I glared right back at him.  “If Asher
and Marybeth hadn’t heard me screaming, they’d be fishing my body out of the
Monongahela River right now!  But that’s okay, isn’t it?  As long as you’re
making money, it’s all good, right?”

“Don’t
you talk to me like that, you little cunt. I’ll fire you, Asher,
and
Marybeth if I have to.  Tapestries has a reputation to protect.”

“What
reputation is that, Scott?  That the owner’s son is a heartless asshole who
cares more about money than the safety of the female bar employees?  You are so
full of shit I can smell you from here!”

He
drew in a sharp breath, and for one suspended heartbeat, I thought he was going
to hit me.

“What
the hell were you doing outside anyway?”  He narrowed his eyes.

“Getting
a pair of shorts out of my car.  Not that it’s any of
your
business.” I
crossed my arms in front of me and looked away.

He
stood, looking perplexed. “Shorts?  For what?”

“I
was going to put them on under my skirt—a short skirt that
you
insist we
wear.  I was tired of your precious customers putting their hands on my ass!  
I don’t understand why we can’t just wear a pair of black shorts and a
Tapestries T-shirt when we’re serving.  This is not the first time this has
happened to me.  The other girls too.  And you don’t seem to care.”

He
snickered.  “Tits and ass sell more drinks. The customers like to look at the
girls’ asses when they drink. So do I. If you’d have stayed in the bar, this
wouldn’t have happened.”

That
was it. I was done.  I shot up out of my chair, fists clenched.  “How dare you
blame me for what happened, you misogynistic jackass!  Tits and ass sell
drinks, do they?  That sounds an awful lot like sexual harassment to me!”

The
son-of–a-bitch actually had the nerve to run his knuckles across my cheek. 
“Why won’t you play nice with me, Chelsea? I’d let you wear anything you wanted
if you’d give me a little taste of that sweet slice you have between your
legs.”

I
drew back and hit him across the face as hard as I’ve ever hit anything in my
life. In fact, my fist was only half-closed when it met his cheekbone.  My hand
hurt like hell. I was sure I’d broken a couple of fingers.

Unfortunately,
I’d pushed him to his own breaking point.  He staggered back, recovered, and
came after me, clutching my upper arms in a death grip.  He let go and
backhanded me, and I swear I heard bells ring.  I collapsed back into the
chair, hand to my left cheek, my head spinning.

Marybeth
must’ve been standing right outside.  She launched through the door at Scott,
fists flying, trying to finish what I’d started.   Scott retreated behind the
desk and grabbed the baseball bat he had there.  Marybeth backed off, but she
was so mad she was snorting.

The
ruckus we were making was bound to attract someone’s attention.  Soon enough,
Bob Dreyfus stood in the doorway with a bewildered look on his face.

“What
the glorious hell is going on in here?” He glanced between the three of us. 

Scott
sounded as though he were going to cry when he spoke.  “I want these two
bitches from hell fired, Dad!  They assaulted me!”

“It
this true?” I could feel Mr. Dreyfus’s gaze on me.  

I
only had one shot at an explanation.  I inhaled, tried to calm myself, and
lifted my gaze to Mr. Dreyfus.  “I was nearly kidnapped last night by a couple
of customers. Marybeth and Asher saved me. If you’ll just give me a chance to
tell you what happened...”

“Dad! 
Surely you aren’t going to listen to anything this little bitch has to say! She
hit me!”

I
rubbed my cheek and glared at Scott. “Only after you asked me for sex. Does your
father know that you treat the waitresses here like your own personal harem? 
Does he know how many of the girls have given in and slept with you to get a
bigger share of the tips and a better schedule?”

 Up
until now, this had been an open secret.  I wasn’t about to let this asshole
make me the bad guy.  We would all be fired after this for sure, but I wasn’t
keeping quiet anymore.