Read Online Luck on the Line by Zoraida Cordova - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Zoraida Cordova
Tags: Romance, Contemporary
Ads: Link
his arm around my shoulder.
He stubs his foot on a chair and snorts. “I’m glad your mom was right about one thing.”
I push the door that leads to the opposite side of the street. “Oh yeah, what’s that?”
“You’re stronger than you look.”
I bark a laugh, and I wonder why I surround myself with guys who are such lightweights.
Chapter 11
“Stand still and act sober,” I tell James when not a single cab will stop for us.
When one does, I have to plead with the cab driver to take us as passengers. In the cab, it takes James three tries to remember where he lives.
Having worked at so many bars and restaurants I know there is nothing as binding as helping someone home after a night of drinking. With the passing streetlights, I find myself wondering why I’m the one who always ends up being the sober one. Or rather, sober in comparison.
My head pulses the way it does from too much drinkity drink drink and not enough water. I hope to god that James doesn’t fall asleep. Moving dead weight is the last thing I want to do.
The thought brings back a memory of my mom. I was in high school and we went to a fundraiser. I can’t remember if it was during husband #2 or #3. They blend together in my mind—short, bald, horrible coarse mustaches that made them look like seals begging for another fish. Stella had too much to drink and my stepdad was too embarrassed so he left without us. The driver wouldn’t touch her, something about wanting to avoid a lawsuit. So it was just me, supporting my mother’s weight. She’s skinny, but skinny doesn’t matter when a drunk person passes out. It’s like trying to pull a wet sack of sand. I cursed her, yelled at her, smacked her face. But she could barely open her eyes and every word that came out was a Cheshire riddle. I got her to the couch and brought out a giant bowl from her wedding china. I sat on the chair next to her and wished I could get as far away as possible. The next day she’d wake up and not remember a thing. I’d go to school, still reigning as the kid with the fucked up mom. Sure, lots of the rich kids I went to school with had drunk parents. It was my mom who liked to do it in front of everyone. Stella, the star of the show, the giant ball of burning gas that wrecked everything around me.
“Hey, lady. Is this it or what?” the angry cab driver yells at me.
“Sorry,” I mumble, digging in my bag for my wallet. Hot white panic floods my body. Shit. I must have left my wallet at the restaurant.
Behind us cars honk because the street is so narrow.
“Listen, Lady—”
“I got it,” I snap, “I got it.”
I look at James happily dozed off beside me. I slide my hand into his front pocket. His muscles have stretched the jean material so I really have to dig. Oh, Lucky, this is your life. I stop short of hollering when I find a crisp $20.
“Keep the change,” I tell the driver.
Then I do something I only reserve for customers who’ve grabbed my ass at the bar. I pull my arm back and punch James right in the crotch.
I lean out of the way for his reflex to kick in. He grunts and cries, “What the fuck?”
Men are such babies.
I get out of the cab and run around, taking a little pleasure in the cabbie’s chuckle and James’s sudden Tourette’s. Headlights blind me as I go to the other side of the car. Drivers honk and yell obscenities that are probably not heard often on this quiet brownstone-lined street in the trim Back Bay area of Boston.
James gets out of the cab and swats the hand I extend. He slams the door and the cab peels off, leaving me in the middle of the street with exhaust fumes all up in my face.
“Lucky,” James says, “are you crazy, get out of the street!”
He wobbles, but he’s not slurring anymore.
I consider taking my chances as road kill. A wave of exhaustion fills me, heavy on my shoulders and neck. I’m more drunk than I thought. James grabs me and because we’re both unbalanced, we topple to the
He stubs his foot on a chair and snorts. “I’m glad your mom was right about one thing.”
I push the door that leads to the opposite side of the street. “Oh yeah, what’s that?”
“You’re stronger than you look.”
I bark a laugh, and I wonder why I surround myself with guys who are such lightweights.
Chapter 11
“Stand still and act sober,” I tell James when not a single cab will stop for us.
When one does, I have to plead with the cab driver to take us as passengers. In the cab, it takes James three tries to remember where he lives.
Having worked at so many bars and restaurants I know there is nothing as binding as helping someone home after a night of drinking. With the passing streetlights, I find myself wondering why I’m the one who always ends up being the sober one. Or rather, sober in comparison.
My head pulses the way it does from too much drinkity drink drink and not enough water. I hope to god that James doesn’t fall asleep. Moving dead weight is the last thing I want to do.
The thought brings back a memory of my mom. I was in high school and we went to a fundraiser. I can’t remember if it was during husband #2 or #3. They blend together in my mind—short, bald, horrible coarse mustaches that made them look like seals begging for another fish. Stella had too much to drink and my stepdad was too embarrassed so he left without us. The driver wouldn’t touch her, something about wanting to avoid a lawsuit. So it was just me, supporting my mother’s weight. She’s skinny, but skinny doesn’t matter when a drunk person passes out. It’s like trying to pull a wet sack of sand. I cursed her, yelled at her, smacked her face. But she could barely open her eyes and every word that came out was a Cheshire riddle. I got her to the couch and brought out a giant bowl from her wedding china. I sat on the chair next to her and wished I could get as far away as possible. The next day she’d wake up and not remember a thing. I’d go to school, still reigning as the kid with the fucked up mom. Sure, lots of the rich kids I went to school with had drunk parents. It was my mom who liked to do it in front of everyone. Stella, the star of the show, the giant ball of burning gas that wrecked everything around me.
“Hey, lady. Is this it or what?” the angry cab driver yells at me.
“Sorry,” I mumble, digging in my bag for my wallet. Hot white panic floods my body. Shit. I must have left my wallet at the restaurant.
Behind us cars honk because the street is so narrow.
“Listen, Lady—”
“I got it,” I snap, “I got it.”
I look at James happily dozed off beside me. I slide my hand into his front pocket. His muscles have stretched the jean material so I really have to dig. Oh, Lucky, this is your life. I stop short of hollering when I find a crisp $20.
“Keep the change,” I tell the driver.
Then I do something I only reserve for customers who’ve grabbed my ass at the bar. I pull my arm back and punch James right in the crotch.
I lean out of the way for his reflex to kick in. He grunts and cries, “What the fuck?”
Men are such babies.
I get out of the cab and run around, taking a little pleasure in the cabbie’s chuckle and James’s sudden Tourette’s. Headlights blind me as I go to the other side of the car. Drivers honk and yell obscenities that are probably not heard often on this quiet brownstone-lined street in the trim Back Bay area of Boston.
James gets out of the cab and swats the hand I extend. He slams the door and the cab peels off, leaving me in the middle of the street with exhaust fumes all up in my face.
“Lucky,” James says, “are you crazy, get out of the street!”
He wobbles, but he’s not slurring anymore.
I consider taking my chances as road kill. A wave of exhaustion fills me, heavy on my shoulders and neck. I’m more drunk than I thought. James grabs me and because we’re both unbalanced, we topple to the
Similar Books
