Big Girls Get the Blues Read online

  Big Girls Get the Blues

  (#2 in the Big Girls Series, the sequel to Big Girls on Top)

  Mercy Walker

  This is an erotic short story, or episode. Big Girls Get the Blues is 19700 words (and 50% longer than Big Girls on Top). Each episode stands alone, like a TV episode, but is part of a larger story.

  WARNING: This story contains super-hot sex and erotic scenes, M/ F. For adults, 18 + only.

  Big Girls Get the Blues

  My bedroom smoldered with a fiery red glow, as if the world was on fire outside my bedroom window. My usual cool cotton sheets were a shimmering metallic gold, and they were burning my flesh as I lay on them.

  But I didn’t care.

  Quinn was naked and on top of me, and wherever his bare flesh touched mine soothed the burning that raged inside me. Every kiss quenched my hellish thirst. And a storm of desire swelled deep inside me as his hard length opened me; stretching me and stoking that flaming desire, making me gasp and moan with every slow, powerful thrust of his hips.

  Never leave me…

  My eyes burned just thinking that indeed he would leave. Quinn would leave me, and soon.

  I pulled myself away from those ice cold thoughts. Those were the kind of thoughts that could kill you. Freeze you to the core, to the spot, until you froze solid and broke into a million little pieces.

  I kissed Quinn’s neck and pulled him closer, crushing my D cup breasts against his hard, muscular chest. His breath hissed as the pressure of my flesh against his made the burn on his chest smart. Just that little bit of pain made my desire for him grow. That I could hurt him, and yet he still wanted me so damn desperately…

  Mine…

  Never leave me…

  I rose up, my lips grazing his ear. I was about to tell him something earth shatteringly important…

  But a loud, annoying buzzing cut me off. There was a thudding too, and it wasn’t the deep, subtle beating of my heart. This was the sound of King Kong banging against the front door of my apartment.

  BUZZZZZZZZZZZ!

  I shot upright in my bed, dragged so fast out of my sinfully erotic dream by the rude ringing of my doorbell, and the violent beating someone was giving my front door, I just about fell out of bed.

  I was covered in sweat, and my flesh felt painfully feverish. Maybe I was coming down with something? I hauled myself out of bed and staggered as I fell over the empty bottle of Jim Beam I’d polished off after the Pirates game last night.

  The jerk at the door rang the bell again, and my head started throbbing. I was going to kill whoever it was. Then I’d tear their head off and hang it from my door bell, a subtle hint to any later door rattlers.

  And then I was going back to bed.

  Or maybe not…I didn’t want to be dreaming about Quinn. All I wanted to do was forget about the sexy bastard.

  I pulled on a fluffy pink robe my mother had bought me three Christmases ago, and moved slowly to the door. Even though I was angry enough to commit homicide, I was still hung over. Fast wasn’t on the menu.

  I reached for the deadbolt and froze.

  What if it was Quinn?

  Shit…

  After dreaming about him, seeing him in person would probably be lethal.

  I hadn’t seen or heard from him since twenty minutes after I threw him out of my apartment…which was about five minutes after the best freaking sex I’d ever had in my life!

  Focus…

  Not that I wanted the arrogant prick to call me…no, I wanted him gone, out of my life forever. But when he finally stopped calling for me to open the door and let him back in, I actually felt disappointment. Well, I felt relief first. But then there was disappointment. And damn me to hell, I just couldn’t get myself to understand why.

  I gulped… sucked in some air, and then yelled, “Who is it?”

  “It’s me, you lazy coward,” Tammy Fay hollered back, her blunt alto seething. “Open up before I set your apartment door on fire!”

  Holy shit! I’d worked with Tammy Fay for nearly three years, and the one thing I knew for an absolute certainty was that Tammy Fay didn’t bluff. She didn’t mints words, she didn’t exaggerate, and she didn’t threaten: she just did it.

  “On the count of three!” Tammy Fay called out. “One…Two…”

  When I yanked the door open I expected to see her holding a flaming Molotov cocktail. But instead she had a casserole dish in one hand, a lit Virginia Slim in the other.

  Tammy Fay’s cold blue eyes glowered at me as she looked me up in down, just once, with contemp. “You look like shit,” she said, smoke coming out her lips like a dragon, and then pushed past me to clomp down the hallway in her cork heeled platform shoes.

  She dropped the casserole dish on my kitchen counter with a loud clatter and flicked her cigarette ash in my sink. She turned and gazed at me as I lagged behind, only now getting to the kitchen.

  “You need to get your lazy, oversized butt back down to the club…pronto.”

  Nice to know some things never changed. I’d been visited by half the staff in the five days since I’d quit Frisky Kittens strip club. Each one of them had tried to play on my love and affection, even throwing in a little guilt for good measure. That had been Shirley on Tuesday. She’d said that Nadia (aka Crystal) had lost five pounds off her already emaciated frame—the girl was on a new diet she read about in Cosmo. No one had yet been able to get her to eat anything more than three oyster crackers a day.

  That had made me waver…but I just threw it back in Shirley’s face. “Just order a D’Carlos pizza from Brookline. She’s from there, so she won’t be able to resist.”

  But Tammy Fay was anything but tactful or subtle. She was like a sledgehammer…or maybe one of those big wrecking balls they demolished buildings with.

  “Did you hear me?” she yelled loud enough to wake the dead. “You’ve gotta get back to work, and now!”

  “I’m not deaf,” I said as I wobbled on over to my Mr. Coffee and started filling it with my favorite Columbian special roast.

  “Well you look and move like a fucking corpse, I just thought you’d lost your hearing too.”

  I turned and bared my teeth at her. “Boy I’ve missed you. So how the hell do I get you to leave my house?”

  Tammy Fay looked around her and made a face like she smelled something rotting. “Don’t worry, I’m not staying.”

  “Thank god.”

  She smiled at me, and her predatory baring of teeth was better than mine. She really looked like she ate small, living animals for breakfast.

  I felt a shiver roll up my spine.

  “Mr. Magoo walked out last night.”

  O-o-o-oh…so that was it. Mr. Magoo was Tammy Fay’s best tipper. She walked out with a hundred bucks extra every night the bespeckled octogenarian sat in her section. His walking out had seriously cut into her tips.

  “And I care why?”

  Tammy put her cigarette out by dropping it in a cup I had in my sink. It sizzled shortly as it met with the remnants of yesterday morning’s coffee. I hadn’t done dishes in a few days. A very not me thing, but I was busy…looking for a new job…nursing a broken heart.

  I shook that last thought out of my head and felt my headache stiffen to a migraine.

  “You care,” she said with an uncomfortable certainty.

  I looked up from my pounding headache and found her staring into my eyes.

  “You’re a sap, and you’re going to regret it someday, but you care about everyone at the stupid shithole.”

  I bristled when she called Frisky Kittens a shithole. It had kept a roof over her head and food on her table for three years. Where the hell did she get off—?

  Oh…

 
O-o-o-o-oh.

  “You’re good,” I said, leaning back against my well worn kitchen counter. “You just about had me there.”

  Tammy Fay took a step closer and the air in the room literally dropped about ten degrees. Creepy…

  “I don’t need to get you, you moron.” She glared into my eyes as a nasty smirk curled her pink, glossy lips. “You’ll be back by the end of the week. We both know that. I simply want you to speed it the hell up so I can keep my regulars, and lure Mr. Magoo back in.”

  I had to ask. “So what happened?”

  Tammy huffed haughtily and leaned her hand on her hip. “That beautiful dope, Quinn, didn’t know how to mix a bourbon old fashioned. So Mr. Magoo got up and walked out.”

  “Shit…” I’d learned how to mix an old fashioned when I was twelve. Even though they taught it in most bartending courses, nobody ever ordered one, so you forgot it pretty quick.

  “Yeah,” Tammy said snarkily. “If this keeps up, we’ll only have drive by customers, and college jocks blowing through some of Daddy’s allowance.”

  That would be…terrible. The tips would fall, and so would the morale. Frisky Kittens would be deserted in no time. Clubs closed their doors all the time. Only repeat customers could keep a bar afloat.

  But I didn’t care…right?

  I gulped and felt a wave of guilt flutter up through my stomach.

  Tammy Fay’s glare softened, and her smirk turned to a knowing smile.

  The bitch…

  “My work here is done.” She flicked the casserole dish with one of her lime colored fingernails. “That’s from Shep…and don’t take too long getting back to the club.” She turned and clomped towards my front door.

  She stopped and turned back toward me before taking her leave. “We’ve got a new dancer starting on Saturday. I don’t think your boyfriend will be able to resist her. I hear she’s all kinds of hotness.”

  “He is not my boyfriend!” I shot back way too loudly.

  Tammy Fay smiled with satisfaction as she pulled my door open and sauntered out into the hall, pulling it closed gently behind her. She’d gotten me again. The bitch knew how to push my buttons way too well.

  Another reason not to go back.

  And I already had another job I was going to start tonight.

  Actually, I’d had four jobs in the last three days. They…just weren’t me.

  I guess I was pretty spoiled after working for Teddy for the last five years.

  Gig number one was at a gay bar called The Hornet: a four story former Polish Veterans club that sat under a huge, gothic stone train trestle—like a freaking troll under a bridge. I’d been excited about the quick find…that was until my first night—Orgy Night. And no, I’m not a prude, and seeing nearly two hundred men getting naked and thrusty with each other wasn’t the problem.

  The problem was that I was completely ignored by the clientele, and was asked by management to lug refill beer kegs not only to the first floor bar, but to the second floor bar as well…

  Their muscle-bound bartenders didn’t want to ruin their manicures…

  I quit on the spot, but not before rolling a keg down the cramped space behind the first floor bar. The delicate bar boys scattered like bowling pins, and I majestically wafted out of there like Angelina Jolie in Salt, when she killed and blew up everyone on that boat.

  Job number two lasted exactly thirty seconds. I’d gone in and talked to the manager at one of Frisky Kittens’ primary competitors: Temptations on Bigelow Blvd.

  The interview went great, and I’d been promised the job. But first I had to meet the owner. He was young and cocky, and dressed like he’d fallen out of a VHS copy of Scar Face.

  He’d hooted when he laid eyes on me, and actually said, “Oh yeah, I love it. We can start having fat chick night once a week!”

  I could have flicked him off, or slapped him, or called him an asshole.

  But I punched him in the teeth.

  My father, Arthur D’Angelo, didn’t raise any wimpy children—especially his little girl. He taught me to throw a mean right hook by the time I was seven. And I had never been one to suffer fools gladly.

  So when I punched the owner of Temptations in the teeth, I rung his bell and knocked out one of his front teeth.

  They called the cops, but the officer that showed up—a burly man in his early forties by the name of Bradley—just laughed his ass off and let me off without even a warning. He couldn’t stop laughing long enough to say more than “Go…”

  With job number three I didn’t even get out of my car. I’d emailed my resume and a recent picture to a want ad I found in The Tribune. The man who called me the next day to do a phone interview had a slight German accent—or maybe it was Russian…who knows nowadays?

  He asked if I could start that night. There was going to be a special party, and he needed extra help for it. I’d start my regular shift the day after.

  The Bar was called Fat Freddy’s. It was way up Bishop Avenue, and off down a wickedly twisty alley. I stopped at the front door. There was a dim, fizzling blue neon sign that proclaimed the building was Fat Freddy’s. The windows were blacked out, and the front door was thick oak with no windows.

  But what bothered me most was the huge honking gray wolf that sat on its haunches in front of the door. Its eyes burned like yellow flames in the darkness. It let its mouth lull open to show me a nightmare of sharp, sharp teeth.

  I stamped on the gas and got the hell out of there. I watch True Blood, and if that wasn’t a freaking werewolf my ass was a size two. I didn’t need any more drama in my life, so living La Vita Sookie Stackhouse, or Anita Blake…or even Buffy, wasn’t a turn on.

  So now I was off to job number four. I was pretty sure it wouldn’t wield any real excitement—my dad had gotten me the job for crying out loud.

  I was dressed in tight fitting jeans and a top—though fashioned out of silk—that had enough material to actually cover my ample assets. After all, the clientele where I was headed mostly had seventy percent heart-blockage…the rest carried around portable O2 tanks.

  I had my hair done up in a kinky curly twist.

  My new job was tending the bar at the VFW on the South Side. The place wasn’t even on East Carson Street. It was so small it didn’t even rate a parking lot.

  But when I walked into the little bar I found it merrily busy, a mix of young and old ex-military sifting around, being sociable, real smiles on their faces. A young guy behind the bar spotted me and waved me over.

  I moved gingerly through the crowd, not wanting to accidentally knock any of the frail old guys—or their frail old wives—on the floor. Breaking a patron’s hip would be a hell of a bad way to make a first impression.

  “So what can I do for you, beautiful?” the guy behind the bar asked. His smile was nice, his dimples just adorable.

  “I’m looking for Vince. I’m supposed to start work tonight.”

  His smile dimmed and he lost the dimples. “I’m Vince,” he said, and then wiped a hand over his face. “Can we just forget my possibly inappropriate greeting and start over?”

  Crap! Not here a minute and I already had the freaking manager walking on egg shells. But at least it hadn’t been my fault. He’d been the one that had started flirting.

  “Relax,” I said, taking a look around the bar and pulling my denim jacket off and handing it to him to keep behind the bar. “I used to work at a strip club—” Vince’s eye brows shot up. “—as the bartender!”

  His mouth made a silent O.

  This was going to be fun.

  “So I’ll start by bussing the tables out here real fast,” I picked up a serving tray from the end of the bar, “And after I get the refill orders, then you can give me the abbreviated tour. Okay?”

  Vince breathed out a sigh of relief, and then handed me a black apron. So I got to work, collected the empty glasses and beer bottles, taking refill drink orders as I went. In less than ten minutes the floor was cleared, and eve
ryone was happily sipping their fresh drinks.

  Vince invited me behind the bar and showed me the quirks of the cash register, told me the drink prices—I’d guessed pretty close already—and then took me into the back to check out the liquor storeroom and the cooler.

  That’s when I noticed Vince had a limp. Nothing too noticeable, but it definitely looked painful.

  “Did you get that in the Army?” I asked, and then realized I had just met the man. Asking how one got a limp wasn’t something you just nosily asked the moment you meet someone.

  “Nah,” he said with a good natured shrug. We were headed back out to the bar area. “I was born with this. But my dad was in the Marines, so he helped me get this job right out of high school.

  “Oh,” I said, mentally berating myself for being such a tactless nib-nose. God, I hoped he didn’t tell my dad I’d asked that. Arthur D’Angelo would tan my hide, even at the age of twenty-nine.

  Patsy Cline was singing about walking after midnight when we got back to the bar proper. I told Vince that he could go take care of any paperwork he needed to get to in the back. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Okay,” he said, and then leaned in to whisper, “You don’t look a thing like your dad.” And with that one final possible flirt, Vince walked back to his office. I tried not to evaluate his limp. I was a nurse…well, I hadn’t worked as one since six months after I graduated, but I still had my license up to date. But I knew I wasn’t a physical therapist. So I really didn’t have any way of evaluating anyways.

  The night went quickly. I served some mixed drinks, a lot of beer, and a few shots. By the end of the night I was hungry—the VFW only offered pretzels and chips—and though the patronage tipped with every drink, I think I only had about fifty bucks in my tip cup.

  That was depressing.

  But I liked it there, and the customers were polite—not one of the old guys had even pinched my ass. Maybe after I found a good paying job I’d keep this one part-time.

  The crowd had thinned out when my dad sauntered into the building and took a seat at the bar. I gulped. I was actually going to serve my father a drink?

  But when he looked at me, a proud smile on his lined, handsome face, I couldn’t stop myself from smiling back.