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  He leaned his head toward mine and whispered, “I know you’re disappointed Lizzie. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. There’s always the Mile-High Club. I do believe you once said those very words to me. I’ll never forget my initiation. Thank you. Seriously, thank you. That was a defining moment in my life.”

  I coughed, clamped my hand over my mouth and collapsed forward—my boobs slapping my thighs.

  He grabbed his leather duffel off the floor and stood up. “Can I help you with your bags?” he asked the woman and moved into the aisle.

  “You’re not only handsome, but a gentleman. Thank you for your kind offer, sir, but I’m good. My name’s Jane Dawson. I could swear I’ve seen you before. I’m bad with names, but I never forget a face.” She plopped down into the seat next to me, looked up and winked at him. “It’ll come to me.”

  He held out his hand to her. “You can call me Nick.”

  Jane smiled and shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, Nick. I’ll figure out how I know you. I’m good at this!” She leaned down and pushed her carry-on under the seat in front of her.

  I breathed a sigh of relief and then realized I was going to be seated next to the Jane Dawson—the famous news reporter whose career spanned decades. I clenched my hands together and gazed out the window as the plane backed away from the terminal.

  “You look familiar too, miss.” Jane said. “Albeit like you’ve seen a ghost or recently had food poisoning. First Class on British Air is practically like opening a copy of People Magazine. You never know whom you’ll bump into here.”

  I smiled at her. “It’s my pleasure to meet you, Ms. Dawson. You’re an amazing reporter and your career is spectacular. My name is… Elizabeth.” I leaned close to her and whispered. “Thank you for saving me from that man. I’d much prefer to sit next to you during this incredibly long flight.”

  “Luck of the draw, Elizabeth. I was in 3B after all. Are you nervous during takeoffs dear?”

  “No. I’ve done this a million times.” The plane taxied onto the runway and I gripped the armrests like a young gold-digger holding tight to an octogenarian billionaire’s arm in a Vegas wedding chapel. The aircraft paused for a few moments as thunder boomed and lightning struck in the woods and neighborhoods in the near distance.

  A piece of paper shaped like a tiny airplane flew over my head and crashed onto my lap. I unfolded it and read:

  My dearest Lizzie:

  * * *

  Liar, liar, pants on fire. Do we need to do something about that? I’m happy to help.

  * * *

  Always,

  * * *

  Nick

  I scrunched the paper into a ball, flung it over my seat back toward him and heard a low chuckle. “I’ll be just fine, Ms. Dawson. Nothing out of the ordinary or unusual about today.” I smiled at her, inhaled deeply and held my breath.

  Except that everything about today was out of the ordinary and unusual. Because this was the biggest day of my new part-time job. And I was indeed the poster-child for Ms. Liar, Liar, Pants-on-Fire.

  I closed my eyes, leaned back, tried to ignore the hot guy kicking the back of my chair and I remembered how I got here…

  Chapter 2

  “Yo, Lucy! What does a guy have to do to get a drink around here?” the Hulk Hogan look-alike grunted.

  “Just need to ask me nice, Mr. Fitzpatrick.” I shouldered a large, round tray holding a few dirty glasses and made a beeline to his four-top table on the right side of the bar. I cocktailed at MadDog—a beer-scented, hard rock 'n' roll playing, leather jacket-clad bikers’ bar which until recently had been my favorite place in the whole world.

  Mr. Fitzpatrick and his buddies were in their late sixties with bandanas tied over their long white hair. They were my favorite regular customers: rough around the edges, but incredibly sweet. I picked up a few more empties. “What can I get you?”

  “Lucy, my angel,” Mr. Fitzpatrick said. “I need three Jack and Cokes and one fake lemonade with no sugar for Artie. He’s on the wagon.”

  “Got it.” I walked away, paused and swiveled. “Artie—you okay? Not another ’bout of the gastritis?”

  “It’s a blood sugar thing.” Artie tapped the heels of his scuffed, black leather biker boots on the scratched, wooden floor. “My wife, Janelle, keeps asking, ‘Why don’t you stop riding? When you going to stay home, watch Jeopardy and play with your grandkids?’ Seriously Luce. I’m already retired. I spend twenty-two hours of almost every day at home. I hit the road with my buddies one afternoon each week and after that? I feel alive again. I don’t think quitting our rides will affect my blood sugar.”

  “Those rides are good for you Artie,” I said. “Fresh air. Oxygen in your lungs. Getting out in nature is healing.”

  “When are you going to ride with us Luce?” Artie asked. “We keep asking.”

  Never—I thought. I would never ride a motorcycle again.

  “I appreciate the offer, but life is so busy these days with school,” I said. “One sugar-free lemonade coming your way my friend.” I weaved around the sober customers, the tipsy folks and all the in-betweens on my way back to the long, gleaming, dark wooden bar.

  I hoisted my tray onto the counter and delivered my order to Buddy Paulson, the bartender, as well as the co-owner of MadDog. “Three Jack and Cokes, two Stoli and tonics, three Chivas on the rocks and one fake lemonade.” I unloaded the dirty glasses onto a rubber mat.

  My BFF, Alida Consuela Martinez, she of the tall legs and the dangerous curves, strode up in the same uniform I too had recently been forced to wear: a tight pleather mini, a deep V-neck Lycra top, fishnet stockings and black pleather, thigh pinching, high-heeled boots. She rested her tray on the bar next to mine. “I’m filing an official complaint, Buddy. I hate these new uniforms.”

  “I second Alida’s motion.” I tugged my mini lower onto my legs in a pathetic attempt to cover my private girlie parts. “These outfits make us look like sluts from Slutsville and I fear I’m getting a bunion. How come we can’t wear our MadDog T-shirts and jeans?”

  Buddy was thick around the waistline, covered in tats and sported a ruddy Irish complexion. Fifty years ago he could have been the poster child for a Rebel Without a Cause. Now he was a businessman who desperately wanted to keep his waning crowd of aging bikers happy while he catered to the bar’s newcomers. “You both know why. I’m not in charge of this place anymore. Mark Whitford is.”

  “Whitford doesn’t care that I have to change clothes in the bathroom because God forbid I go home wearing this, and my kid wakes up and sees hooker mommy,” Alida said. “I’m putting meals on the table. I cannot deal with Child Protective Services.”

  “Alida, you gotta play nice with the new guys. It was sell a stake in the place or close the doors. I love MadDog. It wasn’t an easy decision.”

  Buddy sold majority share of the bar to thirty-something businessman Mark Whitford. He came from family money and parlayed his trust fund into making a shit-load more dough in the stock market. Whitford got bored and then bought up his favorite interests like they were Tonka toys. His purchases included: a bowling alley, a Harley-Davidson dealership, a strip club, a Baptist church along with its charismatic leader and finally a biker bar—MadDog.

  Which pained me.

  While I’d only worked here since the day I turned twenty-one—nine months earlier, I’d hung out here for far longer. My dad used to frequent the joint with his buddies. And, before it was considered child-abuse to bring your kid to a bar, he’d bring me along on the nights Mom was working.

  I hung out with the bikers, heard the stories about the rides and the Sturgis’ outings. After my folks died in the motorcycle accident you’d think I’d want to get away from a biker bar. But the problem was, this place felt like family. And I didn’t have a lot of that left.

  So I started bugging Buddy to let me cocktail at MadDog. He hired me and my first shift was on my twenty-first birthday. At the end of the night Buddy opened a bottle o
f Korbel, the regulars sang “Happy Birthday”, someone popped for cupcakes, Mylar balloons and I had my first legal drink.

  You’d think I’d like the new clientele at the newly remodeled bar. They were, after all, closer to my age. But Whitford’s crew was privileged and the majority of them were asshats. They always hung out at the biggest table in the middle of the joint. Whitford would make his nightly appearance and buy a round or two for the snotty boys. He’d play with his gold pinky ring like he was a short, chubby version of Marlon Brando in The Godfather as he sucked up all the cloying compliments about how he was “the man.”

  “Hey princess!” a twenty-something metro dude seated at Whitford’s table yelled. “Get your primo behind over here. I’m parched.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m on it.” I loaded my tray with drinks. “You’re sure this lemonade doesn’t have sugar, right?” I asked. “Artie can’t take the sugar right now.”

  “No sugar,” Buddy said. “Hurry up. Stop spending all your time hanging with the old crew and wait on the new guys. They’re our future. Be nice to them.”

  “They tip like shit.”

  “They’re filling seats and buying booze,” he said.

  “They’re assholes.”

  He shrugged. “The bar wouldn’t be here and you wouldn’t have a job if I hadn’t taken Whitford up on his deal. Be nice to my new business partner and his friends. Please?”

  “I’m not answering to Mark Whitford. He’s got attitude to rival an elephant’s behind. You hired me, boss. I’ll answer to you.”

  Buddy cleared his throat.

  “I’ll take their table,” Alida said. “I’ve already got the four-top next to them.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “If they give me a problem I’ll just smile and delicately curse in Spanish. They won’t have a clue what I’m saying.” She winked at me and walked off.

  “Yeah but I will. You taught me all the good Spanish swear words,” I said.

  I dropped off the round to Mr. Fitzpatrick’s crew. I picked up a half-empty pitcher and some water glasses that had barely been touched on a recently vacated table. I poured the water into the pitcher, stacked the glasses and was on my way back to the bar to stock up on pretzel mix when I heard Alida holler, “Beso mi culo, pendejo!”

  I whip turned and saw her stomp away from Whitford’s table, a big fat frown on her pretty face.

  A young, sweaty, prepped-out drunk guy latched onto her wrist and yanked her toward him. “Do you not know who I am? I said this margarita tastes like someone pissed in it. You need to get me another one now. Border Bunny.”

  “I know exactly who you are,” she said. “You’re pinche idioto. I’ll get your new drink as soon as you let me go.”

  I looked at Buddy. He hesitated behind the bar—weighing if he should race to the rescue or if Alida could handle this on her own.

  “What the fuck, Buddy?” I said.

  He held up one hand.

  I flipped him my middle finger, turned and hustled in Alida’s direction.

  Whitford ambled out of MadDog’s back office, eyed the scene playing out and stood there like a bag of manure.

  “You own this place. Do something,” I hissed.

  He shrugged.

  “I know what the word ‘idioto’ means,” the drunk guy slurred.

  Alida cried out as she struggled to get away from him—but his hand remained clamped on her wrist.

  “Come on, dude,” another metro guy at the power table said. “It’s not her fault the drink’s shitty. Let her go.”

  I pushed through the crowd toward them, my tray still on my shoulder, my anger building with every rushed step.

  “Fine. Go.” The drunk released Alida’s arm. She stumbled, dropped her tray, and glasses flew and broke. “You stupid wetback.”

  She burst into tears as she kneeled to pick up the mess of shards of glass on the floor.

  “Go.” I held out my hand and helped her to standing. “Grab some towels, a broom and a dustpan. I’ll help.”

  “Thanks.” She wiped a few tears away and walked off.

  The asshat was already lounging in his chair. “Why do we even come here?” he whined. “We could be hanging on Rush Street.”

  “I’ve got that drink you wanted.” I edged toward the table, smiled at him, and even though I still shouldered the tray, managed to toss my long brunette hair coquettishly.

  “You see?” The drunk gestured to his friends. “You don’t put up with lower class shit and you do the help a favor: you school them on how to cater to people like you and me. Help them learn their place in life.” He smiled at me. “Thanks princess.”

  “No, thank you. We actually brought you a pitcher of margaritas to apologize for your inconvenience.” I held it out to him, smiled…and then poured it on his head as he squealed.

  “Sorry!” I said. “But you looked so thirsty. Like you needed to be a little wet-backed.”

  “Lucy!” Buddy yelled from across the bar.

  “Lucy!” Mr. Fitzpatrick and his gang jumped up from their chairs and sprinted toward me.

  “Oh no, Lucy!” Alida’s hand flew to her mouth as she dropped the towels and the broom.

  “Lucille Trabbicio,” Mark Whitford strode toward me—his little piggy nostrils widening and narrowing faster than he ever turned his pinkie ring, “You are banned from MadDog forever. If I ever see you in here again I will have you arrested for assault. And, oh yeah—you’re fired!”

  Chapter 3

  Perhaps I should have thought twice about pouring a pitcher of watered down margaritas on some asshole’s head because I was seriously out of money. I tossed and turned from all my worries that night I was fired, but vowed to find a job the next day.

  I sat at my hand-me-down, formica kitchen table and paged through the job listings in The Sun Times—but there was next to nothing. I examined the jobs section in The Tribune. The pickings were slim as the actual pages in the newspaper.

  Midday I desperately needed to clear my head, so even though the summer weather was heating up, I slipped my phone into an armband and picked my playlist with popular sixties and seventies tunes from my iTunes app. I grabbed a run at my local park, pumped some iron on the free workout machines and popped a few yoga moves as I listened to my fave music.

  Back in my kitchen I turned on the small rotating fan in front of my sweaty face, opened up Daveslist on my computer, hit the part-time jobs section and trolled through the latest listings. Surely there would be a worthwhile job tucked away in here somewhere.

  “Part-time Job: Driver Needed.

  * * *

  ME: Ran into some legal issues and need a driver to and from work. Mon.—Fri. Pick me up at eight a.m. at my house and drive me to work downtown. Pick me up at work at six p.m. and drive me home.

  * * *

  YOU: Have a car and a cell phone with more-than-decent coverage. I will provide gas money. ME: Willing to pay two hundred a week. Can you be on call during the weekends from two a.m. to four a.m.?”

  I don’t think so…

  “Part-time Job: Dog Walker Needed.

  * * *

  Sweet, rambunctious terrier needs animal-loving walker with strong arms!

  * * *

  ME: I will supply yummy, organic treats for both you and Crusher as well as eco-friendly scoop bags. Lots of scoop bags.

  * * *

  YOU: Proof of medical insurance and a signed waiver that you will negotiate with our insurance company in the highly unlikely scenario that you require medical attention due to circumstances that arise on the job. Pay: $15.00 a walk. Crusher’s shots are up-to-date, the ringworm’s completely under control and the doggie Valium has really calmed him down!”

  I’d love a dog some day but I’m not sure this was the job for me.

  “Part-time Job: DO YOU LIKE TO DATE?!

  * * *

  Do you want to meet exciting, powerful gentlemen, enjoy five-star meals and attend glamorous events? US: We
are a totally above-board, legitimate service that sets up desirable women with sought-after men.”

  I do believe this translated to a Triple Slam meal at Denny’s after which I’d be begged to perform oral sex on married, middle-aged men who were in town for a trade show. Meh—I didn’t think this job was up my alley.

  The phone rang and I picked up. “Miss Lucille Trabbicio?”

  “You got her,” I examined my new acrylic nails. The glued-on crystals were sparkly and styling.

  “My name is Mrs. Rosalie Santiago—”

  “Hey Rosie! Why so formal?”

  She sighed and whispered, “You gotta let me do this official-like.”

  “Um—okay?”

  “My name is Mrs. Rosalie Santiago.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Santiago. Might I ask what this call is regarding?”

  “I am calling from the billing department at The Vail Assisted Living Center in regards to your uncle, Mr. John Trabbicio.”

  My breath caught in my throat and one hand flew to my chest. “Is he okay?” Uncle John was the ‘artist’ in our family: a painter, a scholar and a writer. He was always sensitive, but suffered a nervous breakdown a few months after his brother, my dad, died. He never quite found his way back to his or society’s comfort zone.

  “He is fine. We love your uncle. He’s dapper and a gentleman with the ladies. He moderates our monthly Poetry Slam Night and plays a mean game of blackjack.”

  I smiled. “I know.”

  “Which is why we would like to keep him here. Mr. John’s account is past due. Management insists we transfer him to County Psych if we do not receive payment within five working days.”