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Things Could Be Worse: Chapter One
“Nice try,” I said as I pushed the folded piece of paper back over the bar.
“What, you to stuck up to take a phone number?” the man said.
“Right,” I nodded as I went back to cleaning some glasses. “If I take your number, and we go back to your hotel room for some good old fucking you will go back to your friends and brag about you fucking some dumb local slut, but if I don’t take it, I am either too stuck or a feminist, right?”
“Whatever, your loss,” the man said.
It was like this every night during peak season. Men or women trying to get to fuck some locals then dump us by the wayside as they left to return to their regular lives.
Most of the men were married and getting away for a hunting or fishing trip; they would hide their rings somewhere and try to hide their wedding finger. But it was always easy to tell them apart.
Others wanted a quick fuck and be gone before the night was done, especially the night before they went home.
“Same,” one of the locals said as he pushed his empty bottle to the bar’s edge.
“Now, Andy,” I said as I took it and put it in the recycle bin.
“Don’t give me that shit, Claire!” Andy said. “Just pulled a double at the dock, some fuckwad tore through…
