Uncut (Unexpected Book 4) by Claudia Burgoa Page B

around, they played U2, UB40, Green Day, John Mayer, and Frank Sinatra. A big repertoire to entice whoever has come to check them out. It’s not that I don’t enjoy them, but my ears will be happy when they’re gone.
    I can show them what a real walking contradiction looks like, or acts like. They have no fucking idea what they’re talking about. I’m one. I can’t stand loud noises and small rooms with lots of people. Yet, I work here at Silver Moon. A bar. Have I mentioned that alcohol and I also have a long and tumultuous relationship? The career choice is a coincidence that helps me strengthen my self-control every night I work here.
    I’m many things. Wear multiple hats and assume multiple personalities. Learned to do so from a young age. Survival instincts and all that fucking shit. I could write for BuzzFeed: Ten best places to hide. Best ways to avoid yourself. How to skip family reunions. Become a new version of yourself. How many jobs does it take to survive? Natural ways to subsist without medical benefits.
    When I decided to move on with my life and become a new person, I didn’t think about the future. Not a single thought was given to what would happen after I started college. In fact, I had no idea what to major in during my freshman year. During year number four, after picking up a major and minor—English and Psych—I had a glimpse about said future. I wanted to help others.
    That epiphany meant continuing my education for another four years. Did I think about the student loans I requested at that time? No. Did I think that becoming a therapist was more than merely finishing a degree? No. Now I’m scrambling to deal with all those bumps. Including paying the outrageous interests that my student loans accumulate every month.
    Once I reached my freedom and broke the chains, I believed everything was possible. The sky was the limit . . . until I was limited by everything. Essentially money. Figuring out how to survive took me some time, and therapy.
    “T, I’m heading back to the office,” Reed, my boss, calls out while walking away. “Don’t start a brawl.”
    I stick out my tongue and turn my attention back to the bar. He thinks he’s funny, and I haven’t burst his bubble. I love the man. When I came to ask about leasing the apartment upstairs, he offered me the job too. It was after he told me the stratospheric amount and I gave him the extended version of why my life sucked. Including that I owe my soul to several financial institutions that paid for my education, and that as of now I haven’t received my counselor license. He not only understood my issue with the rent, he also provided me with an income.
    Bartending is my first job. The second is my on-line jewelry store, “Butterfly Creations.” My third is a side gig that my good friend Molly Shields provided a couple years ago too—editor. She sends me over stuff to edit. The gig pays well. This is what my generation has to endure: Multiple jobs, low pay, and zero medical benefits. Being an adult sucks. Just like Sunday open mic.
    When I check the stage, there’s a new band setting their instruments. Two chicks dressed with black gowns, and two dudes with raggedy black T-shirts. I’m curious about what they’re going to play. Some punk rock, Goth tunes . . . original shit or another round of poorly performed covers.
    I let out a big exhale and start wiping the counter. Everything is stocked and I don’t have much to do. I’m bored. The tip jar is empty and the clientele thin. Tonight sucks. Only Reed would think that adding a mic night will bring in more patrons. In fact, I think it scared his regulars. But I’m here because he pays by the hour and hopefully the tip jar will end up half full by the end of my shift.
    “’T’sup, my butterfly?” My stomach flutters with that low voice. Matt Decker. There hasn’t been a time that my lips haven’t drawn a smile from the energy of his presence. Mr. Sin-on-a-stick. He drips