Free An Affair With My Boss by Brendan Verville Page A

he said, plopping down next to me on the stool.  His scent breezed over me, all cigarettes and peppermint gum.  He shook his wallet out of the breast pocket of his uniform shirt and he put down his cash for the barman to see.  “They might as well take the rest of my money.”
    “We might have to lower your allowance again,” I replied, all the cheer gone from my tone.  I hated to hear him sigh and shake his head, his sarcasm adding extra weight to the tacit rolling of his eyes.  I was tired of him losing money, and then bitching about it later.
    “Fuck this canned sideshow,” he growled .  He downed his shot and sputtered into his hands.
    I tried not to look at the man at the end of the bar, who I was sure was looking at us.  Instead, I turned on Tom.
    “Then maybe we can stop coming here every payday,” I said.
    He scowled at me.  “I swear this place is robbing me blind.  Me in particular.  They’ve singled me out.  Put a target on my back.  They think I don’t see it?” His eyes flashed red and watery in the mood light, and I had to look away.
    “I have to be to work early tomorrow.” I stood up, gathering my purse with a slow mechanical certainty.  For the first time I could feel the man’s full undivided attention on me, casing my skin to prickle and my hair to stand on end.  I regretted meeting Tom in the casino right after work instead of going home to change.  My black waitress uniform hung loosely from my body with a streak of bleach on the hem of my shirt, and I hoped the poor lighting didn’t show off the quarter-sized hole on my hip. 
    Tom patted the bar with the ne wly empty glass, indicating another.  He did not notice when I turned and smiled at the man in the nice collared shirt and slacks, and only I saw him smile back with a flash of white teeth.  His lips parted coyly, and his tongue danced behind his teeth as though mouthing some kind of message to me.
    “Fucking clap trap sting operation,” Tom growled .  I could tell by his hot breath that he had already started drinking, probably for hours.  “Odds are stacked against you, especially with all the dealers out to rob you.  It’s a shakedown of the highest players, those they can break and leave with nothing.”
    “Let’s leave.” I broke my eye contact with the man to take Tom under the arm.  He shrugged away from me, banging on the bar again, loud this time.  Glasses clattered on the shelf behind the barman and every head turned in their direction.
    My already flush face seemed as though it was ready to break open under the stress of all those eyes, my skin prickling.  I didn’t want to look over at the man, but he was already walking toward us, calmly buttoning his sleeves as he closed the distance.
                  “God damn racket!” Tom cried to no one in particular.
              “Excuse me, sir,” the man said, walking up behind Tom.
                  Tom had to physically turn around in his seat, his eyes running up and down the man’s length and then snapping away.
                  “Not interested, pal,” Tom said.  He continued to ignore everyone in the bar.
                  “Is there something unsatisfactory about your visit here?” the man asked.  He looked at me and gave me a wink.  I dropped my eyes, clutching desperately at the coat and purse in my hands.
                  “Yeah, I’ve been robbed stone cold.  What’s it to you?” Tom threw over his shoulder.
                  “You know, I see you in here a lot,” the man said.  “You come and sit at my card tables and then at my bar and challenge my employees of cheating you.  How’s that exactly?”
                  Tom turned back around with his eyes narrowed.  “Your place? Fine establishment, I have to say.”
                  “Thank you,” the man replied, linking his wrists in front of