Made in America Read Free Page A

don’t need a bird’s eye view of everything they’ve frolicked in all day.
    But it’s indicative of how this afternoon has been.
    Going in to work on my day off after Hugo called in sick. Again!  I swear, that bloke is sicker than an Eli Roth movie. Not to mention all the guys I had to serve that couldn’t stop staring at my tits. They think they’re being all secretive about it. Stealing glances and being all fancy, but I know. I see them all looking. I’m not blind, and I know that’s one of the reasons Chase hired me. My tits and my British accent.
    But the definite winner of the day has to be those two suits I served at lunch. They’re burned into my brain for all eternity. I know it’s just a job, and I shouldn’t care so much, but when you make your living relying mostly on tips, what they did to me was downright bollocks! I don’t care how good looking you are, and believe me, the guy who paid the check was a definite hottie.
    He may have been checking out my tits, but while he was doing that I was busy admiring his chiseled frame. Every last inch of it poured like solid gold into that custom fitted suit of his. For sure. A suit off the rack doesn’t look like his did. This one was formed to fit his body. Accentuating every curve and bulge.
    And his face.
    My God, it was perfect. His lips, his brow, his nose. Peppered with just the right amount of stubble that feels good between the thighs.
    But still, just because he looks like a movie star doesn’t give him the right to treat people the way he treated me.
    Imagine, the nerve of him telling me that people don’t respect my tattoos. If anything, they respect me more for them. The people that matter do, anyway. Everyone else can just bugger off.
    Do you know how much it hurts to get inked? It’s no walk in the park, let me tell you. And I’ve got two whole sleeves, not to mention the numerous ones placed elsewhere on my body.
    And fun bags? Who calls breasts fun bags? Fucking Americans, that’s who.
    I make my way up to street level and immediately I’m hit with the sights and sounds of the big city. I’ve been here two years and it still never ceases to amaze me how alive it is at every hour of the day. When I was a little girl growing up in London, I always dreamed that some day I’d make it to New York City. I don’t know why, but seeing it on the telly all those years ago—it just felt like home. Like I was born in the wrong part of the world and it was calling for me to come back.
    Now that I’m here, I’m not as enamored with it as I was when I was five, but I still get a kick out of everything it has to offer.
    Even if what it has to offer doesn’t tip me.
    Come on, you can’t tell me that guy didn’t have money. That suit, those looks. It was oozing out of every pore on his hard body. Not that money means all that much, but I’ve always believed that if you have it, share the wealth, you know? Especially to someone who serves your ass food for lunch. $8.50 for a tip isn’t going to break the bank.
    Not his bank, anyway.
    I’m still fuming by the time I get home, which is a little brownstone apartment building in Queens that I share with my roommate, Tito.
    Out front on the steps, Ricky and his little sister, Sonya from 2D, are in a heated debate over Pokemon cards. I give both their heads a scruff as I step between them and make my way inside.
    “Hey Raven,” they both echo in unison.
    “Hi, kids,” I say, not bothering to turn around as the front door closes behind me.
    Upstairs on the third floor, Tito is already talking at me before I can even get inside the apartment and set down my purse.
    “Rave, you’re not gonna believe the kind of day I had. I got—”
    “No,” I interrupt. “ You’re not going to believe the kind of day I had.”
    That shuts him up real quick. Normally I just let him go on and on while smiling and nodding, so when I have to interrupt his banter, you know it’s serious.
    Puzzled, he cocks his