"Right this way," I lead the next group of people to their table to be seated.
Tired is an understatement in comparison to how I really feel.
It's been a long week, but here I am, working overtime for the fourth week in a row.
I am desperately in need of money since I still owe my roommate my portion of the rent.
I swear I hate adulting!
Why did we as kids want to grow up so fast? Like things would become magically better, but it hasn't.
I would kill for the days when we had fewer responsibilities. Like when we only had to worry about school and playing with our toys. Not bills; oh yeah, and more bills. Smh!
But those days are ancient history now.
Being a hostess at The Vig, one of the hottest restaurants in midtown Phoenix, AZ isn't too bad, I guess. Life could be more grotesque, and I couldn't have a job at all.
I could always be a prostitute or stripper, which has crossed my mind more times then I prefer to mention.
It's Saturday night, and the place is filled to the brim with people from all over. They are constantly entering in and out, drinking and consuming our food. I can't lie; the food is pretty decent, so I can understand the hype.
As I stand at my hostess stand, tired as hell, I push my curly bang from my forehead and wipe away the sweat that has formulated up there. I rest my hands on my hips from pure exhaustion, just waiting for my shift to come to an end.
"Tired?" A deep voice comes from on the side of me.
I look up to find light green eyes, a fluorescent welcoming smile, and a man bun. For some reason, I have always been attracted to a white man with a man bun. It makes them look exotic in a way, which I probably would never admit out loud, but I do notice.
His is quite exquisite, with his dark golden blonde hair tossed up.
"Huh?" I finally respond, thrown off by his handsomeness.
"You seem exhausted," the sexiness says, standing before my eyes.
I stand up straight, trying to seem "un-exhausted."
"Yeah, a bit," I say with a smirk.
"Long week?" he stares at me with those exotic green eyes, and I feel like the heat has risen 100 degrees in this place.
Now, I've never been attracted to white men; shit, I barely like light-skinned black men, so this is new territory for me and pretty weird.
Yet, he has a sexy swag about him. He has a round nose piercing and tattoos on his neck, forearm, and hand.
I personally, would love to put a tattoo everywhere if I could ever conjure up the balls to get one. I've wanted a tattoo since I was a young girl, and I just knew I would get one soon as I was old enough. Yeah, I still don't have one. However, I still admire them on other people, especially men.
It's something sexy about men with tattoos. I assume it's the rebellion in them, that IDGAF approach that drives me wild. You know, that I-don't-care-what-anyone- thinks-about-me whole vibe. Yep, I love that shit.
I survey his whole appearance. He has on a fresh, crisp white tee, black ripped skinny jeans and all black converse.
He makes casual seem simple yet sexy at the same time.
He leans in near me, placing his forearm onto my hostess stand as I admire his debonair.
He's so close; I can practically taste him as I inhale his essence. And omg, this man smells good, I mean really good.
YOU ARE READING
I'm tired of black men...but then again I'm not
RomanceKashay Taylor, an African American activist who is tired of dealing with no-good black men, is approached by Justin Michaels, a white man fascinated by her. However, there is a war going on inside of her. Even though black men have not treated her...
