Glass Ceilings

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Part 1: It Began with One Night

Part 2: Regrets Are a Waste of Precious Time

Part 3: Don't Let the Past Steal Your Present

Epilogue

Dedication

Acknowledgments

By A. M. Madden

About the Author

The Editor's Corner

Excerpt from
Dark Corners

D
ECEMBER 2013

For a few very long minutes, silence echoed off the walls. The only noise that could be heard was the sound of my buddy's measured breaths. Nosey people clustered around in a semicircle, waiting for me to begin. Frigid temps outside, falling snow, and the start of the Christmas holiday may have had something to do with the crowd.

Normally, this dump pulled in quite a mix. Local young professionals who were fresh into the boring workforce, college students on the threshold of said boring workforce, and locals desperate for relief from their everyday lives were all looking for the answer to their dreams in the bottom of a shot glass. The Dump provided an oasis in the desert of their disappointing realities. That December night, I provided their entertainment.

Their glassy eyes followed my moves as I concentrated on my target. The pressure did little to rattle my nerves. Situations like this fed my fierce determination to succeed. Failing wasn't an option…ever. I wouldn't allow failure in any aspect of my life. A perfectionist to the core, I considered anything less intolerable. Even when challenged to a stupid game of darts at a bar called The Dump in the heart of Chicago.

Six months earlier, under false pretenses, I had applied for a bartending job at The Dump. Being undercover afforded me all the information I needed to nail that joint. I wasn't there to mix drinks, but no one had a clue what my real purpose was.

Mugs, the owner—who earned his nickname based on the perpetual scowl on his face—was a crusty old man who never laughed. In fact, if you came to The Dump and managed to get Mugs to crack a smile, you drank for free. What started as a long-standing joke turned his dump into a hot spot, making him a legend in Chicago. In days, that scowl he permanently displayed would be taking on a new meaning. It'd be a shame to end his legacy, but such was life. I hope he fared well in prison.

Many came to witness his ire in person. The more he insulted, the more people tried to get their free drinks. A shrewd businessman to his repugnant core, every decision was made with one thing in mind—would it profit him in some way?

The turnover in bartenders was a result of his sparkling personality. Most couldn't hack it, especially females. The only female left on his staff was his wife, Marcy. She deserved a medal, and not only because she survived Mugs…she fucking married him. Mentally I'd cringe, my balls contracting upward, every time I thought of those two together.

At first Mugs wasn't bowled over by my personality.

“Take a hike, kid,” he said after sampling my margarita. “Too strong. You'll bankrupt me in tequila usage.” I asked for an hour, claiming I could make a killing selling drinks. He narrowed his beady eyes on me and countered, “You got thirty minutes.”

Undeterred, I mixed him up a martini, turned up the charisma with the female customers, flirted with his wife, Marcy, and delivered the promised killing in sales. Turned out Marcy had a sweet spot for me, and convinced her husband how much business my handsome looks could bring in.

“Okay, kid. You're in.”

That concluded my job interview at The Dump.

Mugs later admitted that having my face behind the bar
was
great for business…especially of the female variety. As long as I kept the cash flowing to his register, I had a job. What Mugs failed to realize was that he played right into
my
charms.

Yes, I was a charmer, and a fucking good one at that. Men and women alike were drawn to me. Once they stepped foot into The Dump and met me, they were very forthcoming in sharing their problems. Females quickly labeled me as the hot therapist behind the bar. The more they confessed, the more they drank, and the bigger they tipped. My fellow bartenders profited since we all shared our tips at the end of the night. Mugs considered it a win-win for all.

Having minored in psychology, reading people was a passion for me. The human brain fascinated me. What made people tick? What made people blatantly screw up? Getting into someone's mind without them knowing was fucking empowering.

Besides my performance as a therapist bartender, my dart-throwing skills also made Mugs extra cash. I was dubbed “The Dart-man from The Dump.” Assholes came from far and wide to try and take my title, but I was unbeatable. Most would consider the whole thing ridiculous. I couldn't argue that, but a man had to do whatever it took to get through. Throwing darts started out as recreation, a way for me to clear my muddled mind and have some fun when everything else in my life was stressful and intense. That bull's-eye metaphorically became my goal in life, and I validated it by hitting that tiny red target.

Everyone around me stood staring, waiting for me to miss. With a flick of my wrist, I could send that dart sailing through the air until it hit dead center on the board, majestically protruding from that tiny red circle.

Bull's-eye.

“And that's a wrap!” Jase called out with raised arms, like he was a fighter who'd just pummeled the holding champion for his title. “Pay up, motherfuckers!” He moved along the crowd, collecting their bets with a shit-eating grin. He was the only person I'd kind of befriended. I say “kind of” because he had no clue of what my real name was, who I really was, or why I was really there.

Once gone, I'd miss him and had actually considered reaching out to him after all the cards fell into place. In spite of his dim-witted antics and whoring ways, he was a good guy who I could see hanging out with in the real world.

Moving back to my table, I left Jase to do his thing while I drained my now warm beer. I was off tonight—well, from bartending duties at least. My real job never really gave me a night off. And so, wasting my free time at the place I both loved and loathed could only help my undercover situation.

Jase walked over with a huge wad of cash, thumbing off the bills while his lips counted out loud. “Mugs got his cut,” he said, handing me my stack while clinging to some of my profits in his left hand.

“I do all the work, so shouldn't I get all of it?”

“Screw you, I deserve a cut. I'm the one that gets you this crowd.”

“I'm pretty sure the snow outside got me this crowd.”

“Um, no. Can we admit I'm a master at marketing? They could have easily hit the classier places on this street. I'm the one who got the word out that our very own cocky bartender would be throwing tonight. Look at all the chicks in here. My doing,” he said with an arrogant smirk while jabbing his thumbs into his chest proudly. “We both know your ego needs a ton of stroking. You're welcome, by the way.”

“For what?”

“For supplying you with endless ego-stroking possibilities.”

“Because I'd be celibate without you?”

“Something like that. Having me as your sidekick helps you in so many ways.” I couldn't help but laugh at him. Jase did okay in securing his own stroking; the girls loved his boy-next-door looks and sense of humor, but he wasn't above taking my sloppy seconds, either…and he did often.

After pocketing my winnings, I peeled a twenty off the top of his stash. “I need another beer, your treat.”

“I better be getting change back!” A few steps later he added, “Get me one, too!”

On my way to the overcrowded bar, those who'd just witnessed my ass-kicking dart skills stopped me every few steps with pats on my back to congratulate me, while some prophesized that my streak was surely about to end.

Wood sauntered over, instantly invading my personal space. “Fuck, Nick. I wish I bet less. I was sure tonight you'd crack.” His whiskey breath assaulted my nostrils, forcing me to take a step back. The man was a harmless drunk. Mugs tolerated Wood because his ass was permanently attached to the wood barstool he was named after. I wouldn't doubt Mugs also owned the mortgage on Wood's place by now.

“Yeah, sorry to disappoint you, Wood.”

“Eh, what can you do. You're bound to miss one of these times.”

“Thanks for the support.”

“Sure, no problem, kid.”

By the time I made it to the damn bar, it felt like it had taken an hour to get through the crowd and toward my fucking beer. Marcy saw me coming and immediately filled a mug with my favorite draft.

“Make that two, Marce.”

“Sure, handsome.” She carried over two frosty mugs, gifting me with her lopsided smile. You could tell that at one time she'd been a very attractive woman. Beneath the hard lines were vivid blue eyes, faded blond hair, and a body that probably stopped men in their tracks.

Her wrinkled face, her padded ass that carried an extra twenty or so pounds, and even her raspy cigarette-altered voice made her seem much older than she was. I'd put her anywhere between sixty and eighty.

One thing I knew for sure, Marcy had no clue what her husband was running right under her nose. I couldn't even be sure she'd be upset once he got arrested. My money was on her doing a happy dance.

“You sure look hot bending forward while throwing those pointy things around.” Her eyes traveled down my body, and landed on my crotch. “Mmm mmm.”

“Um…thanks, Marce.”

Her grin morphed into a wicked sneer. “Such a shame I'm not ten or so years younger.”

Ten?

Flashing her my charming grin, I nodded and responded, “My loss.”

“Damn straight, handsome. I'd rock your world.” Her flirting bordered on harassment, but Mugs couldn't give a shit and often begged for me to take her to the stockroom to shut her up.

Another visual-induced cringe traveled through my spine…and balls.

On my way back to my table, a group of four women walked past me on their way out of the bar. Three of the four smiled as their eyes traveled up and down my body. The fourth was suggesting they call it a night, never looking my way. The fourth was fucking hot as hell. She stepped ahead of her friends and rushed out into the snow without so much as a backward glance.

When I sat beside Jase, I watched the quartet through the front window, focusing on the hot brunette who'd caught my eye.

“Who's that?” Jase asked, straining his neck to inspect the foursome that I was still checking out.

“No clue.”

“Some definite prospects in that crew.”

I couldn't help but laugh. Jase Newton had no morals whatsoever. He believed in sharing his love…and DNA.

“How many Jase Juniors do you think are running around this planet?” I asked, amused that in ten seconds his focus went from the women outside to a hot redhead in the corner.

“I'm always careful. But…when I choose the woman who is worthy of my Jase essence, look out America, Newton Domination will begin.”

“Be sure to warn me so I can move to Canada.” After draining the rest of my beer, I stood and added, “I'm outta here.”

“What? Where are you goin'?”

“Home. I'm beat.”

“What's her name?”

“Your obsession with my sexual conquests is fucking creepy.”

“Hey, more for me!” he yelled as I walked away.

Mugs grumbled that the concert playing downtown was fucking up his livelihood.

“They always steal my business, those cocksuckers,” he said out loud to no one in particular. “Tomorrow is Christmas, there should be an ordinance against concerts the day before Christmas. A man should have the right to an opinion when it takes food off the table.”

“Shut up, Mugs. You could use a little less food on your table.”

His permanent scowl deepened as he leveled Marcy with a death stare. “Maybe I'll fire your ass, that'll make up for my lost profits tonight.” He stormed out of the bar toward the stockroom.

“Why do you rile him up?” I asked Marcy as she stood laughing at him.

“It's fun.”

On the rare occasions when the bar wasn't bustling, Mugs insisted we tackle all the mundane tasks that needed to be done. My punishment for the lack of patrons was cleaning out the ice machine, a job I fucking despised. My thoughts drifted to the day I would no longer have to be there. Sure, I'd miss the people I met, and I'd go as far as saying I'd miss Mugs, too, but I wouldn't miss the crap job I was forced to endure.

It wouldn't be long, since the Feds were quickly closing in. Between the tips and my dart winnings, I'd saved up plenty while working here, a bonus for being stuck in this damn place for so long. I had nothing or no one holding me there. Chicago was just a necessary stop that I needed to make on my way to New York City.

“What can I get you, ladies?” Marcy asked behind me.

“Rum and Diet Coke, please.”

“I'll take him,” another said. With my six-foot-plus frame buried under the counter to reach the water lines behind the ice machine, I could only assume she meant me.

“He is not on the menu,” Marcy responded with an unmistakable snarkiness that had me quickly standing in anticipation of a catfight.

“Whoa, it's Dart-man.” The blonde who spoke licked her lips seductively. “Remember him, Ang? You thought he was hot.”

The other was the brunette…the hot brunette from last night.

“Eve.” Ang blushed while meeting my gaze, otherwise she remained silent. I couldn't look away. Fucking gorgeous. Much more casually dressed than the previous night, today she wore a tight green T-shirt that matched the color of her eyes. Her mahogany hair was pulled up in a messy ponytail, with a few snowflakes clinging on top. I was guessing her to be around twenty-five, but rosy cheeks dusted with freckles made her appear younger.

Her moist full lips, in addition to the smooth curve of her neck with just a hint of cleavage, inappropriately held my attention for a few very long seconds. In my thoughts I could clearly imagine dragging my tongue from her ear to her breasts causing her chest to heave below my lips. In all the long months I'd spent in Chicago, never had a woman caught my attention so quickly, or so completely.