It takes me a second to adjust to the lighting in the restaurant. It isn’t like it is bright outside, being that it’s seven at night, but it’s so dimly lit inside that I have to squint for a second before walking up to the hostess.

Or who I assume is the hostess.

“Yeah?” she questions, looking up from her desk, snapping her gum loudly, and twirling her long, pink, and clearly very unwashed hair.

Uh…okay.

“I think I might be in the wrong place,” I mumble more to myself than to the lovely piece of happiness in front of me.

“Sure,” she snaps, rolling her eyes and picking up the magazine she was reading before I had the audacity to interrupt her.

I open and close my mouth a few times before I snap it shut and try to calm my climbing temper. “Excuse me!” I force out through gritted teeth.

“What, lady?” she barks, throwing her magazine down and looking at me as if I am the offending party here.

“Is this or is this not Slice?” I know damn well it is, but for the life of me, I can’t understand how this thing in front of me has a job anywhere, let alone somewhere where she is in charge of first freaking impressions!

“Uh, lady, do you know how to read? It’s on the door when you walk in.”

The hell?!

I can feel the heat of anger painting my skin red. I’m going to blow up at this girl and it’s not going to be pretty. Usually I have no issues controlling my temper, but when people want to act like half-wit window lickers I just can’t hold it back.

“Listen here, doll face. I don’t know what in the hell crawled up your sweet-as-pie ass this morning and made you turn into the spawn of Satan, but that is no excuse to act like your shit doesn’t stink. For some unknown reason, your boss decided you would be an oh-so-pleasant person to have sit on your butt and treat paying customers like garbage. Do you need me to show you how it is you should greet someone? Let’s repeat after me, shall we? ‘Hello, and welcome to Slice. How may I help you this evening?” I have to ball my hands into tight fists to keep from reaching out and shaking the tar out of this little twit. My chest heaves with frustration.

Her overly-lined-with-the-blackest-liner eyes narrow, and I can just see it working behind them that she is about to say something else that will just piss me off further. I hold my hand up—stopping inches in front of her face—and roll my eyes when I see her face flash with irritation.

Irritation at me!

“Listen, I’m sure you are just normally so full of sweetness that you were just about to apologize for being a massive bitch, but let me save you the trouble. Run out to the store and grab yourself some Midol. Maybe while you’re there, you can meet a nice man to get you off since clearly you’re suffering from some sort of frustration. IF by then you still aren’t feeling the joyful tingles of happiness, maybe you can find something else to occupy your time. Clearly being a people-person just isn’t your thing. Now, tell me, where in the hell is the bar in your fine establishment?”

I put my hand down when I finish, rolling my eyes when she just stands there gaping at me. She finally lifts her hand and points to the left. I don’t waste a second longer, turning on my heels. I walk into the darkened doorway that I hope leads to the bar.

I might have paid a little more attention to the waves of trepidation that keep flushing over my skin, but unfortunately for me, the little ray of happiness that met me at the door is making it impossible to focus on anything else.

Slice isn’t as bad as I expected, but it is by no means a restaurant, and it is definitely not a place I would ever think a first date should be held.

The room I walked into is vast and dark. There are smoke puffs floating around the air, causing me to cough a few times when I walk through a thick one. The lights are even darker in here, and given the way the lights keep flashing and sweeping the area with the low beats of some popular pop song, my guess is that I just walked into a bar—and by the looks of it, not one I would typically enjoy.

There are booths lining the room, some high-top tables with barstools pulled close, and in the center of the room is a long, rectangular bar. I’m assuming that it’s raised above the floor level, because other than the sea of bodies around it, I can’t see much.

The bartenders are dressed in what can only be described as their underwear. The shorts, which are skin tight and bright red, hug their curves and make me very aware that I am no longer a size five. Their bra-like top is hugging, pushing, and squeezing their boobs. Hell, they’re basically defying freaking gravity. I look down at my own chest, which isn’t lacking, but it most definitely isn’t pushing my nipples into my eyeballs.