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She is (I Ain’t Ya Mama Collab)
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She is fierce.
She is my best friend’s sister. She is everything I never thought I wanted. The reality is she is everything I need. Only she wants nothing to do with me.
She is stronger than any man.
He wants to give me happily ever after. Except, I long ago gave up on fairy tales and dreams.
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“Bourbon boys, it has served the Marks’ family well.” Grandpa Vance’s voice booms over the family table. With a raise of his glass, everyone follows suit and toasts the business.
The plantation style mansion is overbearing much like the twelve-person table we sit at. All of it firmly in place with the man who runs it, Vance Marks. My grandfather who took the family hooch business from the illegal to the legal side after prohibition ended. The legacy of the Marks brand of bourbon grows with each passing year. The old money earned from the trunk runs has become a real company. The history of the family recipe is now being put to use in the legit money made today.
As a teen boy, I don’t really care about the family business other than sneaking a shot or two of the amber liquid when I can. I have more important things to give my attention to like exams and getting in Susie’s pants.
In my family though, business is everything, no matter how old we are. My brother and I have been molded to carry on the legacy. Nothing matters beyond that.
Donovan nudges me to turn my attention to his latest conquest, the new maid. My brother, aging me by only two years has a thing for older women, especially the help. It started with his piano instructor when he hit puberty and has only gotten wilder the more he realizes he has a dick and likes it to get wet.
Southern manners have me turning the other way. What he does is his business, but Grandpa Vance would not like to hear his oldest grandson was having sex with the help. While we have been raised to have grace, compassion, and present ourselves appropriately for the situations, we have never been held back from associating with those who work for our family. As I’ve grown older, I realize that’s more about our mother trying to instill humility in us to not be above anyone, whereas, the rest of my family only speaks to our caretakers when necessary. While we may not get in trouble for being friendly, I doubt good old grandpa would like to know he was paying the girl for more than her ability to shine the floors.
“We need to find you a woman. Not one of those groupie girls from prep school with those plaid skirts, but a woman who can roll her hips and teach you what a woman wants.” My brother whispers to me and I fight not to choke on my water.
He smirks, knowing he’s got me on edge with the family here. Donovan is a dick. He always wants to push the limits. Me, I just want to do what’s expected of me and if I’m lucky enough have some time out on the lake to fish then that’s a good day. I don’t get caught up in defying the rules like he does. I don’t necessarily agree with all of them, that doesn’t mean I’m going to go out and break them just for the hell of it.
One day, I’ll be out from all of the pomp and circumstance my grandfather’s business has brought on us. One day, I’ll get to be the country boy hunting, fishing, and having the love of a good woman beside me.
Sixteen-year-old dreams seem so easy … until life slaps you in the face.
Shimmy, shimmy. Click my boots, three times, heel-toe, heel-toe and turn. In my head, I go over each step as I make up my own words to the song playing throughout the dive. This is my night … every night. In my mind, I change the words to the country tune blaring in the space around me as I do the choreographed dance on the bar top.
Work, work, work, all day long,
Pretending to love all these songs,
Wink at ol’ Jimmy,
Toss my hair,
Cuz baby I don’t care,
Swish my hips,
To the right with a pop,
Pout my lips,
To the left with a pop,
And then pray like hell,
So the tips will tell.
I’m a hard working girl!
I continue to dance on the bar top to my own shitty made up song making sure to side step the rough patches in the wood. Sticky shit makes my boots heavy as I lift them and continue the dance. Another day, another dollar, the life of a college graduate. If dear old gramps were still alive, he’d yank my daisy duke covered tail right off this old wooden bar.
The Run Down is by all means run down. The dive bar in the heart of bourbon country that is a run down version of Coyote Ugly. Night in and night out, I don my corset top, short as sin denim shorts, and cowgirl boots. With a little glitter bronzer to accent my cleavage, some floral perfume, and Texas big hair, I doll up to dance and serve.