FSE

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One day I'm going to figure out how I manage to get into these situations.

I mean, here I am, serving drinks to a bunch of half-drunk reunion attendees, figuring I'd get a nice bit of cash for the evening and nothing else. Instead, I'm standing next to a bear in an expensive suit who's eyeing me up like an appetizer while the school gym lights glint off the wedding ring he doesn't seem to be too concerned about--and off the matching band on the paw of his wife, sitting oblivious next to him.

"More water, sir?"

Big bear holds out his glass for me with a slow smile. I steady the glass with one paw, casually letting my fingers linger against his while watching his expression out the corner of my eye. A slow grin spreads across his muzzle, and he lets the touch of our hands linger for just an instant longer than necessary. "You give good service, Owen."

"I try my best, sir."

"I bet you do," he says, his voice low, almost a growl, before turning back to his tablemates. His wife glances up, almost as if she's caught his tone of voice more than anything else, glares at him a second, then flashes an angry gaze right at me. I smile politely, and she turns back to her conversation, mollified. She doesn't notice her husband's paw slip back and brush my tail as I move to the next table, though.

Looks like it could be a busy night.

* * *

Let me back up a bit. It was muggy in the Midwest that day. Red pandas don't do so good in this humidity, but that's where school is--at least a school that would give me some financial aid and accept my sometimes sub-par high school grades. The heat and sweat make trying to parse Coleridge for my English class a challenge, so when the phone rings it's a welcome break--and it might be work, which is even better.

I'm a bit of an odd job panda...a little bit of this, a little bit of that, a lot of whatever gets me money in a hurry. I sure ain't a saint--a lot of my cash comes from a few nights a week of what might politely be referred to as "paid accompaniment." Or, more precisely, whoring. Hey, hang around a truck stop for a few hours three nights a week, put away money towards the student loans, and live off the rest--it's a good gig. The sex is a bonus. There's nothing wrong with a good job that pays in cash and orgasms, is there?

I grab the phone, and sure enough it's my buddy Charles. He helps me out by hooking me up with little jobs that don't involve sex--usually. That beagle knows I work hard no matter what, and he's happy to recommend me to people.

"Hey, you busy tonight?" he asks. "A friend of mine is stuck. Her catering company's got a high school reunion set up and one of her servers just got hit by a car."

"Holy shit! They okay?"

"Yeah. Apparently it was one of those stupid remote-controlled monster truck toys, some little prick drove it into her leg hard enough that she went over and sprained her ankle."

I roll my eyes.

"Okay. So they need a server. And you're calling me because..."

"Because you're graceful, polite, and can hold an intelligent conversation using words with more than two syllables."

"And?"

"And she's offering a buck-fifty for four hours' work."

A hundred and fifty bucks for schlepping drink trays around and charming middle-aged furs sounded pretty good, no truckers with questionable hygiene sounded even better. "I think I can free up my busy schedule to do that, buddy. I owe you one."

"How about a ball game this weekend? Beer's on me."

"Usually. After three or four you spill it on yourself way too goddamn much."