5. June
June
“Two twenty-three,” Bram says from his spot behind the counter. “Plus, your hourly.”
“What?” There must be a mistake. There’s no way I made that much in the few hours I’ve been here.
He scrolls through the little device I took with me on my deliveries. “Five bucks here, six there, another five, another…” He pauses, his eyes widening. “There we go. Your first delivery. The customer tipped you two hundred.”
“Dollars?” My mouth drops open.
“Yep.”
“That can’t be right. He must have hit the wrong button.”
Bram holds the thing out for me to see. “He put a wink face next to his signature. I’d say he knew what he was doing.”
I settle my sights on the doodle, then shift to the name. Magnus.
It’s oddly fitting.
“Anyway.” Bram lifts the cash box out of the register and pulls a few bills out from underneath. “You did great work today.” He holds them out to me.
I eye the cash then him. “That’s more than what you owe me.”
“Not by much.” He adds, “Consider it a welcome bonus.”
“Are you sure?” Why does this all feel way too good to be true? Did I actually get murdered on that park bench last night and now I’m living some weird lucid dream?
“Positive.” He remains totally serious.
“Thank you.” Although those two words come up massively short on how thankful I really am.
The rest of my workday went nothing like what I hoped for.
When I woke this morning, stiff and running late, I had a hunch shit would go bad. And with the rent money situation, Carter weirdly propositioning me, the cold ass shower I rushed through, and getting fired, my worries were confirmed.
But upon meeting Bram, and having that golden opportunity present itself, I thought the universe really was helping me out for a change. Not to mention the hot piece of tattooed eye candy.
Really, it was just teasing me with the idea that I might pull this miracle off, with no chance of making that happen.
My second gig of the day fell flat. Typically, I make decent tips, but it was crickets because of some stupid construction down the street making it nearly impossible for anyone to get in or out of there.
Not to mention, customers probably thought we were closed.
The only people that came in were the dirty workers, who tip like shit and get their fill on grossly checking out the waitresses.
At job number three, I wasn’t at all surprised when Jack let me go two hours into my bar shift, telling me that it was a slow night, and he could handle it on his own.
At first, I was mad. But he has to pay his bills, too, and if the bar isn’t making money, neither of us are getting paid.
I had hoped the mystery man would show up, if not to bang me in the bathroom, but to leave a fat tip like he normally does and get me a little closer to meeting my sizable goal.
That didn’t happen. And now here I am, walking into the Haven to meet Cora and drink this shitty day away.
My problems will still be there tomorrow morning, that’s for sure. Tonight, I will drown my sorrows and do my best to forget them, even temporarily.
“Hey, slut,” Cora greets me from her tall table. She has a round of shots and a pitcher of beer ready, almost like she can read my mind on how fucked up I’d like to get this evening.
"Where's Steff?" I ask her, glancing around the noisy place to spot her fiery redhead.
“She said she’d be here later; she has a thing.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Oh? Is she hot?”
Cora shrugs, her blonde hair rolling in waves off her shoulders. “She’s being all secretive about this one. She must like her.”
“About time.” I climb onto the stool beside her and grip one of the shot glasses. “I need this.”
“That’s what you always say.” Cora takes the other in her grasp, holding it out to me.
“Bottoms up.” I clink mine against hers, making sure to maintain eye contact. Can’t afford a curse of bad sex over here.
I down the contents of the cheap tequila, the burn tingling down my throat and chest. I push a mug over to the pitcher for Cora to fill. “How was your week?”
We’re not always the best at it, but we try to meet once a week to catch up. We’ve grown apart a few times before, but after what happened with the random college students being killed around here, we started valuing our friendship a bit more.
Cora and I have only known each other since freshman year, but I’ve considered her one of my best friends, despite only a few years having gone by.
She’s one of the few people that don’t judge me, or at least, make it obvious that they do.
She accepts me how I am, and doesn’t try to change me.
It definitely helps that she has a dark sense of humor that matches mine and on occasion can drink me under the table.
It’s a beautifully broken dynamic that works well for us.
“Meh.” Cora fills her own mug and takes a healthy swig. She wipes her lip and continues. “You’re lucky you dropped classes this semester.”
Luck had nothing to do with it.
I go along with it anyway. “I bet.”
“How’s the roommate thing?”
I shake my head. “Terrible. The dude tried to get me to sleep with him this morning.”
Cora gasps and rests her head in her hand to focus on me. “Carter did?”
“Yep.” I leave out the part about him stealing my money. Or at least that I think he did.
What other explanation could there be for it?
That Heather did? Or my other roommates, Tommy and Sadie.
Those two pretty much only leave their room long enough to shower, go to work, or grab take-out when it arrives.
They keep to themselves, and while they’re not exactly the ideal roomies, they’re a hell of a lot better than Carter.
Honestly, Heather wouldn’t be that bad if she would just get rid of that douche.
“Gross,” Cora bunches up her nose. “What a pig.”
I refill what I’ve already drank from my mug and wish there was some way to magically refill our shot glasses. My tolerance to booze has changed the last few months, and it’s going to take a lot more than this to remotely have any impact.
“I got fired this morning,” I say nonchalantly.
“Holy shit, J. What happened?”
“Showed up late. It was my fault.” I cross my legs and reposition myself. “You know that place Claire used to work? Bram’s?”
Cora shifts her stare like she’s recalling a memory. “Yeah. Over by…”
She doesn’t finish her sentence, but I know what she’s getting at. Where those people were gunned down.
“Yeah…I got a job there.”
“Damn, girl. You move fast.” She climbs off her chair. “Hold that thought, this calls for celebration, or something.”
Cora leaves me behind as she rushes over to the bar, finding a spot between other customers and flagging down the bartender. It doesn’t take her long before she’s on her way back, one glass in each hand.
“More tequila?” She shoves one of them toward me.
I gratefully accept it, noting the weight of the contents. That’s definitely more than a double.
“To…new beginnings,” Cora says over the loud music that starts playing.
“When one door closes, drink tequila.”
Cora laughs and taps her glass against mine. “Yeah, that.”
I revel in the burn that floats down my throat, inviting it to numb my senses. “You want to play pool?” I dip my head at the newly opened table.
“Um, yes.” Cora grabs the pitcher of beer. “Get our mugs.”
I comply with her orders and follow her over to our new spot. Our old table being quickly taken by a couple that was looking for a spot to sit.
I dig in my pocket to pull out a single dollar and get change from the machine. It’s not much, but at least I can provide us with a little entertainment on my limited income.
“Who’s breaking?” I ask her as I shove the four quarters into the slot and release the balls from their restraints.
“Me if I stand any chance of winning.”
I smile and roll my eyes, grabbing the rack and setting it up for her. “It’s only because alcohol makes me better and you worse.”
“Mmhm. Sure.” Cora fingers the sticks on the wall, deciding on a sleek red one. She dusts the tip of it with a bit of chalk and blows the debris away. Getting into position, she lowers her body and leans over the table, causing any dude with a pair of eyes to look her way.
I climb onto a stool and wait for her to do her thing.
Cora cracks the cue ball perfectly, sending balls spiraling all over the felt table and landing one in each of the far corners. “Solids,” she announces, and then sizes up her next target. She pockets one more and misses the next, giving me a chance to catch up.
“Thought you were about to clean house on me,” I tell her when we pass.
I eye the table and quickly strategize my plan.
There are three easy shots available, but those can be sunk anytime.
People often lose at pool because they play the short game, not the long one.
You have to be able to anticipate where the cue will land, and what you’ll do next.
Failure to prepare often leads to piss poor performance.
I decide on my mark, sinking it on the opposite end of the table and setting myself up perfectly for my next shot.
I drop it into its home and clear one more of the stripes away.
I put too much English on the cue, and it ends up in the wrong spot, setting me up for failure on my next play.
Now, my only move will be strictly defense, by placing the ball where Cora won’t have any openings and making it harder for her to advance. I tap my ball, barely moving it but technically having a legal shot.
“You bitch,” she says when she realizes I screwed her from having a decent move.
I laugh and raise my shoulders. “It was my only option.”
“My ass.”
“It’s a good one, I won’t deny that.” I smack her butt playfully on the way over to my seat. I drag my mug to my lips and drink it down while she stews over what to do.
“You screwed me.” Cora pouts as she walks from one side of the table to the other. “Fine. I’ll do the same damn thing.” She nudges the white ball, hitting hers by a hair and putting me in a rather crappy spot.
But not crappy enough.