34. Esperr
ESPERR
By eleven thirty, I’m completely over it.
The morning hit harder than I expected—the whole city deciding today was the day to come back to life all at once, the line out the door for the first two hours, the machine running low twice, and Jessi moving through it all like she was born for this chaos. Which honestly she probably was.
I kept up for the most part, not that I usually don’t. But my feet are reminding me that I’ve been standing for six hours, and the couch in my apartment is starting to feel like a distant dream.
Who would’ve thought when this all started that I’d actually miss my space and my couch and the quiet.
It probably has something to do with a certain someone.
Taylor shows up a quarter to twelve, unwinding her scarf and huffing out a breath. “Busy day?”
“You have no idea,” I say, passing her the apron from the hook.
She takes one look at the line that’s finally thinned to something manageable and nods slowly, tying the apron around her waist. “First day back, everyone’s crawling back out like they couldn’t make their coffee at home.”
I chuckle at her words, nodding my head. “Exactly.”
While Taylor takes over for me at the register, I finish wiping the counter down before pulling my apron off and hanging it on the hook in the back.
Rolling my shoulders, my back gives a small crack before I grab my jacket and yank it on.
Six hours on my feet and I can feel every single ache crawling up my legs.
I’m just getting my second arm through the sleeve when the door opens, the bell jingling over it, and I look up out of habit.
Zyran walks in, his eyes already on me, and he doesn’t stop until he’s at the counter, hands in his pocket.
I grab my bag, walk around the counter with a stupid grin on my face that I can’t shake, and get two steps away from him when my phone rings.
Stacy’s name sits on the screen.
I sigh through my nose and answer it. “Hello.”
“Hey, Esperr!” The relief in her voice is immediate and a little desperate.
And I hate that sound. “I know it’s Thursday, and I know you’re not on the schedule, nor have I called to tell you we’re back up, but we are, and I’m begging you.
We’re completely underwater tonight, and I don’t trust anyone else behind the bar.
Jason, he’s sick, came down with something during the storm. "
“Stacy—”
“Two hours, three tops. Please.”
I look at Zyran, seeing him already looking at my face and reading every emotion that’s going through me.
“Fine,” I sigh. “I’ll be there at seven.” I hang up before she can say anything and look at him. “You can just go home, I’ll?—”
“Just call me Lyft Zyran,” he says, humor laced in voice. “I’ll drive you and might even wait around for you.”
I frown at him, taking in the lack of a hint that he’s done this before—not the whole driving me there, but the waiting at the bar.
And I don’t hate it like I should.
“Yeah, whatever,” I say and head for the door.
Zyram opens the truck door, which is already warm when I climb inside, and I lean my head back against the seat, letting the morning finally start to leave my body.
“How was work?” he asks, merging into traffic.
I turn my head and look at him. He’s watching the road, one hand loose on the wheel and the other turned palm-side up on the middle console.
I hold my breath and ease my hand into his—I don’t know why I’m nervous to hold this man’s hand; it’s literally been inside me, but holding his hand feels almost too much.
“Busy,” I finally muttered. “But I mean a good busy; just kind of weird being back.”
“Weird how?” His tone is almost worrisome without sounding like it too much. I debate on asking him but decide against it.
“It’s like I’ve been gone for months and not just a few days. Everything felt the same but I felt different in it…” I pause, looking back out the windshield. “That probably doesn’t make much sense.”
“I get it. It makes sense.”
I let out a breath, crossing my feet at the ankles, feeling a rush of weirdness come over me.
“No one’s ever asked me that by the way,” I blurt out.
“Asked you what?”
“How work was. I’ve never… no one’s asked me things like that.”
He doesn’t say anything, but I can feel his eyes on me for a moment before he pulls into the parking lot of my apartment building.
“Well, I’m asking, and I plan on asking every single day.”
I look over at him as he parks and turns the engine off. He hasn’t let go of my hand, and something about that makes me smile.
“I have a few hours before I have to be at the bar.”
“Then let's put your feet up and I’ll make you an early dinner,” he says, squeezing my hand.
My gaze falls down at our hands, our interwound fingers, and how odd they look but also how we fit.
“Okay,” I finally mumbled, smiling up at him.
Something about the simplicity of it catches me off guard for a split second. The way these small moments shouldn’t mean as much as they do, but they do, and it’s all because of him.
And I can’t quite picture this the way it was before.
The bar is exactly what Stacy said it would be—underwater.
My shirt has more spilt beer on it than I’d like, but there was no changing, mainly because I haven’t had a second to think, let alone go to the bathroom.
There was barely an ease into the shift, having been just hands and beer bottles with orders coming from three directions at once while my brain runs the math on who needs what before they have a chance to talk.
But I’m good at that.
Just something about the chaos of a busy bar—the noise and the heat and the way it demands that I stop thinking because there’s no room for it.
So, for the next few hours, it’s almost like I’m not Esperr, not the girl who grew up cleaning after killers, not the girl who fell apart on the couch, and not the girl who has a man sitting at the end of the bar rail watching her like she’s the only thing worth looking at in the room.
Though, the last part is something I’ve only noticed the last twenty minutes.
Zyran has claimed that corner of the bar rail like he was always going to end up there, jacket still on with a drink in front of him that I’m pretty sure he has yet to touch.
Every time I move down the bar, his eyes follow, and for the first time, a guy’s gaze doesn’t feel possessive.
Though I’m pretty sure he is—I saw the way he looked at Eli, and I see the way he looks at nearly every guy who has lingering eyes on me.
It’s when I slide two drinks down the bar, turn to the next order and keep moving, and reach for the top shelf when I feel it.
Eyes on me, but it’s not Zyran like usual.
This is different, heavier somehow, with a quality to it that makes the back of my neck prickle in a way I’ve been afraid of.
I scan the bar without making it super obvious, half because if someone is watching me, I don’t want them to know that I see them, and the other half is because of Zyran.
If I really start looking, then so will he, and I have a feeling that’s not good.
Nothing jumps out, and I can’t figure out if it is a good thing or bad when I find just the usual crowd, the loud one and warm bodies pressed together and nobody looking directly at me.
I glance over at Zyran, seeing him already looking at me. Smiling, I turn and get back to work.
Twenty minutes later a guy at the far end flags me down, leaning over the bar with that particular confidence of someone who’s had two drinks and thinks that’s enough to make them charming.
“What’s good here?” He asks, a rather ugly smile plastered to his face.
“Depends what you like.”
“Surprise me.”
I roll my eyes and reach for the bottle of gin and a lime slice, and in seconds I’m sliding him the drink before he can say another word.
“That’ll be ten,” I yell over the noise.
The guy slides the bill over and opens his mouth to say something when I’m moving away and down to Zyran. He watches me the entire time, finger tapping against that untouched drink still in front of him.
“You could at least pretend to drink that,” I say, low enough that only he hears me.
“I’m busy.”
I raise a brow, grabbing a rag before wiping the counter down in front of him. “You’re sitting at a bar.”
“Yeah, and I’m busy, watching you.”
I shake my head and grab his drink, dumping it out into the sink. “Plan on sitting here all night?”
“Yes.”
“That’s insane and also boring.”
He smiles and gives me a knowing look. I shake my head and turn back to work because if I stand here looking at him any longer, I’m going to lose track of what I’m doing, and the way I’m feeling between my legs suddenly has me walking differently.
Around the two-hour mark the crowd finally started to thin slightly, and I finally let myself breathe a little.
That’s when I see the same guy from earlier making his way back to the bar. He drops onto the stool heavily, telling me he has no plans to go home anytime soon. Sliding his empty glass towards me, he looks down at it and then back at me.
“One more.”
I peer at the glass, and then at him—his eyes are glassy and unfocused, and he’s gripping the edge of the bar in a way that has nothing to do with leaning and everything to do with trying to stay upright.
“I think you’re good for the night,” I say, pulling the glass back.
His expression shifts, and I already expect this. “Excuse me?”
“Water?” I offer, sliding the glass into the dirty bin.
“I didn’t ask for water.” His voice has taken that edge that drunk men get when they feel like they’re being managed. “I asked for another fucking drink.”
“And I’m telling you, you’re done for the night.” I keep my voice even and my face neutral, the tone I’ve perfected over years of having this exact conversation. “I can call you a cab or if you have a friend?—”
“I don’t need a Goddamn cab, I need another?—”
“She said you’re done.”
That voice comes from behind him—and I know that voice.
The guy turns around and finds Zyran standing behind him, and something in his expression shifts, the drunk bravado flickering for just a second before it reassembles itself into something stupider.
“Mind your business,” he hisses, though it comes out more like a high-pitched sound.
For a moment the bar has gone slightly quieter around me, a certain kind of hush that happens when people sense something is about to tip.
Zyran, on the other hand, just looks at him, hands loose at his side, and I think about how most people would read that stillness and back down—I watch this stupid fuck decide not to.
“I said mind your—” He shoves at Zyran’s shoulder.
And it happens so quickly that if you had blinked, you’d have missed it.
Zyran’s fist connects with his jaw in one clean movement, with no warning, just the kind of precision that indicates that this isn’t the first time those hands have done this.
The guy goes sideways off the stool, hitting the ground hard enough that the glasses on the bar rattle.
The whole room holds its breath for exactly two seconds, and I realize mine is one of them too.
Zyran straightens and adjusts his jacket, looking completely unbothered, like he just moved something out of the way rather than knock out a man on the bar stool.
And I’m the one left standing behind the bar with a rag in my hand and a warmth spreading in my core.
It’s a very inconvenient realization that I found that extremely attractive.
Down to the fact that my panties are wet, and I kind of want to replay it again.
The guy on the floor is already trying to get up, more dazed than anything, and that’s when Stacy comes through from the back with the energy of a woman who has handled worse on Thursday and just takes the situation in with one sweep of her eyes.
The bouncer who barely does his job grabs the guy around the arm and hikes him up. They’re both gone before I can fully process everything, and Stacy’s turning towards me, hands on her hips.
I open my mouth to apologize, but she stops me.
“It’s fine,” she says, shaking her head. “It’s slowing down, and you’ve been on your feet all day. Go home.”
Again I’m opening my mouth to say something when Zyran beats me to it.
“See you tomorrow, Stacy.” And then he’s motioning for me to grab my stuff.
I hold his gaze for a second and then turn around.
Following him out, the cold hits us the second the door swings open. I tighten my jacket and fall into step with him toward the truck, and neither of us says anything for a moment.
And I find that I don’t mind that at all.