Chapter 1
FIONA
Oh, what wouldn’t I give for a milkshake right now. Chocolate with chips I can bite on, and a nice dollop of whipped cream. I don’t understand the people who spend hours drinking here at the bar, though I’m grateful they do. They pay for my wages and some leave nice tips.
If it were me, though, I would be sitting at the diner down the block, dipping my fries into the milkshake. Love fries and milkshake. Beer? Not so much.
A patron raises a hand from the end of the bar counter, calling me closer. I put a smile on my face as I approach him, then brace against the counter with an elbow.
“How can I help you?” I ask, studying the man’s face.
He’s new here. This bar has been open for so long that most of the patrons are usual.
Some of them have been coming here for longer than I’ve been alive.
The tall man with the hoary hair sitting in the corner told me he’s been here for the opening night, thirty-five years ago.
“An IPA, please,” the man across from me replies, intertwining his fingers in front of him.
I nod and turn to the taps, filling a glass to the brim.
After wiping the foam off the top, I slide it in the man’s direction.
He nods in gratitude, then clears his throat just as I’m about to leave. “What’s your name, girl?”
“Fiona.”
His lips move into a smile. “Like the ogre princess?”
Wow, because I haven’t heard that one a hundred times this week only. “Yes, sir. Just like the ogre princess.” I mean, she’s badass and a princess, and she has a husband who loves her. I don’t think she has that bad of a life. But people have to stick to the ogre part.
The man chuckles to himself even when I don’t pretend I like the joke. “Fiona. So,” and he blinks as if to disperse the humor. As if he needs to say something serious. He leans closer. “Are you old enough to work in a place like this?” He narrows his eyes as he looks at me again.
I burst into laughter. “Don’t worry, sir. I’m twenty-two.”
“Oh, you look younger.”
I merely smile, not agreeing with him. Looking younger shouldn’t be a compliment.
Growing old is an honor in a world where human life is worth so little.
My mother was kicked out of her home when her parents found out she was pregnant.
My father proceeded to abandon her when I was a toddler.
I was still a kid when she got sick. Not even eighteen when she passed away.
She was young, too young, and she couldn’t live her life to the fullest because she was working double shifts in this very bar, making money to put me through school and keep a roof over my head.
I wish she could have lived longer. I wish she could have grown old.
Turning back to the other patrons, I serve them whisky and rum and several more beers.
I’m not one of those fancy bartenders with shakers and mixers, setting fire to the rim of glasses and throwing bottles up to watch them swirl in the air before catching them again.
No, I just serve the drinks. People in this neighborhood don’t want cocktails.
They want their beer at the end of a workday or a hard liquor after a tough week. We’re all struggling to survive.
Some people lift their heads in greeting when they come in. Some call me by my name. It’s good to know they respect me and I respect them. We’re all living through hardships.
The door opens and a small group of young men walks inside.
They’re not much older than me, but not the kind I enjoy serving.
Bomber jackets, hair brushed back. They were born to money.
The kind of man who looks at me and sees a servant.
I grind my teeth together, keeping my head down as they approach the bar.
They’re just four, but they make enough noise to mute everyone else.
The tallest guy slams a soft hand on the counter right in front of me.
Clearly never had a day’s work in his life.
I raise my gaze to find the blond man smirking, the way all the rich guys smirk at me.
Like they’ve just found a piece of meat they want to have for dinner.
And it’s not about being skinny and gorgeous.
I’d say I’m average looking, though the red hair catches some attention.
I love my green eyes, but they’re dulled in the dim light of the bar.
The shadows can’t hide I’m not exactly thin—the opposite, actually.
I’ve been wearing size sixteen ever since I graduated high school.
“How can I help you?” I ask him, not putting a smile on my face. This sort of man always brings trouble. They’re not good patrons, make too much noise, and never leave good tips.
“Four of the best beers you have there.” And he half-turns to his friends, not lowering his voice. “Bet even that will be shitty.”
I roll my eyes and move for the tap. A hand shoots out and grips my arm. I look up to glare at the blond guy holding me in place. “Excuse me?” I roar at him. Some patrons stand up from their places. The noise in the bar dies down.
Everyone knows not to mess with the bartender.
“I just saw you rolling your eyes,” the guy spits at me. He hasn’t noticed the other patrons approaching. “You should show some respect to the people paying your wages.”
“You’re not paying my wages.” And I yank my arm back. “Just the beer. And not even that if you don’t behave.”
One of his friends notices the patrons standing around in a quiet but threatening circle.
He tugs on the blond’s jacket. The blond looks over his shoulder and sees what’s happening.
I hope he’ll leave, but I know these guys usually don’t.
They’re too proud for that. Instead, he sniffs and says. “Hurry along, fatty.”
A knot tightens in my throat. Crossing my fingers, I watch the group, hoping they’ll turn around so I have the time to spit in the glasses.
They don’t. With a heavy heart, I have to pour the drinks and slide them their way, untouched.
The guy who tugged on the blond’s jacket slips a ten-dollar bill in my direction.
As expected, no tip. The four amble to a table closer to the door and sit down.
I smile at the patrons who rose to defend me and they take their seats again.
Something tells me this will be a rowdy night.
The four keep making too much noise for my taste, laughing out loud and teasing one another.
Typical jocks. How the hell did they even find this spot?
They come for more beer and leave no tip again.
By the third time this happens, I open my mouth to complain, but my attention is completely ripped away from the group.
The door opens and closes without a sound.
A man walks in. He’s tall, and not only that, but broad too.
Wow, the man is huge. For a moment, I’m in awe of the giant walking into the bar, his face hidden by his hoodie, hands in his pockets.
Then he pushes the hood down and the light hits his face when he turns, his gaze pinning me to the spot.
My stomach drops. How can someone this big, this strong, be so good-looking?
He hit the jackpot on the genetics lottery.
His shaggy hair is black like his hoodie and pants, but steel-gray eyes fixate on me, not letting me move.
There’s a bit of stubble across his sharp chin, but his mouth is well-drawn and looks so soft to the touch.
Even the crooked nose, as if it’s been broken one too many times, completes his look.
He approaches the counter. My knees tremble. “A whisky,” he says in a thick voice. There’s a heavy accent to his words.
My mouth is parched as I turn around to serve a whisky.
When I reach the glass across the counter, our fingers brush.
It’s just for a second, but it makes every nerve ending in my body buzz.
Holy shit, just what is going on? I swallow hard, watching his lips wrap around the rim of the glass.
“Where are you from?” I blurt. Shit, I shouldn’t ask this of people.
He looks up at me, gray eyes burning into my skin. “I mean, because of your accent.”
He studies me for too long. Was the question this offensive? I’m about to say I’m sorry for asking when he opens his mouth. “Ireland.”
My brows shoot up. My mom was from Ireland! What a coincidence. “Where in Ireland? Or are you from Dublin?” Mom was from Dublin. She’d lost her accent long ago, but she had loving childhood stories to share.
He frowns, pressing his lips together. The man gives me a once-over, then swallows hard. “Wexford.” And that’s it. He slides a ten-dollar bill in my direction—better tip than the jocks—then gets to his feet and sits on a table near the door. He leans back in his creaking chair, eyes on the window.
I keep working, but I can’t help sneaking glances in his direction.
He’s never looking back. But why would he?
A man this good-looking would want nothing to do with the curvy girl at the working-class area bar.
I chew on my bottom lip as I go through the motions, the night getting older by the minute.
The man who asked about my age earlier motions for me again. I approach him just as he slides a fifty in my direction. Wow, he deserves all the smiles now. “Thanks, Fiona!” he says before getting to his feet.
“Thank you! Come again!” As soon as you want, please leave me fat tips every night. I look back at the Irish near the window, and he’s staring back at me for the first time. I shoot him a small smile, my cheeks blooming with heat.
The bar crowd dissipates after two. Even the jocks have slowed down, though they’re still chatting at their table.
The Irish man gets another whisky and sits down once more.
He never says a word. No one ever sits at his table.
Finally, he leaves, and then I have to kick the jocks out.
They don’t like it, complain every step of the way, and actually insult me, but then they leave, and only after I threaten them with calling the owner, who lives next door.
He always comes running when I have problems.
I wash the glasses, dry them, and put them away.
The Fiona from tomorrow will only have to polish a few, but she’ll have to deal with inventory, which is much worse.
I grab my keys and my phone and make a beeline to the door.
After locking it, I stand beneath the light pole to shoot the owner a message, letting him know I’m leaving.
The bar is just a block from home and I turn around, ready to change into my pajamas and sink into my too-small bed.
A shadow takes over, blotting out the light.
I gasp in surprise, and that’s all I can do before a hand clamps down on my mouth.
Rough fabric scrapes at my lips. My phone drops as I shoot both hands up, raking my nails at a wrist. The jocks?
Is it the jocks? Were they this mad I made them leave?
Fear shoots through me as the strong smell of some chemical hits my nose.
My limbs go numb as my eyelids grow heavier.
I collapse, but a powerful arm keeps me from hitting the ground. Darkness sets in.