2. Skye
“Hey Skye, can I get a beer?”
Purgatory is bursting at the seams tonight. There are wall-to-wall bodies in here, but somehow, Spike managed to push his way through the sea of bodies. I pull an ice-cold mug out of the cooler and place it under the tap of his favorite lager.
“Here you go!” I hand it to him.
“How’d you remember what I wanted?” he asks, perplexed. “There’ve been people who’ve worked here for years who don’t remember what the fuck I like.”
I tap my temple. “Good memory, I guess.”
Spike smirks and tips me for his drink. “What are you do?—”
“Hey!” A greasy-haired, pot-belly man waves his hand in front of my face. “Why don’t you quit flirting and get me a fucking drink? I’ve been waiting for ten goddamn minutes.”
Spike’s eyes narrow, and his smile is replaced with a sneer. He opens his mouth, but I lay my hand on his arm. His eyes meet mine, and I shake my head. It’s my job to ensure all the patrons are cared for. That means playing nice even when I want to throat-punch them for being douchebags.
“What can I get ya?” I ask, plastering a smile on my face.
“About damn time,” he mutters. “A fucking beer, bitch. Is your job that difficult?”
Wrong thing to say, buddy.
Spike pushes away from the bar, but before he can do anything, I use one hand to grab the dickhead customer by his shirt and yank him close while pulling my butterfly knife out of my back pocket with the other. I stab it into the bar top right in front of the guy’s face.
“Call me a bitch again, and you’re not gonna have to worry about the man next to you because I’ll cut off your tiny dick and feed it to you myself.”
Spike crosses his arms and glares at the man in my grasp. His lip curls in a way that says, ‘try me motherfucker’.
The bastard whips his head back and forth between me and Spike. His Adam’s apple bobs, and sweat gather above his brow.
“S-s-sorry,” he stutters.
“That’s better.” I push him back and pull my knife out of the wood. “Now, what can I get you?”
“Beer,” he replies, and I raise my brow. “Beer, please?”
“Sure thing.” I pop the top off a long neck and hand it to him. “Six dollars.”
He hands me a ten and rushes off into the crowd. Giggling, I ring up the sale and put the change in the tip jar. I pick up a rag and start wiping down the bar before the next person comes forward. I glance up and see Spike staring at me, his mouth open in shock.
“What the hell was that?” he asks when he finally composes himself.
“What was what?” I feign innocence as I take the next person’s order.
“You threatened to cut off that guy’s dick.”
“I did.”
“You pulled out a knife.”
“Yep.”
“Do you do that often?” he asks incredulously.
“Seriously?” After handing a customer their tequila shot and draft beer, I prop my elbows on the bar and lean toward Spike. “I work in a biker bar. In case you haven’t noticed, the clientele here can get a little rowdy.”
“Why don’t you let the bouncers handle it?”
“Spike,” I groan. “If I signaled for the bouncer every time an idiot got twitchy or rude, nothing would ever get done around here.”
“Fine, but I’m gonna talk to Rogue about this.”
“I handled it,” I argue. “I’m not a damsel in distress.”
“Yeah, you did,” he agrees. “But, uh, next time, could you not threaten to cut off dicks?”
I throw my head back and laugh. “I could, but where’s the fun in that? Besides, I’ve only asked if they wanted me to; no one has taken me up on the offer yet.” I wiggle my brows suggestively.
He grabs his crotch and steps away from the bar. “Remind me never to piss you off.”
I wink and give him a small wave as he makes his way to the VIP section to sit with the other club members who just arrived.
For the next hour, it’s a constant flow of traffic at the bar, and my feet are killing me. I need to invest in some comfortable tennis shoes, but around here, your feet can be weapons so you want something that can pack a punch. I have a pair of black Shit-Kicker boots that I wear every night at the bar. I haven’t had to use them, but they’ll definitely come in handy if I ever need to. I hate the thought of having to trade them in for something different. I bounce back and forth on my feet to try and alleviate the pain.
“Feet hurt?” Jez plops down on stool. “I’d know that dance anywhere.”
I grimace. “Normally, I’d be okay, but I’m working a double.”
“Why?”
“Connie didn’t show. Waylon texted and asked me to fill in.”
“Go over to Naughty/Nice tomorrow and talk to Trista. Cece ordered inserts that are supposed to be amazing for the ‘working woman’. You’ve seen those death traps Mel wears.”
Carmella wears three-inch heels wherever she goes. I don’t know how she does it. I’d be tripping all over myself, never mind the blisters I’d be sporting at the end of the day.
I nod. “I’ll stop by there on my next day off. Do you want your usual?”
Jez purses her lips. “Gonna need something stronger.”
“Rough day?”
Jez shrugs but doesn’t answer the question. I fill a shot glass with Jack Daniels and watch as she shoots it back. She taps the bar for another, and I quickly pour it before grabbing a beer as a chaser.
I don’t know Jez very well, but I can tell something is wrong. Her shoulders are slumped, her eyes are dim, and her normal take-charge attitude is nonexistent. Working as a bartender, I’ve become very good at observation. I can spot the lonely, the angry, the partiers, the troublemakers, and the defeated.
“I’m a good listener,” I say.
Jez gives me a small smile. “I’m good, but thanks. It was a long d?—.”
“Everything okay here?” Waylon drops empty beer bottles into the bin as he settles next to me.
“Yep, I was just getting Jez a drink.”
“Bar is backing up again.” Waylon waves his hand toward the crowd. “It’d help if you quit gabbing and started filling orders.”
Jez glares at him, but I shake my head slightly.
“On it.” I mock salute.
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Don’t be a smart ass, Summers.”
I grab my chest in mock horror. “I would never.”
Waylon throws a cleaning rag at my face, but I catch it before it can hit me. “Get back to work.”
We continue to fill drink orders for the next couple of hours. At the end of the night, I’m exhausted and ready to drop. I wipe down the bar before I help Tony, another bartender, restock for the next day.
“Need a ride home?” Tony asks as we walk out the backdoor.
“Nah, but I appreciate it.”
I live a couple of blocks away from the bar, but because of the hellish hours, I drive to and from work instead of walking home. Tony grunts and watches as I climb into my car. I give him a small wave, put the car into gear, and pull out of the parking lot.
My feet scream in protest as I climb the steps to my apartment. Once I’m inside, I toss the keys on the kitchen table and plop down on the couch. I chuck off my boots, and peel off my socks off, wincing when I see the blisters forming on the soles of my feet. After heading to the bathroom, I fill the tub and pour in Epsom salts. Sliding down into the water, I groan with relief as the warmth soothes my aching muscles.
Definitely making a stop at the boutique for those miracle insoles.