Chapter 2 Natalie
NATALIE
Another tall glass slipped out of my grip. Amber liquid sloshed out and coated my hand.
Dammit!
I turned to block my latest mistake from Peter’s view. If my new boss at this crappy little bar had any more incentive to yell at me or give me a hard time, I was bound to break.
Bartending wasn’t my first choice of a job. It was more like the last thing I wanted to do to earn an income.
“Come on, bitch,” a customer at the end of the bar whined. A worried glance up toward them peeved me.
Okay. Scratch that.
The very last thing I’d want to do to earn an income was flaunt my body and dance on a pole like that group of scantily dressed entertainers did.
I did have some dignity. With that dignity, though, was a whole load of nervousness to even be in a rowdy, grungy bar like this.
A hefty dose of desperation went right along with it.
Simply put, after my husband, Fitz, was killed, I had to make money somehow. Not many employers were interested in a stay-at-home-mom/widow. None of them seemed crazy about giving me a chance when I had next to no work experience to bring to the table.
I hustled to slide these new drinks to the bar top, though.
My delivery wasn’t as smooth as I hoped it might be.
Punctuality was something else I needed a learning curve for.
These glasses didn’t topple over and empty despite my shaking hands.
The booze was intact as I foisted them on the customers who’d ordered.
“Hey! I said I wanted this on the rocks!” one protested after I gave him a whiskey sour.
Fuck.
Slapping on my best smile—which probably came off as a grimace—I nodded and extended my arm to reach for it.
The old man grinned as he lifted his hand and tossed the drink back. “Whoops. I guess you owe me the right one now.”
My jaw dropped. Was he serious? “I can’t…”
“Make it snappy, sweetheart,” he snarled, slamming the small glass to the table.
I flinched, not at the sound, because it was deafeningly loud in here to the point where I now knew the true meaning of being overstimulated. His swift movement of the container landed it in a puddle of vodka I’d spilled. A few drops shot up and flicked onto my check, startling me.
Everything was startling me.
“Ease up, Nat,” Rosa, the other bartender, the one who’d trained me, said as she checked my hip with hers.
“You look like you’re going to either cry or crack up.
” Hiking her thick black eyebrows up as she tilted her head toward where Pete sat on a stool and sipped his drink behind the bar, she indicated that neither option would be wise.
I didn’t need her to point out that he was watching.
He had one of those micromanaging personalities that drove me insane.
I’d hoped that he wouldn’t be around often, but so far in my first week of being here, he’d shown up on only the busiest and wildest nights.
The nights where I got overwhelmed and acted like an amateur with no clue how to pour anything.
I nodded shakily, so stunned and lost and wishing this crazy rush would simmer down already.
My feet ached, but maybe that plantar fasciitis was more due to how often I slipped and missed my footing back here behind the bar.
The back of my shirt was damp and starchy from sweat dripping down my spine from anxiety. But that might have been due to how freaking hot it was in here with too many bodies crammed inside on this fall night.
My head ached with a dull, thudding, pulsing pain with how tired, stressed, and nervous I was just to be in this bar. The Diamond Mirage was loud, without pause. Boisterous in a bad way.
But it’s a job. Suck it up and deal.
I couldn’t let my daughter down. Fitz passed away far too soon.
It was just me now joining the legions of single mothers who had to scrimp and save and slave away for a living, all to provide for the future.
Maisie was only four, and I was all she had.
Whatever wages and tips I could earn here were all we’d have for the basic necessities.
“Am I allowed to give a free drink?” I asked Rosa before jumping right back into the fray, taxing myself to recall all the orders and to start hurrying on getting them out.
She winced, multitasking like she never had to look at what she was doing, pouring by the feel of the bottle and reaching out to get the right-size glass for another drink. “Like a comped drink?” She made a face. “No. Not usually. Pete’s a penny pincher and tracks it all.”
I sighed, worried that this drunk would get belligerent if I didn’t give him the “right” order after I screwed it up, even though he drank the first one anyway.
Now wasn’t the time to test any bravado I might have wanted to gain and rely on.
I wasn’t sure how customer service decorum would shape this situation, and I didn’t have the spare time to ask Peter for permission to give this cocky man his second drink on the house because I made a mistake.
Nor did I want to admit I’d even made a mistake.
Peter saw with his own eyes how I struggled to keep up with the faintest bit of grace and accuracy.
I hurried to splash a whiskey on the rocks for him and slid it his way, praying Peter was just ogling my ass and not paying attention to what I was doing.
The jerk snickered as he took the drink, but I didn’t linger for any thanks or further words from him. Too many other orders were waiting on me. So many more drinks had to be grabbed, poured, or shaken.
And not enough air existed for me to slow down and just inhale a solid breath. Trembling from the fast pace of it all, I carried on the best I could while wishing I could be anywhere else.
No, that wasn’t true.
I had one place I fantasized about being.
One destination.
Home.
Wherever Maisie was.
After Fitz’s funeral, it was too clear that I’d have to move Maisie out of the condo Fitz and I invested in after we married.
It was far too expensive, and while I regretted having to relocate my four-year-old to a smaller apartment in a not-so-great part of the city, it was home. Home was wherever she was.
Tuning out all the shouts, complaints, orders, and even the gross catcalls and slurred insults from the drunker and hornier men at the bar, I sank back in my thoughts. I let the visions of my adorable daughter give me the motivation to power through this hard night.
No matter how hard this was, I did it for her.
The late hours. The rude treatment. Even the crappy tips at the end of the night because Peter was an asshole and took more than he had any right to as his so-called “owner’s cut.”
All for you, baby girl.
Only for you.
Deflecting drunks and fending off the crude remarks became easier the more I practiced.
It was nonstop, all this unwelcome attention on me as I just did my job of tending the bar with Rosa.
I couldn’t be too cold and aloof if I wanted any tips, but I had to juggle my discomfort in even being here with the need to provide for my daughter.
But this can’t be right, either.
Maisie is still adjusting to not having her father.
She needs me.
Not just as the sole source of income so we’d have a roof over our heads and food in the fridge. She was so young and shy and growing so fast that she needed me to be present.
With every fiber of my being, I detested being away from her. She’d only just turned four, and some nights, like the long one I was enduring now, it seemed like I would be absent and blink to find her all grown up and missing me.
It’s hard enough that she’s missing him.
Swallowing hard as I spilled another beer because I slipped on the floor mat sticky from my previous spills, I winced and quickly wiped up the mess on the wooden bartop.
Any time I got distracted and thought of my late husband, I lost track of what I had to pay attention to. Remembering the gentle-hearted man I’d lost was the quickest trigger for me to be clumsy. Distracted.
Down and depressed and hating that I was here.
“Hey! Move your ass!”
I furrowed my brow at Peter’s cruel bellow. I didn’t have to turn and face him to know he was addressing me. I’d felt his lewd stare on me. “I am. I am.” I was trying to move it and keep up.
Swiping my hand over the puddle of beer faster, I glanced up at the intensity of someone else’s gaze locked on me. Across the sticky bar, a man sat watching me.
Unlike my boss, he wasn’t judging. If anything, an empty vacancy shone from his blue eyes.
Like he, too, was done with this night, existing and unsure why.
As I lowered my gaze from him and checked that I was wiping all of the mess I’d made, I was drawn back to glance at the rugged man with short blond hair.
The short beard on his face reduced the effect of his flat-lipped expression, but now, I detected something like reluctant sympathy in his stare.
Like he understood how little I wanted to be here.
Long, hard day of work for you, too?
I didn’t ask. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t dare. Striking up conversations or even testing out some small talk would likely aid my goal to get tips.
But that wasn’t who I was.
That wasn’t how I behaved.
Fitz was gone, but I still didn’t know how to see myself as anyone other than his wife.
Hell, if he knew I was working in a dump like this, being a bartender for creepy drunks and demanding women…
I focused on taking and delivering orders, shoving away the thoughts of what my late husband’s opinions would’ve been.
It didn’t matter, anyway. Whether or not Fitz approved of my working here was not relevant. I was doing my best, taking any job I could and trying to handle it well.
Turning to get a glass out of the rack, I stopped short at the obstacle in my way.
My breath hitched at the two men who’d snuck back to the end of the bar.
The other way was closed with the bar curving toward the wall.
That was where Peter sat like a useless spectator.
But a quick look back proved he wasn’t on his stool anymore.
He’d retreated to his office, the door right there and now closed.
Rosa was busy shaking two drinks, her back to me and too far for me to snag the back of her shirt and get her attention.
One man stepped closer, putting his hand on my hip to pull me in.
They’d snuck back here so quickly, so suddenly, that I was lagging to react. To call for help from Rosa. To even tell them off. Licking my lips and hating how fear clawed up my throat at the idea of danger in my face, I blinked and backed up to put distance between us.
Both of them were tall, lanky, and reeking of weed and alcohol. Holding my breath as they stepped into my space and forced me to back up to the wall, I craned my neck to keep my face away from them.
“You can’t be back here,” I said, finally gaining my voice. It was too weak, shaky, and clearly conveying all the fear I couldn’t hide. “You can’t be behind here,” I said again, glad I was as stern as I could be for one week into the job.
“I can do whatever I want,” the bald one said, sneering as he again tried to put his hand on my hip.
“No. You need to back off—”
He did the opposite. Looming over me and trying to grab me to hold me close, he smiled like his idea of fun was only beginning.
“You can’t tell us what to do, lil’ lady,” his friend said as he snatched a beer bottle off the lower shelf of the bar. I’d just put the bottle there to give to a customer who’d ordered it, but now, he was in the process of helping himself to it, raising the bottle to his mouth.
I cringed, cowering back as the bald guy once more tried to get handsy, practically shoving me toward the wall and cornering me away from dodging him.
I stressed about being forced to give that first belligerent drunk a free drink he didn’t deserve, and now, I had to fear Peter finding out that I was letting some stranger get back here and help himself to more free booze.
“Stop,” I shouted, desperate to escape this madness.
The man chuckled, bringing the bottle up higher.
Before he could get it to his lips, someone shot their hand out and yanked it away.
Staring at the stranger with an icy-cold blue glare, the blond man seated in front of me took the bottle and set it out of the guy’s reach. “Didn’t you hear her?” he growled.
Baldie and his buddy faced him, scowling and immediately pissed off.
“She told you to stop,” he stated, matter-of-fact with a seriousness no one would ignore.
Oh, shit.
He looked murderous, standing and revealing the bulk of his strength with the muscles stretching his suit.
Oh, my God.
I plastered myself to the wall, terrified that I’d be caught in the throes of a bar brawl just because I was trying to do my job.