Chapter 2
Chapter Two
I keep my gaze trained on the shot glasses I’m filling with tequila, the loud tables of hockey fans shouting over the sound of the TV. Drunk laughter engulfs me, along with the unmistakable click of glasses meeting one another.
Bannport really fooled me. There’s nothing small about this small town’s Saturday nights, especially not when hockey is on.
Someone slams their fists into the bar, turning the tequila shots I was pouring into a small waterfall. I lose count of the number of times patrons have called my name or at least have called for me— beautiful seems to be a favorite tonight.
But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t thrive during The Lair’s busy nights.
“Show me that smile, Allie Cat.”
Charlie winks as he approaches, spinning his empty tray on his fingers like a basketball. I give him an eye roll for that, painfully aware that I’m starting to embody Travis.
“Get me some peanuts for tables twelve and seven, pretty please,” he says as he reaches for a wet cloth behind the bar. “Someone spilled his drink. A-fucking-gain .”
“Sucks to suck.” I grab the peanuts and stick my tongue out at him as I place them on his tray. “At least the tips will be good.”
“They’d better be,” Charlie agrees, running a hand through his dirty-blond hair. The strong smell of his cologne hits my nostrils as he leans in conspiratorially and whispers, “Fuck hockey night,” right before he leaves with his peanuts.
I only snort and shake my head.
Charlie is…Charlie. There’s no other way to describe him.
Travis hired him three months ago when our previous waitress left for the big city. As far as replacements go, I can’t complain about Charlie. He’s a year younger than me and a recent college graduate. For whatever reason, he decided to move back to his hometown instead of trying to make it as a marketing mogul in the city. He must have hit his head or something.
Says the girl who decided to stay in Bannport, too, instead of going literally anywhere else.
And I might, one day. Maybe.
Regardless of his sometimes obnoxious and very often over-the-top attitude, I’m happy to have Charlie around. He’s either a breath of fresh air or a pain in the ass, and there’s no way to tell until it’s too late.
All thoughts about my co-worker get interrupted when a loud thump comes from my left side, making me jump.
“What does one have to do to get a fucking old-fashioned around here?”
I crack my neck, readying myself for battle, and manage a tight smile.
David, Danny, or whatever his name is, is no stranger to late-night drinks at The Lair, and I always avoid serving him when I can. He’s loud, rude, and he threw up once. As in, on his lap. While sitting at the bar.
I don’t like him one bit. And if the mean scowl he throws me every week is any indication, I’d say he isn’t my biggest fan either.
Avoiding him tonight isn’t an option, though, so I ignore the other four people yelling for drinks and get on with the old-fashioned. “Coming right up.”
Charlie is busy with the tables, and Travis….
Where the hell is Travis?
I steal a look around as I finish off the drink, but I don’t see him anywhere.
“I’m falling asleep here, girl,” David/Danny/asshole grunts, and it takes all my willpower and then some not to smash the drink into his wrinkly, sweaty forehead.
In reality, I would never hurt anyone. I don’t believe in violence as an answer. And even if I did, I’m too chicken to face the consequences. All it takes is the thought of my face in the newspapers to banish the idea very, very quickly.
I summon a fake smile because giving him attitude and risking making a scene won’t be worth it, even if that’s exactly what I want to do. “There you go.”
I set the old-fashioned in front of him—I should cut him off after this one—and don’t wait for a thank you that’ll never come. Someone else is already demanding my attention, and for the next minute, I drown myself in the sounds of shouts, laughter, and the celebration of a hat trick.
Until he yells again.
“You call this a fucking old-fashioned?” A glass— his glass—slams on the bar, liquid spilling everywhere, and I shut my eyes to brace myself for what’s to come.
People around him shift their gazes, alarmed, but ultimately ignore him. Nobody in their right mind would want to mess with a pissed off drunk, and I’m no exception.
But I get paid for this.
I like my job. I like the people I work with. I like this town. I’m lucky to have a roof over my head and food on the table. I can’t compromise that.
“What’s wrong?” I smile tightly once more, trying to summon Charlie with my mind to no avail. He’s only a few feet away, and I’m definitely in his line of vision, but chances are he can’t hear anything over the loud throng, including this old man’s yells.
He smacks the glass on the bar again, making my pulse go all the way up to my throat, and I catch it just in time before it topples to the ground. “Are you even old enough to serve me a fucking drink? This is bullshit.”
“Excuse me—” I start, bits of subdued rage swirling in my stomach, but he doesn’t give me a chance to finish.
“Where’s my fucking orange peel?” he sneers.
I blink.
“You forgot the orange peel,” he points out, looking at the now-half-empty glass as if I’d filled it with poison.
He’s being rude, dramatic, and scary because of an orange peel ? Is this a joke?
“I can get you another?—”
I don’t miss his cheek twitching as he leans in and points a crooked finger at me. “You shouldn’t be here. Get me a man to make me a fucking drink or get out of my face.”
Wow. Okay.
Taking a deep breath, I tell myself he’s drunk and won’t really hurt me. We’re in the middle of a crowded bar, and there’s a huge wooden barrier between us I’m not planning to jump over.
My mother’s voice echoes in my head before I can stop it, making everything else turn dark.
Damn it, Allison. You can never do anything right. Do you even care about your family?
I shut my eyes, but the memory assaults me just the same.
Go away, go away, go away.
It takes me an embarrassingly long number of seconds to realize I’ve zoned out, and David/Danny is staring at me like I’ve grown a second head.
“I can get you another one,” I say, fighting the strong grip the not-too-old memories have on my heart.
“I want nothing from you.” The sneer is back in full force. “And I’m not paying for shit tonight. I’m not taking drinks from you.”
I ignore the jab because I’ve got bigger fish to fry, as I’m pretty sure boss man will have my head if I let a customer leave the bar without paying their tab.
“We don’t offer free drinks.”
My tight smile is gone, replaced by what I can only hope is a serious expression.
“Bulls—”
David/Danny doesn’t finish his sentence.
A huge hand that is at least twice the size of mine maneuvers around me and gently grabs the old-fashioned from my trembling fingers, placing it somewhere behind me.
I would recognize those calloused fingers anywhere—not like they are easily mistakable. His presence at my back is warm, yet I know the look on his face I would find if I turned around won’t be.
Travis doesn’t shout, doesn’t raise his voice at all. He never needs to.
“Out.”
That deep, authoritative one-word rumble travels all the way down my spine and settles at its base, where a tingling sensation remains.
“Give this old man a break, Ward.” He tries to play it cool, but he fails.
A single sentence from my boss and David/Danny doesn’t appear to be so drunk anymore. Huh.
His glassy eyes land on me, hard and unforgiving, as if I were to blame for the situation he got himself into all on his own. I didn’t call Travis, don’t even know where he’s been for the past hour, but he doesn’t seem to care.
Feeling braver now that I’ve got my boss at my back, my only answer is to arch an eyebrow in a “now what?” expression.
The old man throws his hands up in mock surrender. “Got it. No need to throw me out like some drunk.”
I’m not too sure about that. If Travis hadn’t shown up, I’d still be having a one-sided argument with him. I’m not going to cry because some random man was mean to me while under the influence. I have thick skin, if nothing else.
I’d like to think I’m as independent as they come, but I’m also not stupid enough to turn down the help of an ex-Navy SEAL to get out of a sticky situation if he offers. I know how to pick my battles.
I can’t bask in the sweet, sweet sight of David/Danny leaving The Lair with fifty less dollars in his pocket because hockey fans have mercy on no one. For the next hour, I lose myself in the chaos until the bar starts to clear out.
As I lock the front door when the last patron walks out, Charlie appears out of nowhere. “I saw you and Travis having a stare off contest with Dean earlier.”
So that’s his name. No David or Danny after all.
I grab the mop and suppress a yawn. I haven’t felt this tired in a while, but at least I’ll fall asleep faster tonight. That’s always a plus.
“Yeah. He refused to pay for his drinks because I forgot the orange peel in his old-fashioned,” I tell him.
Charlie roars out a laugh. “Oh, Drunk Dean. So that’s why Travis was sending him death glares from across the bar? Checks out.”
Travis and throwing death glares go hand in hand, so Charlie’s words don’t surprise me.
“Let’s finish up,” I say a little under my breath, desperate to rest for a minute but knowing I’ll fall asleep on the spot if I do.
I mop the floors in record time and check if Jude, one of our cooks, needs any help in the kitchen. In his sixties, he and his wife, Sandra, are responsible for the burger-induced comas I fall into every week. Not that I have any complaints.
His tired smile mirrors mine. “Thanks, Smith, but all’s under control.”
I ignore the way Smith catches all the air in my lungs, even though it’s been his nickname for me since my first day on the job.
The lights in the bar turn off one by one then—Travis’s silent way of telling us we’re done for the day. Sometimes I believe he takes the “no wasting saliva” policy a bit too far. A simple “Let’s go” would suffice, but what do I know?
After a quick stop by the changing room to grab my bag with the spare clothes I’m too exhausted to change into, I say goodbye to Jude and Charlie before they disappear into the changing room.
As much as my legs ache and my arms hurt from the long hours of lifting heavy bottles and pouring drinks, I still manage to beam at Travis as I pass by him at the front door. “See you tomorrow, boss man.”
A grunt is the only answer I get, but I don’t take it personally.
Sometimes I have a hard time understanding how on earth I managed to land this job. I’m a quick learner and give my two hundred percent on everything I do, but I don’t think Travis likes me very much. He doesn’t seem to like anyone very much. I’m not the most social of butterflies out there, either, so I get it.
Outside, the cold November air seeps under my puffer jacket, making me shiver until I get inside my car. After I turn on the engine and get the heater running, I glance down the street at The Lair out of habit.
Travis is standing at the door, his eyes on me. He doesn’t go back inside until I drive away.