Chapter 1
CHAPTER
ONE
CINDEL
Idon’t want to be here. Not today. It’s been exactly six months since Brodi disappeared. I’d rather be back in my apartment, buried in blankets with a bag of candy corn, nibbling away, one color at a time.
The bar is warmer than the outside autumn air, allowing me to part with my frayed sweater.
Underneath I wear a form fitting top with a plunging neckline, and lace that covers me just enough.
I upcycle a lot of my clothes and this one always brings in good tips.
It’s early enough in the evening that older couples, as well as after-work gatherings, were just finishing up.
This meant the younger, rowdy crowd would be filling up the space in no time.
They were the ones that generously tipped.
Tonight, I am stationed behind the counter.
Patrons line the bar trying desperately to get my attention.
Naturally, the more eager you appear, the longer I make you wait.
Women also took priority in my book. They never called me “baby” or insisted I smile when I’m just trying to do my damn job.
A tablet sat on the bar for customers to place their drink orders.
Although, I wished the ones that were too impatient to communicate with me used it.
I’ve been here half a year, so The Black Sheep’s regulars know me. I like when they make sure, I can see their faces. It’s even better when customers position themselves to the right of the bar, which has better lighting.
From what I understand, March is the busiest time here.
People flock to Southie’s prevalent Irish area, visiting local pubs and bars to celebrate.
I’ve seen the lines for myself, snaking past the deli shop around the corner.
That week my usual tips doubled. On St. Patrick's Day, I hit an all-time record: most money earned in one day. Didn’t even have to snap a single picture of my feet!
Now we’re back to business as usual. Fall is here, the weather is brisker by the day, and the tavern is filled with familiar faces.
Occasionally, we’ll have a Salem enthusiast passing through, but I’ve learned not to expect any fat tips from tourists.
I move with ease mixing cocktails, tilting bottles at just the right angle to add flare, all while serving with a smile.
This isn’t my first time in the food service industry.
In fact, it’s probably my eighth or ninth, with a few odd jobs mixed in.
I had a brief position at a pet store when I was fresh out of college.
I’ve also worked at a drugstore and as a waitress where I acquired my bartending license, before they closed from increasing rent prices.
The worst job was when I accepted a position as a receptionist at a hotel.
I pretty much answered phones the whole time.
After making countless booking errors, the last straw was when I reserved a room for an important client under the name ‘I buff.’ Well…
I was let go, to put it lightly. Shia LaBeouf showed up for his suite, only to be informed, he had no such reservation.
Can I just say, he’s not quite as likeable without Bumblebee by his side.
Dribbles of alcohol sit at the bottom of the glasses decorating the bar.
For every drink I serve, three freshly drained ones appeared.
I happened upon this bartending gig, shortly after Brodi went missing.
It was a good thing too, because I had just been let go from the resort and Star Mart wasn’t paying me enough.
I also was looking to fill my schedule to the brim.
It didn’t help, though. I still think about him almost every day. The police weren’t interested in helping a distressed girlfriend with a missing person’s case. “Did you consider that maybe he just took off?” They would ask me. No…! Maybe? Would he?
Graduated nearly two years ago, I never thought I’d still be here… pouring drinks instead of completing my passion projects, which mostly remained unfinished in the deepest parts of my bedroom closet.
Music reverberates through the bar; I know it’s unnecessarily loud because my rib cage rattles with the bass.
I love music. It somehow manages to extinguish any concerns or present frustrations.
Listening to music nonstop has catalogued songs within an unintentional memory folder.
Without much effort, I can sing along with almost any song.
Besides country music, because I was never able to get into a song about a pickup truck, or an ex running off with their dog.
The heavy rhythm doesn’t allow any room for feelings, let alone thinking.
And, if I’m lucky, I may get a short reprieve from my tinnitus.
Tinnitus is when people experience perpetual buzzing or ringing in their ears.
Some people may even get a static sound.
Mine is a high-pitched bell, which ironically likes to get louder during stressful or quiet times.
Like when I’m trying to sleep. Sometimes, the ear-splitting sound goes silent.
It doesn’t last very long, but it’s a sort of heaven on earth feeling when it happens.
During those few moments of bliss, I hold my breath, wishing the silence would stay.
Doctors think the cause is due to a temporary muscle spasm in the ear.
The only thing that seems to last in my life is hearing impairment.
Oh… and anxiety with a side of depression.
That is, according to the countless therapists I’ve seen over the years.
Really… it would be so nice for something useful to come into my life and stick around. Something that’s good for me.
Hands on the bar top, I can feel a tremor moving through the counter.
I look up to find a customer, slamming his hands on the surface to grab my attention.
His features are intense and paired with an edgy buzzed in slit within one eyebrow and a too tight purple V-necked shirt.
He looks like a Jersey boy who got separated from his bros on the way to the shore.
I watch as his mouth moves, transfixed on how his thin lips are able to maneuver despite his taut, Botox filled face.
“Hey! Bangs!” he repeats.
The tortuous roaring of bells plays even louder. Why can’t people just use the tablet to order?! Standing before the impatient man, I ask what I can get started for him. “Hey, what can I—”
He slams his hands down on the bar top again. “Lemme… An ol fash—” he slurs, barely understandable.
Reaching deep to retrieve my best customer service skills, I say, “I’m sorry… Could you repeat your drink, please?”
His wayward mouth made it impossible to read his lips. “Ol’-d! F-asshh-oo-n-d!” He enunciates, like I’m nothing more than a piece of machinery that has teased the ends of his patience.
Arming my lungs with air, hoping to limit how hot I feel my face becoming, I make my way to a clean stack of glasses.
First, I overfill the cup with ice, add too many bitters, too little liquor, and not a grain of sugar, then sparsely garnish the drink before handing it to the insufferable patron.
“That’ll be nineteen. Would you like to open a tab? ”
The inebriated man slams a crumbed twenty on the counter. “Keep the change. Dumb—”
He spins around only to be met by a thick arm jutting out from the crowd.
It appears as if a mystery man has old-fashioned by the jaw, causing his words to cease and his body to be fixed in place.
The enigma of a man, dips his two large fingers into the glass, retrieving the miniscule cherry, then slowly opens his perfect pouty lips to pop the sugared trimming into his mouth.
The bigger man’s smile turns feline as he hums.
“I think you owe her an apology.” His voice is deep, resonating, and somehow sexy.
The stunned, inebriated man now has a vein bulging from his temple. Either from embarrassment or anger, I’m not sure which. He attempts to move his jaw to form words around the grip of the other man. “I… I didn’t think… I did anythin—”
My eyes bounce between each person, unsure if I needed to grab help, or maybe my manager to intervene. Old-fashioned is lifted a little higher off the ground.
“Try again,” the mystery man all but growls.
“I sor—ma’. I’m sorr—I’m sorry, ma’am!” the boorish man finally manages to get out.
The vigilante releases the stuttering man, nearly tossing him to his buddies located nearby. As if they knew what to do, they escorted the crude customer out of view, most likely into the street. Good.
The very good looking, cherry thief makes his way toward me.
“Here.” He places a crisp fifty-dollar bill on the bar before giving me a seductive grin from his perfectly chiseled face.
He has the kind of looks that should only belong to those marbled statues in museums. The custom designer suit tells me he comes from money. No one should look like that.
“Thanks, but I don’t need someone to swoop in and rescue me.
I also don’t need your charity.” I think I decided at that moment that a pretty face usually comes with a catch.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I find that I’m finally able to do something with my body, other than gawk at this man’s gall.
He runs a palm down each side of his head, as if to fix the already perfectly groomed buzzed sides and short sandy comb back.
Leaning onto the counter between us, his eyes skate over every inch of my body, making me feel exposed.
Seen. “A Scotch, please… Neat.” His emerald eyes make me feel like I’ve finally reached the city to meet the wizard.
The one who can help me get home. I’m mesmerized by the way his cheekbones perfectly accentuate his stupidly beautiful face.