7. Wren #2
A bartender job. My interest instantly piques as I tear the flyer from the board. I’ve never heard of the Crooked Crown, and while it sounds more uppity than The Stanley, the thought of getting behind a bar, feeling an ice-cold beer in my hand, the hum of a busy venue…
I suddenly want that so badly.
Want some semblance of my old self.
Something that has nothing to do with Valehurst. The Kings. Or the Winslow name. Something that is just mine.
This is exactly what I need. An escape from this place. A little slice of something that belongs to only me.
The wind shifts, sending the edge of the paper fluttering between my fingers. Folding it neatly, I slide it into my bag and turn toward home.
It looks like the misery ice cream sundae I had planned for tonight will have to wait. I have somewhere better to be.
I stand beside my car, fingers curled tightly around the flyer.
Pine needles crunch beneath my boots, and the air smells of woodsmoke and damp earth.
Out here, at the base of one of Valehurst’s smaller mountains, the forest curls in close, wild and untamed.
It reminds me a little of BSU with the surrounding snow-capped peaks that only melt for a few weeks in the height of summer, and green as far as the eye can see.
The parking lot is mostly empty, the sky bruised with the start of evening, and before me stands a converted mill with timber siding, a steep roof, and warm amber light flickering through old-paned windows.
Golden Edison bulbs are strung along the outside of the building and between nearby trees, giving the appearance that this old structure belongs in the woods, among the wolves and deer.
It’s hard to believe we are only fifteen minutes from the pristine symmetry of Valehurst College.
I think that’s why I feel instantly drawn to the bar. Because, for the first time since leaving BSU, this place doesn’t feel like it’s trying to be anything. It just is.
I stare up at the hand-painted sign swinging from rusted iron. The Crooked Crown. Black script carved into a slab of dark wood, a rough-hewn crown etched below.
Something stirs low in my chest. A flicker.
A breath of warmth that I’m afraid to put a name to, but I feel it nonetheless.
Hope. For the first time since arriving at Valehurst, I want something just for me.
I’ve given up all that I am on my parents’ whims. Now, I’m on the precipice of claiming part of me back.
And, God, do I need to reclaim a part of myself.
However, I refuse to allow myself to fully give in to that feeling of hope. Not yet. Not when there is the chance I don’t get the job…
So I breathe in, tighten my grip on the flyer, and walk toward the light.
Warmth drapes over me the second I pull open the door and step inside, and I’m instantly greeted with long reclaimed tables in the middle of the large, open room, worn, brown leather sofas and armchairs, and high-top tables for two lining the walls.
There is a large chalkboard menu written in sharp block letters, and behind the bar, exposed brick glows under warm amber lighting.
More Edison bulbs are strung high above patrons’ heads, between old wooden beams, casting everything in a dusky gold.
The air smells like hops and honeyed spice and home.
There’s music playing—soft and acoustic—and conversation coming from a few tables occupied by what appear to be locals.
Men in flannel. Women with tattoos. A couple of off-duty construction guys nursing pints, and a woman in the corner wearing a leather jacket and sketching in a notebook with a dark stout at her elbow.
I left my stiff, pencil skirt folded over the back of my desk chair, switching out my uptight internship attire for black jeans, my favorite boots, and a cropped vintage tee I found in a thrift store, layered under a zip-up hoodie.
Thank God I did. I would have stood out like a sore thumb in my skirt, blouse, and pumps.
Instead, for the first time in a week, I don’t feel like an alien in my own life.
Adjusting my bold blood-red-framed glasses on the bridge of my nose, I sweep my auburn hair out of my eyes before turning toward the bar where a bartender is currently pouring a fresh pint.
He’s exactly the kind of man you’d expect to work in a place like this.
Mid-forties, maybe. Mountain-rugged. Broad shoulders under a henley that fits a little too well.
Muscular arms covered in tattoos—I can make out sketches of trees, antlers, and a compass.
A beard streaked with gray. His expression says he’s the kind of guy who doesn’t tolerate bullshit, but the smile he throws at the woman he’s just poured a drink for is real.
When he turns to me, though, that smile falters.
I set the flyer down on the bar. “I’m here to apply for the job.”
His eyes flick down to the flyer. Then up, giving me a slow once-over. “No.”
I pull away, taken aback at his abrupt dismissal. “No?”
“This ain’t a college bar, sweetheart.”
I blink. Then glance pointedly over my shoulder at the room blatantly absent of college students. “Yeah, no shit.”
He exhales through his nose, some kind of reluctant amusement flickering in his eyes. His arms fold over the bar top as he leans forward, bringing us eye level.
“You ever worked behind a bar before?”
“I’ve bartended for the past three years at a sports bar at my old college. Nights, weekends, game days, whatever shifts needed covering,” I state confidently, standing taller.
“Slamming Buds and vodka-crans to blackout frat boys isn’t the same as working here.”
“Figured as much,” I retort, throwing his attitude right back at him. “There’s a chalkboard menu, no shot glasses in sight, and I haven’t heard Mr. Brightside once since walking in.”
That gets a snort from him. He studies me again, this time with less skepticism, more curiosity.
“What do you know about Wild Monarch beers?”
I don’t miss a beat, having done my research before I left my apartment. “Savage Royal’s your best seller. You rotate two seasonal brews, with Crimson Reign being your fall release that you just tapped last week. And Wild Monarch itself is the flagship hazy IPA.”
His brows rise slightly.
“Crooked Crown?”
“Amber lager. Subtle hops, light malt backbone. Good for people who don’t like hoppy beers but still want flavor.”
“And Forsaken Heir?”
“Barrel-aged saison. Dry finish. Notes of spice and oak. Your weirdest one.”
He grunts. “Splintered Throne?”
“Smoked porter,” I say, but then my brain scrapes to a halt. “Wait, or is that Bitter Majesty? No. Bitter Majesty’s the ESB.”
“Which makes Splintered Throne...?”
I open my mouth. Close it. Damn it.
“...Dark? Probably?”
“Smoked porter,” he says flatly. “Notes of coffee and burnt toast.”
I grimace. “You’re right. I looked them up before coming here, but I had to go through the list so fast that they started to blur together.”
He doesn’t respond. Just stares at me.
I feel it then. That panic clawing up my spine.
That old self-doubt that Valehurst has been feeding like gasoline.
I straighten my shoulders, refusing to walk out of here with a no.
“Give me one shift,” I press. “You don’t even have to pay me.
Just let me prove I can hold my own. If I suck, I’ll leave, and you won’t see me again. ”
Eyes narrowed, he watches me a moment longer before pushing off the bar. I’m convinced he’s going to turn me down when he grabs a towel from behind the counter and tosses it at me. I catch it.
“You start now,” he states matter-of-factly. “No screw-ups.”
I nod, serious. “Noted.”
“I’m Reid.”
“Wren,” I respond, draping the towel over my shoulder before making my way behind the bar.
His gaze lingers on me, something unreadable in his gaze. “Let’s see what you’ve got, Wren.”
And just like that, I feel something I haven’t in days.
Awake.
Like maybe I’m still in here somewhere.