Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
INDIGO
“What can I get you?” I ask the skinny blonde who’s tapping her stupid little ID against the bar top like she’s got a nervous tick.
“It’s so busy in here tonight,” she whines.
Oh, she’s one of those . The kind of girl who thinks her inconvenience is the center of the goddamn universe. My jaw tightens as I force a smile.
“It is. What can I get you to drink?”
“Can I get two Malibu and pineapples and, umm… what’s like a really good shot we could have?”
I’m about five seconds away from yanking her bleach-blonde hair over the bar and smashing her face into the counter. I hate this job. These girls—they come in, drink way too much, puke on everything, and leave me to mop up their mess. Not to mention her voice. Why the hell is she squealing like a toddler who’s discovered helium?
"I make a fruity shot called Toxic Bitch. Juice, vodka, and tequila.”
Her head tilts, her lips pursing like she’s seriously contemplating it. “What kind of juice?”
Seriously?
“Well, if I told you that, I’d have to kill you.” My grin turns Cheshire. Wide, too many teeth, almost cartoonish. Let her wonder if I’m jokin’.
“Okay. Yeah. Let’s do two of them.” She nods.
I grab two glasses and plastic shooters, my hands moving automatically. I fill them with ice, pour a reckless three fingers of Malibu, and drown it in pineapple juice.
The shots are quick. Vodka, tequila, a splash of whatever juice was closest—hell, it could be battery acid for all I care. I toss everything into the shaker and rattle it hard, pretending it’s her head.
Sliding her drinks over to her, I plaster on my smile. “Thirty-two dollars.”
She blinks, the concept of math clearly too advanced for her, and starts fumbling through her purse. “Oh shoot, I only have a twenty. Let me get my friend to?—”
Oh, for fuck’s sake .
“I got it,” a voice rumbles from behind her. Thank God. My patience is smaller than this girl’s brain cells.
I glance up, locking eyes with a large, stocky guy, with broad shoulders and arms like tree trunks. He hands me his card without blinking, and for a split second, I think, okay, maybe the world isn’t total garbage .
“Just start me a tab, would ya, please?”
“Sure thing, hon,” I purr, taking his card. I give him a quick once-over. Nice beard. Kind eyes. Probably eats steak for breakfast.
“Can I get a Busch Light too?” he adds.
I grab a bottle from the cooler, slap it down in front of him, and take my time running his card for preapproval. Blondie’s batting her lashes at him like she’s on a Hallmark movie set. Barf.
The night drags on; the minutes bleeding into hours. My brain flickers between boredom and rage. Some days, I wonder how I haven’t burned this place down just for the satisfaction of watching it go up in flames. I sling drinks, pretend to laugh at bad jokes, and pray for the sweet release of closing time.
What makes it even worse? The bar is already decked out for Christmas; tinsel, lights, and cheap decorations are crammed into every corner. It’s like a damn Macy’s puked in here. I hate it. The tacky tinsel wrapped around the bar makes me giggle, though, imagining it as intestines, glistening and draped just right. The popcorn garland hanging from the fake tree? Teeth. Little white teeth, strung together in a grotesque chain. I stifle a laugh as I serve another drink, finding a bit of twisted joy in the thought.
With about an hour to go, I head to the cooler to stock up. I’m thinking about how I’m gonna spend my tip money on clothes and some more tools for my art when I feel it. The weight. The arm wrapping around my waist. The smell of cheap cologne and cheap beer invading my space.
“Mmm, such a sexy little thing. This outfit is doing all kinds of things to me,” he breathes into my ear.
So fucking stereotypical; ‘the outfit she’s wearing just demanded that I touch her without consent’.
You’d think I showed up to work in a thong and some damn pasties. Nope. I’m wearing a red plaid crop top, tied at the waist, with high-waisted denim short shorts.
“Get your filthy fucking hands off me,” I snarl, voice low, deadly. He doesn’t budge, just laughs like he’s got all the power in the world.
“Or what, sexy?”
Oh, you wanna see ‘what’? My head snaps back, the crack of my skull against his nose reverberating through the hallway. His yelp is satisfying, but not enough.
I raise my right foot and stomp my heel hard down on his loafer.
“Shit!” he cries, his arm dropping and I spin to face him.
His face is twisted in pain, eyes narrowed. “Fucking whore,” he spits, his ego bruised more than his body.
I just laugh, sharp and wild. “For my bike, maybe. For you? Never.” And then, with all the power in my leg, I kick him right where it counts. My red platform heel lands perfectly on his crotch.
His knees buckle, and he crumples to the floor like a sad sack of flesh.
“Emil!” I shout. Our bouncer appears, already smirking. This isn’t the first time. Hell, it’s not even the fifth.
“Again, Indigo? What’d this one do?” he asks, half-amused.
“Fondled me. Throw him out, would ya?” I arch a brow.
“Sure thing, Ms. Indigo.” Emil chuckles, hauling the guy up by his armpits and dragging him to the back door.
Goddamn men.
I roll my neck, letting the tension slip off my shoulders, and get back to work. Stocking beer, soda, anything to keep my hands busy and my mind off the endless parade of idiots that make my nights unbearable.
By the time last call rolls around, I’m practically counting down the seconds. “Last call!” I shout.
The crowd lines up to settle their tabs, and thank the heavens, no more drinks. The guy from earlier comes back, handing me his card like a gentleman. At least someone here knows how to act.
“Can I pay my tab, please?” he asks, polite as ever.
“Sure thing, babe. What’s the last name?”
“Jerole,” he says.
I punch it into the POS, and his tab pops up—one hundred and thirty dollars. I print the receipt, hand it over, and wait for him to sign.
He does and hands it back to me. “Here you go. Have a good night.”
“Thanks, friend. Hope you had a good night, and that girl treated you right.” I wink.
He grins. “Got her number. Think I might ask her on a date.”
“Good luck with that,” I reply, already waving the next customer over.
Lucky bitch.
He’s too good for her.