Chapter Six
Tempi
The bar always got a little quieter once the doors were locked.
Not silent. The ice machine still rattled. The old fridge behind the bar hummed like it was fighting for its life. A neon sign buzzed in the window even after I’d shut the switch off. It was too stubborn to die.
But after a packed night like this one, it felt like the whole place let out a long breath the second the last person left.
I tossed a bar rag over my shoulder and grabbed a tray of empty pint glasses to take to the sink. Britta was sweeping the floor near the back tables, and her ponytail bounced with each pass of the broom. She had swapped her apron for her oversized hoodie and rolled the sleeves up so she could clean without dragging them through puddles of spilled beer.
“You good back there?” I asked.
She nodded without looking up.
“Yup. Just trying to figure out what the hell someone spilled under this table. It smells like licorice and regret.”
I chuckled and rinsed the glasses, stacking them one by one on the drying rack.
“Could be that weird shot the college kids kept ordering last week. The one with the gummy bears in it?”
“Oh yeah.”
Britta groaned.
“I forgot about that disaster. I swear we should ban anything that comes with a candy garnish.”
“We’d lose half our Thursday business,” I said.
“Fine by me,”
she muttered.
We worked in companionable silence for a few more minutes, Britta wiping down tables and chairs while I organized the bar, refilled the straw container, and checked the inventory. It was second nature by now. We didn’t need to speak to know the rhythm.
Then, as I leaned down to grab a few beer bottles from the cooler, Britta’s voice floated over the bar.
“So…”
she said slowly, like she was stretching the word into a full paragraph, “those motorcycle guys.”
I popped up with a bottle in each hand and arched a brow.
“What about them?”
Britta propped the broom against the wall and sauntered over.
“They were fun. Loud, but not disrespectful. Tipped well.”
I shrugged.
“Guess they know how to act.”
She gave me a look.
“You were talking to one of them a lot.”
“Twister,”
I said without thinking.
Britta tipped her head to the side.
“You did find out his name. Odd, but not too far off base for an MC guy.”
“I didn’t ask his name,”
I said, and grabbed a rag to wipe down the top of the bar one last time.
“He told me.”
Britta rolled her eyes and flitted her hand at me.
“Details, girlfriend. I saw the way he was watching you the whole time. I think you should see what it’s like to spend some time with a biker.”
I scoffed.
“I’ll pass, thank you very much. I have my hands full enough with the bar.”
She leaned her elbows on the bar and gave me that look, the one that meant she wasn’t letting this go.
“Girl, this place runs like clockwork. You should take some time for yourself.”
I grabbed the dirty towels and headed toward the kitchen.
“This place runs so well because I’m always here.”
Britta followed me through the swinging doors.
“And because you are always here. Take us out of the bar, and this place will fall down,”
I continued.
“I mean,”
she drawled, “you’re not wrong, but that doesn’t mean you can’t spend time with the biker when the bar is closed. You know, Mondays… and then three a.m. to eleven a.m.”
I snorted and dropped the towels into the hamper.
“Cool. I just won’t sleep so I can chase after Twister.”
Britta folded her arms over her chest.
“I don’t think you’ll have to do much chasing. I think you’ll just have to crook your finger, and that man will be all yours.”
I rolled my eyes and flipped off the lights in the kitchen.
“You got all of that just from watching him talk to me for a couple minutes?”
We walked back out to the front of the bar. Britta ducked behind the counter and grabbed her purse from under the register.
“You can tell a lot about a man by the way he looks at you,”
she said and slung the purse strap over her shoulder.
“And I saw Twister wanting to do more than just talk to you.”
I pointed to the front door.
“Girl, I think you must be so tired you’re delirious. Get your butt out of here so we can both go to sleep.”
She laughed and headed to the door with me following close behind. She pulled it open, and there was Tyson, her older brother, standing on the sidewalk with his hands in his hoodie pocket.
“You do know you can come inside, right?”
I asked, holding the door.
Tyson shook his head.
“I’m good waiting out here for Britta.”
He looked over at her. “Good?”
Britta nodded.
“Yup. Lead the way home, big brother.”
They said their goodbyes, and I locked the door behind them with a soft click.
Then it was just me and the silence.
I flipped the remaining neon signs off one by one, Old Milwaukee, Pabst, Spotted Cow, until the room was bathed in shadows. I double-checked the front deadbolt, then walked to the back of the bar and made sure the side exit was locked tight.
The back stairwell creaked under my boots as I made my way up to the second floor. I reached the top, fished out my apartment key, and pushed the door open.
“Home sweet home,”
I whispered, stepped inside, and locked it behind me.
I dropped my keys on the little entry table that wobbled when you looked at it wrong and kicked off my shoes with a sigh.
The apartment wasn’t fancy, never had been, but it was mine. Two bedrooms, a narrow galley kitchen, one small bathroom, and a living room that was part rustic, part boho chaos. A tapestry my dad bought me when I was sixteen hung over the couch. Books stacked on side tables. A big cushy armchair in the corner with a quilt that smelled like lavender and dust.
It had its creaks, its scuffs, its quirks. But it was home.
I’d lived here my whole life. For the first twenty-six years, it had been with my dad. Now it’d been four years on my own.
Some nights, the silence hurt more than others.
I padded into the kitchen and filled a glass with cold water. The glass sweated in my hand as I leaned against the counter and stared out the window.
The bar sat on the corner of State Street and College. In summer, the crowd was a mix of locals, tourists, and working-class folks escaping the heat with cold beer. But once fall hit, the students flooded in. Loud, energetic, always broke.
I liked the rhythm of it.
But winter?
Winter was my favorite.
Snow covered the streets like powdered sugar. The chill in the air felt like a fresh start. Sure, it could be brutal with frozen pipes, slush, and bitter wind that cut right through your coat, but there was something honest about winter. No pretending. Just surviving.
I couldn’t imagine living somewhere that didn’t have seasons.
All sun, all heat, all year? No, thanks.
I finished my water, rinsed the glass, and set it in the sink.
Lights off. Apartment quiet.
Time for bed.
I peeled off my clothes and changed into my pajamas. Cotton shorts in a soft teal and a white tank top that had definitely seen better days but was too comfy to toss.
I piled my long black hair into a messy knot on top of my head, let out a breath, and crawled into bed.
The sheets were cool. My comforter soft. Everything familiar.
Outside, a motorcycle engine revved somewhere in the distance.
Not unusual. But this time, it made me think of Twister.
And that… was unusual.