Chapter 2
Chapter Two
“Seriously? You're actually related to that trainwreck?” Mike, the bartender, yells over the deafening cheers of a completely captivated crowd.
My sister has somehow turned herself into the main event, dancing on top of a table and single-handedly redefining the term table manners with her cringe-worthy dance moves.
I sigh, stirring the remnants of diced fruit and ice in my sangria with a straw. "Yep, same father," I confirm with a shrug before spearing an apple slice and taking a bite. I’m on my third drink, trying desperately to forget my father’s phone call from earlier.
Mike leans against the bar, shaking his head. "Out of all the bars and hotels near the boardwalk, why did you have to bring her here, on your night off?"
“Believe me,” I mutter, taking another sip, “this wasn’t my idea.”
I’m way out of my element right now. This bar is too peopley for me. I like it when there are, at most, four people here. A large crowd of strangers is called a no thanks in my book.
Mike refills my glass, still watching Taylor with equal parts amusement and concern. “If she loses any more clothes, we can charge a cover price at the door,” he laughs.
Taylor teeters at the edge of the wobbly table, like she’s testing its limits, then pitches forward. My stomach lurches as I catapult off my stool, driven by the foolish notion I could get to her in time—or at least somehow soften her fall.
But it’s not me who reaches her first. Her date swoops in, catching her midair, and the bar erupts in ear-splitting applause.
I exhale sharply, turning back to Mike, who looks like he just shit himself.
“I think I hate when she visits me,” I mutter.
“I think I hate when she visits you too,” he says, dragging a hand down the front of his apron, probably wiping off sweaty palms.
I hoist myself back onto the barstool.
“Why is she even here?” Mike asks, still watching the spectacle. “I thought you two didn’t really get along.”
I down the rest of my sangria in one big gulp and shrug. “I think something’s up. I think she needs something.” The thought rattles me more than I care to admit.
I glance down at my phone and check my bank app, my heart hammering. My insides knot at the dwindling balance staring back at me. Barely enough to get by for the next few days. The numbers stare back at me with a mocking grin.
Please don’t let Taylor ask me for money too.
Mike pushes out a slow whistle, watching me carefully. “You know, that’s your biggest fault. You think you’re responsible for everybody.”
He doesn’t get it. I’ve been responsible for them since I was ten.
Somewhere in the back room, someone starts playing the piano. It’s so painfully off-key, I can’t even tell what song it’s supposed to be.
“Hey,” Taylor says, popping up next to me with her bear-sized date glued to her side.
She leans in close. Too close. The scent of cheap tequila and my own perfume wafts off her.
“Can we have the keys to your place and a few hours to play in it?” She giggles loudly into my ear, and God, I really hate when she visits.
I glance down at my phone. It’s nine o’clock.
She wants a few hours in my apartment? Where am I supposed to go?
This bar closes at eleven, and I’m not spending the rest of the night wandering the boardwalk like some lost tourist. Plus, I have to be at work ridiculously early tomorrow.
“Taylor, come on…” I groan. “A few hours?”
She winces, then laughs, clutching my arm like she can charm her way into anything. “Pleeeeaase?” she whines, dragging the word out like she’s five again.
I stare at her.
“Give her the keys,” Mike says, leaning over the bar. “I need a break. She’s riling everyone up.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. I get it.
The Rum and Room is usually a quiet, low-key spot with a handful of locals, maybe a few older tourists.
But an hour ago, Taylor was out front literally dragging groups of men inside in case her hookup didn’t show.
Now the place is so packed, I almost feel guilty for not jumping behind the bar to help.
I should, actually. I could use the tip money.
With a groan, I pull out my keys and hand them to her.
“Two hours tops. This place closes at eleven, and after that, I’m coming home and going straight to bed.”
Taylor squeals and yanks her giant blond date toward the front of the bar.
“I mean it Taylor! I have work tomor—” I cut myself off. She’s already halfway across the bar, completely ignoring me.
Mike refills my drink with a shake of his head. “Hopefully it’ll die down in a bit. How long is she staying with you?”
“I don’t know. She didn’t say.” My gaze drops back down to my phone. I tap the screen. Ten missed calls. All from the same number my father called from earlier.
I don’t click on the notifications. Instead, I watch the screen go dark and take another long sip of my drink.
Mike says something else, but I barely hear him. I wave him off as he hurries down the counter to help a rowdy group ordering another round.
My phone lights up again. Another call from Dad.
I still don’t answer.
Maybe it’s selfish, but I can’t handle him right now. All I could transfer him before was a hundred dollars. If I gave him any more, I wouldn’t be able to eat for the next few days. And I really like eating. A lot.
At least I still have the hidden box of Fruit Roll-Ups in my underwear drawer. The one I stashed away from Taylor earlier. But one can’t live on Fruit Roll-Ups alone.
Believe me, I’ve tried.
At the far end of the bar, Mike sloppily pours a large round of shots for what looks like a bachelor party. Just past him, a game of beer pong is getting started.
Great. So much for things calming down. It’s actually getting worse.
With a sigh, I tie my hair up in a messy bun and swing myself over the bar to the other side. No point in wasting time waiting around for Taylor to finish whatever she’s doing. I might as well make some cash while I burn the next two hours.
I don’t bother with an apron but tug off my sweatshirt, leaving me in just a plain white tank top. One that conveniently shows just the right amount of cleavage to bring in some serious tips tonight.
Mike grins wide, mouthing a thank you as he juggles drink orders.
I blow him a quick, playful kiss. Instant regret.
The moment I do it, I can already see the wheels turning in his head.
Now he's going to think I want to go home with him, and I can't make that mistake again.
Last time that happened, I ended up with a night full of disappointment, followed by a week of dodged phone calls. Zero stars. Would not recommend.
I take orders and quickly load up my arms with an assortment of IPAs, silently praying nothing slips. I’ve had a few glasses of sangria, and everything feels a little heavier than it should.
The kitchen bell won’t stop ringing, and by the time I hand out all the beers, a new crowd has already swarmed the bar, shouting drink orders over each other.
Sex on the beach. Jell-O shots. Whiskey neats.
More beer. And to add to the chaos, everyone is suddenly ordering chicken finger baskets and nachos. The kitchen is barely keeping up.
But the really shitty part? No one is tipping.
A blond man stumbles toward me, hiccuping loudly.
A crumpled paper crown sits crookedly on his head, the word GROOM scrawled across it in black marker.
He’s wobbling, white-knuckling the edge of the bar like he’ll get thrown out of orbit if he lets go.
Instinctively, I slide a glass of water toward him, then turn to make three apple martinis for the group of women next to him.
He chugs the water loud enough that the women look offended.
He lowers the empty glass, blinking blearily at me. “This isn’t vodka,” he slurs.
I raise an eyebrow. “You chugged that thinking it was vodka?”
Yeah. That’s it. He’s done for the night.
I serve order after order, moving at lightning speed. Five plates of cheese fries. Three baskets of chicken fingers. A dozen Coronas with lemon. Three pitchers of sangria.
And yet, the groom-to-be is still swaying in the same spot like he’s on some kind of invisible seesaw. I press my palms against the bar, leveling him with a look. “I think you should call it a night, sir. You want me to get you a ride?”
He shakes his head, nearly knocking himself off balance in the process. “Need a… another drink. I’m getting married.”
I refill his glass with more water, and again, he chugs it down—only to look at me, outraged.
I shrug. Sucks to be him.
For a fleeting second, I wonder what his fiancée looks like.
Then, he heaves.
I jump back just as Mike slides up beside me, grabbing a handful of sliced oranges for the Blue Moons he’s balancing in one hand.
We both freeze. The groom suddenly retches right into his empty water glass.
My stomach somersaults, but before I can react, he stares blearily at the glass, sways to the right…
then lifts it back up to take another sip.
Mike yells. In one desperate motion, he vaults over the bar, lunging for the glass. The bottles of beer he was holding slip from his grasp, crashing onto the floor in a burst of glass and foam.
The guy just hiccups, completely unfazed. “I swear,” he slurs, “I’m… t-totally sober.”
A wave of instant nausea rolls through me, forcing me to clutch my stomach. I mean, props to the guy for his commitment to his last hurrah as a bachelor, but seriously? I take a slow, controlled breath—four counts in through my nose, four counts out—trying to steady myself.
Mike is still locked in a battle with the groom, wrestling the glass from his grip like it’s some kind of prized possession.