Chapter 7 #4
“To your finance gig, I mean?” Without thought, I step toward him. “It doesn’t matter. I’m here to give people what they want.”
“And who gives you what you want?”
My breath snags like I’m being forced back inside my gold dress. I drop my gaze, unable to handle the intensity in his hazel eyes.
“I don’t know what I want,” I mumble and instantly regret it. It’s not true. I do know what I want: Will Sharpe, a wholesome relationship, a successful business and a social media account full of pictures of me thriving under good lighting...
But then why did I say that?
“Maybe you should think on it,” Davis says quietly. “Might be surprised what you find?”
The noise of the bar has all but disappeared. I lift my eyes. He’s closer now, too, and I stare at his mouth, mere inches away. Why aren’t I moving? Davis isn’t grinning anymore. His face is hard, his full lips part—
“Excuse me, Miss? Could I, uh, please get a drink?”
I back away from Davis at the speed of light.
“Hello!” I say, my voice an octave higher than it should be. “What would you like?”
I feel Davis watching as I fix the guy a rum and coke, but I’m careful not to look until I’m sure he’s back by the door and safely out of range. I snatch a glimpse in his direction, finding small comfort that he’s chatting to Cameron.
Who gives you what you want?
I wish I knew the answer.
Five minutes later, Cameron’s working right beside me, leaping to serve every man in a suit who wants a bottled Stella or otherwise.
Cameron’s a sweetie, but he’s also like a pro wrestler and a mermaid had an extremely himbo baby, and I’m sure he’s not guarding me of his own initiative.
He all but confirms by parking up at the bar at the end of his shift and waiting for the rest of our customers to leave instead of speeding off to put an Arts major through a mattress, as usual.
“Why won’t they piss off?” he moans at eleven. “Don’t they have families and shit?”
“None that would appreciate their domicidal presence.” Ada leans against the bar, phone raised. “Hey, Cece, take your shirt off.”
“Buy me a drink first,” I groan. “Cameron, this doesn’t count as harassment.”
“No worries, boss,” he says seriously.
“I mean it.” Ada jiggles her phone. “I know you’ve got a tank top under that floaty thing. Let me take a photo of you holding a drink in front of your properly supported boobs.”
“Not in front of everyone.” My professional standards are dropping by the day, evidenced by my earlier inebriation, but stripping down during a shift is still a line I can’t cross.
Ada scans the bar, then rolls her eyes. She puts down her phone and places a white-sneakered foot on the bar. “Catch me if I fall, yeah?”
“What are you doing?” I hiss as she climbs up. “This isn’t Coyote Ugly.”
“Wasn’t allowed to watch it. Still not entirely sure what it’s about.”
“What about money?” I demand. “Income?”
“These dildos aren’t even spending,” she shoots back. “They’re just parking on their last drinks because they don’t wanna go home, which is neither my, nor your, problem.”
She’s right, but before I can say so, Ada puts her fingers to her lips and whistles. Between her woodwind experience and her cutoff shorts being the length of my cheek, it’s unsurprising that everyone swivels to look at her.
“Greetings,” she calls. “We’re closed. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here, etcetera. Chug your drinks and leave.”
“What do we get if we go?” shouts Gareth, the electrician who exclusively drinks Baileys on ice. His gaze is locked on the front of Ada’s crop top.
“Free titty pics.”
Gareth looks like all his Christmases have come early.
“… of your mum.”
Gareth no longer looks excited.
“Ada!” I chide, as Cameron and Krissy double over laughing.
“Leave, and you get a shot on the house,” Davis calls from the door. His voice is friendly, but his expression isn’t. The punters stop eye-fucking Ada and eagerly drain their drinks.
“Typical,” Ada mutters as she free-pours Baileys Irish Cream into Gareth’s mouth. “Respect the guy with neck tattoos more than me. See if I care.”
The majority of the patrons follow suit, and my heart lifts. Maybe we will be able to get this photoshoot done tonight, after all. We can take pretty pictures, and then I can focus on promoting Afterglow and making a good impression at the reunion, and Will Sharpe and not… anything else.
“What about you lot?” Ada demands of a group of students parked around a single order of chips that have surely gone cold.
“We don’t want shots,” a guy with a pink mullet says. From his red-rimmed eyes, booze is not their substance of choice.
“Noted,” Ada says, scribbling on her waitressing pad. “Counter-offer; leave now, and you can redeem this one-time voucher for a free dinner on me tomorrow night. With unlimited crunchy fried things.”
The students look at each other before grabbing their bags and the ‘voucher,’ fumbling in the bowl for the last chips on their way out. I don’t blame them. Student life is expensive, and so are the munchies.
“Des,” Ada calls to our final customer. “What’s your favourite spirit?”
“Rum,” the old-timer replies.
“Cool, come get a Bundy and—”
“You’re a liar, Desmond O’Malley!” Aggie hollers from the kitchen window. “I haven’t forgotten you drank half a bottle of Bombay in ’97 and seduced me under that pine tree at Lander’s Bush! Or that you married that tart Gwen a month later!”
Des closes his eyes, a pained look on his face. “Gin.”
“Okay then.” Ada jumps off the bar, fishes a pre-mixed G&T out of the fridge, and hands it to him. “Get home safe.”
“Bye, Aggie,” Des calls hopefully toward the kitchen.
“Sod off!”
Ada and I wait until the door closes behind Des before swivelling to face each other.
“Oh my God!” I whisper-squeal. “The tension! The romance! You know, for Aggie?”
“I do know! Go, Des!”
We shimmy our shoulders back and forth in honour of our coworker’s sexual conquest.
“What are you girls doing?” Aggie barks from the kitchen hole.
“Nothing!”
“Can’t believe you smashed Des, Aggie.”
“Bugger off, Adalasia,” Aggie growls. “This photo thing happening or what?”
“It is,” I say, with a suppressed laugh. “Come out, and I’ll make you a White Russian.”
“Thanks, love. And just where do you think you’re going, Davis Sanderson?”
I turn to see Davis frozen in the act of sneaking his hoodie from where he stashed it under the bar. My mood flatlines. He must be trying to avoid me. Then his eyes find mine. “Are you sure you want me here, Cee?”
Who gives you what you want?
That’s a question I don’t want to—can’t—answer. But I can answer the other one.
“Stay,” I say, reaching for my cocktail shaker like it’s a lifeline. “Have a drink and take pictures. It’ll be fun.”
A smile tugs at the corner of Davis’s lips. “Okay. If that’s what you want.”
It is, but I don’t say so. I just smile back.