Chapter 4
Legends weren't born at The Hussy, it's where they burned out.
Back then, Andrew Harding wasn’t a myth. He was nothin’.
He was just Harding. Eighteen. A kid bussin' tables.
And for one night, he was hers.
Yeah, this story was Nina's—a bitter woman who never planned on still wastin' her nights away at The Hussy. But when she married Ryan seventeen years ago, her days got eaten alive by his mother—sponge baths, meds, soups, repeat.
Then when Ryan got home, she was off to The Hussy, pickin' up a few shifts bartending to keep the lights on.
He promised it was temporary, but the shifts kept stackin', hair soaked in cigarette smoke each night, ears always ringin' from the laughing, the shouting, the speakers, and the years slipped right through her hands like dishwater.
In the beginning, she'd hum Zeppelin on the way home.
Now? She mutters fuck under her breath.
‘Cause forty-one years old, and she’s still stuck behind the taps, watchin' girls half her age lick salt off the rims of their drinks, suck lime wedges like it's dick, and throw their tits at her bartenders for free whiskey sours.
Each night, the knife stuck in her gut from six months ago twists again.
She knows it ain’t their fault, but that don't mean she don't wanna smack the lime outta their mouths for takin' her right back to six months ago, in that fuckin' kitchen, frozen in the doorway, where Ryan’s jeans were bunched around his boots, his ass flexin' with every thrust into the girl next door—eighteen, freshly-graduated, high school diploma on her parents’ counter, and his hand clamped around her tit.
The sounds haunt her—skin slappin' skin, her neighbor’s moans bouncing off Nina’s backsplash, all the dirty talk drippin' outta the same mouth once callin' Nina beautiful, a mouth groanin' into someone else’s neck.
Most days, Nina forgot her age. She still felt eighteen on the inside.
Until she was reminded what eighteen looked like—tight skin, firm ass, high tits bouncing on her husband’s dick.
Now she can't stand in front of a mirror without it laughin' at her.
She can't look at her own reflection without seein' time stolen. Dull eyes, skin gone slack, glow gone gray, a hot tear always slidin’ down her cheek, and seventeen years she'll never get back.
Stevie Nicks held her through heartbreak, then dropped her off at the hangover 'cause there’s no song for after.
Just clinking glasses and alcohol breath.
Just another night at The Hussy.
And tonight, the whole bar's ballistic like it always is around last call.
Boozy, belligerent, bodies grindin’ as Jose’s voice cuts through it all. “Final fuckin’ pour. Decide if it’s whiskey or water!”
Nina's got a pen between her teeth as she stacks receipts behind the register. When she sees Andrew, she hollers over her shoulder. “Harding, you movin’ those empties or expectin' ‘em to walk themselves back?”
Andrew flies right past her, rag flinging over his shoulder. “I’m movin’, I’m movin’, chill, woman—Gotta clean up table six’s puke puddle and break up that couple fuckin’ in the bathroom.”
Nina barks out a laugh, but it’s full of exhaustion. “If they’re still goin’ at it, ask if they wanna bartend. No doubt—those two got more stamina than Dusty over here.”
Dusty calls out at her from behind the well, “Yo—I had stamina. Then I made the mistake of workin' for you.”
She slams the pen down.
“That why you clockin’ out early? Leavin’ me to mop your shit, huh?”
Dusty grins as he wipes down the taps. “You know Harding ain’t goin’ nowhere, Neen. You don’t need me, just flash those tired eyes, and he’ll mop the fuckin’ ceiling for you.”
She points the pen at him. “Ain’t it funny? You boys rake in the cash, flirt all night, then vanish the second the real work starts. Always leavin’ it to Harding.”
Andrew reappears, crate of empties in his arms and face flushed from hauling shit around. “Leave what to Harding?”
Nina glances over at him, and her throat damn near closes up.
He’s got that young-Sinatra-in-the-back-alley look again, bedroom eyes that could be mistakin' for exhaustion, makin' you wanna feed him, fuck him, or both. Black shirt clingin’, neck damp, hair a mess and overdue for a cut. He's all lean muscle, mouth, and motherfuckin’ manners.
Her bus boy, Andrew fuckin’ Harding—built like a ballad, bites like a bridge. She hates that she notices, and hates even more for what it does to her.
She turns back to her drawer. “Nothin’. Forget about it.”
Dusty’s halfway out the back door, keys jinglin' in his pocket.
“Harding Hour's kickin’ in. Nina needs you bad, bro.”
Andrew adjusts the grip on the crates as he leans in closer to her.
“Whatchu need?”
Nina drops both hands on top of the bar, head snappin' up. “You know what I need? A fuckin’ army. You know what I got? Me, and a bunch of twenty-somethin’s tryna clock out early.”
Andrew smirks, bumpin' his shoulder into hers.
“Relax. I ain’t clockin’ out till you do.”
She tries not to look touched. The kid works as if he’s gotta family of six and forty years worth of debt. “Go home for once. Before I start thinkin’ you live here.”
“Nah, I ain’t leavin’ you with this mess. Don’t worry ‘bout it.”
On the way to the back office, she slaps the top of the crate he's carryin', and the empties clank together. “Behind the dish pit. And don’t stack ‘em, we don’t need another fuckin’ avalanche.”
At 2:50 AM, the house lights slam on, fluorescents bright and punishing like cop flashlights slicin' through the haze. Beer goggles gone, all around sweaty bodies, fucked-up faces, and the wrong person's hand on your waist.
Mama Said Knock You Out by LL rips through the speakers, killin' the mood and the magic and only means one thing: Get the fuck out.
And by 3:11 AM, the bar’s a ghost town.
It’s just Nina and Harding, the poor bastard flippin’ stools after a ten-hour shift. Oh, and some last-call-leftover leaned over a table, chin in her palm, ass out, watchin’ him while he wipes tables down.
“Okay—but, I’ve been waitin’ all night for a chance to talk to you.” The same tired-ass line they all use once they realize he ain’t gonna chase.
Andrew huffs a half-laugh. “Shit, swear I ain’t even had a second to breathe tonight.” He grabs another stool, flips it, moves on to the next.
Nina’s seen this scene a hundred times, different girl, same track, waitin’ on him to stop movin’ long enough to get a word in. As if 'cause they're still standin' upright at 3 a.m., they get dibs.
“So you’re saying I waited around for nothing?” the girl says, steppin' in closer. “Damn. Break a girl’s heart, why don’t you.”
Andrew wipes down another table, lifts another stool. “Sweetheart, I got a manager two steps from murder and a dish pit stacked to hell.” He finally throws her a glance, then nudges a stool forward with his boot. “You hangin’ around might get me killed. Ain’t tryna die tonight.”
She breathes out a laugh. “You really sending me home with nothing? No number? No maybe later? No kiss?”
He snatches the rag off his shoulder, starts wipin’ down the next table. “Gesù...” he mutters, “you want somethin’ to take home that bad, huh?” He grabs a coaster and flings it underhand with a grin. “Here. Got my sweat on it.”
She catches it, drops into her hip, chewing the corner of her lip. “Okay, okay—I get it,” she mutters, takin' another step closer. She plucks a pen from his pocket. “In case you can’t stop thinkin’ about me later.”
She scribbles down her number on the coaster and flips it back at him.
Andrew catches it mid-air.
“Takes one text, I'll drop everything to be yours for the night,” she says.
He laughs, tuckin' it into his back pocket. “Drop everything, huh?” His smile's lazy and lopsided and lingers for half a second. “For some guy you don’t even know.”
She watches him move on to the next table.
“Have a good night, sweetheart.”
By 3:37 AM, all the chairs're flipped, the register's counted, the pile of receipts slapped and banded, and Nina’s behind the bar, sortin' cash, pretendin’ she’s not watchin’ Andrew at the other end of the bar.
His sleeves are shoved up, arms veined, and he's backlit by the rows of dusty bottles.
He grabs a glass, sets it on the bar, then unloads his pockets.
Tonight, he's got a handful of napkins with numbers and one coaster.
He drops one in the glass, flicks the lighter, and watches it burn.
Then one by one, he torches ‘em ‘til the ink bleeds, the paper curls, and the glass smokes. Nina leans back on her elbows, watchin’ the fire eat. “Coulda tossed ‘em,” she mutters. “But, nah. Paisan Prince gotta light up the night.”
Andrew drops the next phone number in, flicks the lighter again. “You toss a number in the trash, it still exists,” he mutters, flames flickering in his eyes. “You burn it? Becomes nothin’… never fuckin’ happened.”
His palm scrapes the sweat off his neck.
“Fire makes sure it don’t come back to haunt you.”
Nina watches him staring into the glass full of ashes. He thinks burnin’ every name, every number, might buy him the real thing someday.
“Every girl in here wants a piece of you,” she says, folding the wad of tips. “You never take it.” She shoves the bills into her purse. “What’s the play here, Harding? You some kind'a saint?”
He lifts the glass, last flame dancin’ at the edge.
Then blows it out.
“I don’t fuck customers, Neen. They know where I work. Last thing I need is ‘em showin’ up every other shift thinkin’ it meant somethin’.”
She snaps her purse shut. “So no girlfriend.”
“Pfft.” He leans into the bar, arms folded. “Got two moms and a boss who flicks coasters at my head.” He pauses, throwing her a sideways glance. “That’s you, by the way. Ain't got time for another woman in my life.”
She eyes the ashes. Then his dumb fuckin’ smirk.
She turns before he sees her smilin’ too.
At 3:56 AM, the bar’s clean, the lights dimmed low.