4 RHEA
I adjust the halter top one more time in the mirror, tugging it just right.
The black fabric hugs my curves perfectly, paired with my favorite high-waisted skinny jeans.
My Doc Martens, worn but beloved, give me an extra inch or so of height.
I throw on my oversized flannel - the red one that's practically lived in my closet since sophomore year - and let it hang open.
"Holy shit," Brianne's voice carries from the doorway. "Did I miss something? When did you switch from bartending to exotic dancing?"
I roll my eyes, flipping her off without turning around. "You act like I'm wearing lingerie or something. It's a bar, B. You're the one who said I fit the aesthetic."
"Yeah, but I'm just saying if It doesn't work out, there's the Red Room down the road..." She dodges an empty tube of mascara that I throw and leans against the doorframe, crossing her arms. "You're going to have guys throwing their wallets at you instead of just their drink orders."
"That's the point, isn’t it?" I turn to face her, fishing through my jewelry box for my favorite choker. "Better tips mean better grocery money. I'm tired of counting quarters for lunchables."
"Speaking of which..." She gestures at my outfit. "How many lunchables did you have to skip to afford those jeans?"
"These?" I spin around, showing off the rips at the knees. "Thrift store special, baby. Ten bucks and a prayer with a needle and thread."
"Of course you thrifted them." She shakes her head, grinning.
"Only you could make dumpster diving look this good."
"It's a gift." I grab my phone from the charger, checking the time.
"Plus, the manager said 'dress to impress.' I'm just following orders."
"Well, consider me impressed." Brianne pushes off the doorframe.
"Just remember - if anyone gets handsy, your new boss better have good insurance."
"Please." I crack my knuckles, the sound echoing in our tiny hallway. "Like I'd let it get that far."
T he metal of my '69 Camaro's door groans as I slide into the driver's seat, the leather worn smooth from years of use. The interior smells like vanilla air freshener mixed with that distinct vintage car scent - a combination of old leather and memories.
"Come on Betty," I whisper, patting the dashboard. "Don't make me look like an idiot on my first day."
I turn the key and the engine purrs to life, smooth as silk. A grin spreads across my face as I rev it once, just because I can.
"That's my girl."
The drive to the bar takes fifteen minutes, giving me plenty of time to belt out some music on the radio. I've always said it's cheaper than therapy.
As I pull into the parking lot, my eyebrows shoot up. The place is packed compared to last night - cars fill nearly every spot, forcing me to park near the back.
"Damn." I cut the engine, checking my phone. Still ten minutes early. "Must be thirsty Thursday or something."
I grab my bag from the passenger seat, double-checking my makeup in the rearview mirror. The wing of my eyeliner is sharp enough to kill a man - perfect for my first night behind the bar.
The energy feels different from yesterday as I approach the building. There's an electricity in the air, a buzz that has nothing to do with alcohol. Something about it makes my skin prickle with anticipation.
I push through the heavy door and freeze.
The laid-back dive bar from yesterday has transformed into something straight out of Wall Street.
Men in expensive suits crowd around high-top tables, their Rolexes catching the dim lighting.
Women in pencil skirts and blouses that probably cost more than my monthly rent navigate the space with practiced ease.
"Excuse me," a guy in a navy suit brushes past, his cologne making my nose twitch.
The bass line of some top 40 remix pulses through hidden speakers, mixing with the constant murmur of business talk and fake laughter. I scan the room for Corey's familiar frame, but come up empty. No sign of that black button-down or those perfectly fitted slacks.
"Coming through!" A waitress squeezes past with a tray full of martinis, forcing me to press against the wall.
My Doc Martens squeak against the polished floor as I make my way to the bar.
The contrast between me and this crowd couldn't be more obvious - I might as well be wearing a neon sign that says "Not One Of You."
A group of women in scantily clad dresses, near the bar eye my flannel and ripped jeans, their perfectly manicured eyebrows rising in sync.
"Nice outfit," one of them mutters into her cosmopolitan.
I flash them my sweetest smile. "Thanks! I got it from that exclusive boutique called 'None Of Your Fucking Business.' You should check it out sometime."
Their mouths fall open like they are appalled at my response.
"Nice form ladies, that’a way to loosen those muscles for whatever man you gold diggers take home tonight."
I walk away before I end up saying anything else. A filter has never been an asset for me.
Shit, I need to reel it in if I plan on keeping this job. I can't be insulting customers before I ever clock in.
I squeeze through the crowd to the bar, catching the attention of a redhead who looks like she raided both Sephora and Victoria's Secret in one go. Her lips curl into a sneer as she spots me.
"Line starts back there, sweetheart." She points a manicured nail toward the entrance, not bothering to look up from the drink she's mixing.
"Actually, I'm here to train." I plant my hands on the bar. "Corey hired me yesterday."
She pauses mid-pour, giving me a once-over that could freeze hell. "Did he now?"
"Don't mind Carla, she's just bitter because someone else ordered a cosmopolitan before she could make one for herself." A petite woman with a sleek black bob pops up from behind the bar, flashing me a warm smile. "I'm Haven. Corey mentioned you'd be starting tonight."
"Rhea." I return her smile, grateful for the friendly face.
"I usually wait tables, but it's crazy tonight so I'm helping behind the bar." Haven grabs a towel, wiping down a small section of the counter. "I just enjoy getting in Carla's way and ruining her forehead botox."
"You're not the only one in my way," Carla mutters, sliding past us with a tray of shots. She bumps my shoulder, hard enough to be intentional but not enough to be obvious. "Just observe and don't interfere, new girl. I've got a system."
"Yeah, I can see that." I eye the mess of bottles and scattered lime wedges in her wake. "Very... systematic."
Haven stifles a laugh behind her hand. "I'll try and teach you what I can, but it ain't much. I'm better with appetizers, than appletinis."
"I'm at your mercy." I say with a smile, surverying my surroundings. This should be interesting.
Haven shows me the basics while dodging Carla's death glares.
I'm picking it up much quicker than I expected.
"Vodka soda, lime," Haven calls out, sliding a glass my way.
"Want to try?"
I measure the vodka perfectly, add soda, drop in a lime wedge.
Simple enough.
"Not bad." Haven nods approvingly. "Though Carla would say you're doing it wrong just because you're breathing."
"I heard that," Carla snaps, practically shoving me aside to grab a bottle of Grey Goose. She leans over the bar, giving some suit a view that would make a Victoria's Secret model blush. "What can I get you, handsome?"
The suit barely glances at her. "Jack and Coke."
I bite back a laugh at her crestfallen expression. Haven catches my eye and mouths 'strike one.' "How's the training going?"
The deep voice behind me sends a shiver down my spine. I turn to find Corey standing there, his black shirt stretched tight across his chest. The sleeves are rolled up, revealing intricate tattoos that disappear beneath the fabric. My mouth goes dry.
"She's a natural," Haven pipes up, saving me from having to form words.
"Corey!" Carla's voice goes up an octave. She practically teleports to his side, pressing against him. "I was just about to come find you.
Some regulars are requesting a specific type of imported Tequila."
"We can discuss it later." He steps away from her, his eyes still on me. "Everything working out okay?"
"Yeah, just..." I gesture to the chaos around us. "Wasn't expecting Wall Street expo."
He laughs, the sound rich and warm. "Thursday crowd. Different vibe from last night."
"I noticed." I tap my Doc Martens against the floor. "I'm a bit underdressed."
"You look perfect." His eyes travel down my outfit, lingering just long enough to make my cheeks heat up. "The regulars will appreciate someone real behind the bar."
Carla clears her throat loudly. "Corey, should I tell them..."
"Later, Carla." He doesn't even look her way. "Keep up the good work, Rhea."
He walks away, leaving Carla fuming and me trying not to smile.
Haven bumps my hip with hers.
"Well, that explains the attitude," she whispers. "Someone's not used to being ignored."
M y feet ache as I wipe down the last section of bar, but it's a good kind of pain. The kind that comes with knowing you've earned every dollar. The crowd has thinned to just a few stragglers, their voices mixing with the soft jazz playing through the speakers.
"Head home."
I jump at Corey's voice behind me. He's leaning against the doorframe to his office, a thick envelope in his hand.
"Already? I can help finish closing."
"You've done more than enough." He crosses the space between us, his presence making the air feel electric. "Here's your cut of the tips."
The envelope he hands me is heavy, stuffed with bills. My eyes widen as I peek inside.
"Holy shit." The words slip out before I can stop them.
"Not bad for your first night." His lips quirk up at my reaction.
"You handled yourself well."
"Even with Carla trying to hip-check me into next week?"
"Especially then." He chuckles, the sound doing funny things to my stomach. "I would've snapped by now."
"Night's not over yet." I tuck the envelope into my bag, trying to ignore how my fingers tingle where they brushed his. "I could still throw a bottle at her head."
"Please don't. The paperwork would be hell."
Haven appears from the back, her bob slightly disheveled. "Great job tonight, Rhea. You're a natural."
"Thanks for showing me the ropes." I shoulder my bag, feeling lighter than I have in weeks. "Even if half of Carla's 'system' was just finding new ways to show off her cleavage."
"That's her entire resume." Haven winks. "See you tomorrow?"
"Wouldn't miss it." I turn to Corey. "Same time?"
He nods, his dark eyes holding mine for a beat longer than necessary. "Drive safe."
The night air hits my face as I step outside, carrying the scent of approaching rain. I dig my keys out of my bag, the weight of the tip envelope making me grin like an idiot.
"Looks like we're eating real food tomorrow, Betty," I tell my car as I slide behind the wheel. "No more MSG for us."