5 RHEA
B etty's engine purrs as I cruise down the familiar route to the bar.
Two nights in and the drive already feels like muscle memory.
The streetlights cast long shadows across my dashboard, and I tap my fingers against the steering wheel in rhythm with My Chemical Romance blasting through my speakers.
"At least you're not giving me grief tonight, old girl." I pat the dashboard affectionately. The radiator's holding up after that expensive fix, but I'm not complaining – these tips are insane.
The neon sign of the bar comes into view, and I pull into my usual spot. The lot's filling up fast – apparently that's the thing with the weekend crowd. My stomach does a little flip, but it's more excitement than nerves now.
Haven's voice echoes in my head from last night: "You're getting better with the cocktails. Just remember – measure twice, pour once.
And for god's sake, stop letting Carla get to you."
Easy for her to say. Yesterday, Carla "accidentally" bumped into me while I was making a Manhattan, causing me to spill premium bourbon everywhere. The look on her face when Corey made her clean it up? Worth wearing sticky shoes for the rest of my shift.
I check my reflection in the rearview mirror, adjusting my vintage Ramones t-shirt. The fabric's soft and worn, paired with my favorite high-waisted jeans and vans. Carla will probably have something to say about it not being "professional" enough, but I couldn't care less.
Her opinion doesn't matter when she wears tops she probably got out of the juniors section.
"You got this," I tell my reflection, grabbing my bag. "Just don't set anything on fire tonight."
That was Haven's first piece of advice: "If you're going to fail, fail spectacularly."
So far, I've managed to avoid any major disasters, but mixing drinks is like a dance I'm still learning the steps to.
Thank god for Haven's patient coaching between serving tables.
Without her, I'd probably still be trying to figure out which end of the shaker is up.
I hit the lock and head toward the entrance, already hearing the bass through the walls. Time to see what tonight brings – hopefully fewer spills and more skills. And maybe, just maybe, I'll finally nail that perfect Old Fashioned that keeps eluding me.
I push through the heavy door, the familiar mix of whiskey and leather hitting my nose.
Behind the counter, Haven's chatting with someone new – someone who makes me pause mid-step.
Dirty blonde hair, lean muscle moving under a fitted black V-neck, and a scar that should make him look dangerous but somehow just adds to the whole package.
He's laughing at something Haven said, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners.
"Hey, Rhea," Haven waves me over. "This is Julian. He's going to show you the ropes tonight."
Lady killer’s eyes find mine, and a slight smirk plays across his lips. "So you're the one Haven's been raving about. Heard you're a quick study."
"I try." I drop my bag behind the counter. "Though I'm still working on not dropping the expensive stuff."
"Better than setting it on fire." He winks at Haven, who blushes and hurries off to serve a customer.
I glance around the bar, noticing a distinct lack of red hair and attitude. "No Carla tonight?"
Julian barks out a laugh, reaching past me for a bottle of Maker's Mark.
His arm brushes mine, and I catch a whiff of mint and something spicy.
"Let's just say we had a difference of opinion about appropriate workplace behavior. I told her I'd rather stick my dick in a Hoover vacuum than in her mouth."
I choke on air. "You didn't."
"I absolutely did." He starts setting up the speed rail. "Life's too short for that bullshit. Now, ready to learn how to handle a real crowd? Weekends are a different animal entirely."
"Bring it on." I tie my hair back, ready for whatever he throws at me.
J ulian moves with a fluid grace that's distracting as hell, especially when he reaches past me for bottles. His forearm brushes mine for the third time tonight, and I nearly drop the glass I'm holding.
"Easy there." He steadies my hand, his touch lingering. "That's the good stuff."
"Sorry, I just—" The heat from his fingers seeps into my skin.
"Less apologizing, more pouring." He flashes that crooked grin.
"Watch this."
He starts mixing drinks with a showman's flair, making the women at the bar lean forward, entranced. One blonde in a tight dress practically sprawls across the counter.
"Julian, baby, when are you going to let me take you home?"
"You couldn't handle me, Morgan." He winks, sliding her drink over. "Besides, I'm training the new girl tonight."
I roll my eyes, focusing on the beer I'm pouring. "Don't let me interrupt your fan club."
"Jealous?" His breath tickles my ear as he reaches around me for a lime.
"You wish."
He migrates my direction and leans in. "Just a little bit about me, I tend to gravitate to the ones who don't put it all out there, I like a little challenge."
He winks, and walks away and I finally let out the breath I was holding.
My lust phase reverie is soon broken, a commotion at the end of the bar draws my attention. A guy in a rumpled suit, sweating more than a whore in church, waves an empty glass, his face red and angry.
"Hey girl, another!" He slams the glass down. "Make it snappy."
I approach cautiously. "What can I get you?"
"Whiskey, neat." His words slur together. "The good shit."
"Rhea." Julian's sharp voice cuts through the noise from the other side of the bar. "No. He's done. Cut off."
The guy's face darkens. "The fuck you say pretty boy?"
"Sorry, sir." I keep my voice firm. "We can't serve you anymore tonight. Can I call you a cab?"
"Listen here, you little bitch—" He lunges forward, glass in hand.
The movement's clumsy but fast. Cold liquid hits my face, soaking my shirt. Ice cubes clatter against the bar top.
The whiskey burns my eyes, and the smell of alcohol fills my nose. My shirt clings to my skin, ice-cold and sticky.
Before I can even wipe the whiskey from my eyes, Julian vaults over the bar in one fluid motion. His playful demeanor vanishes, replaced by something darker, more dangerous.
"Fuck no, that's what we're not going to do, you fucking pig."
Julian's voice cuts through the bar noise like a blade. "You don't treat women like that."
The drunk stumbles back, knocking over a barstool. "Who the fuck do you think?—"
"Tobi!" He shouts, his voice carrying across the full room. "Got a situation here."
The crowd parts like the Red Sea, and my jaw drops. The man approaching us looks like he just stepped off Mount Olympus. He towers over everyone, muscles rippling under a tight black shirt.
Despite his size, he moves with surprising grace.
"Problem?" His deep voice rumbles as his eyes scan the scene – me dripping with whiskey, the overturned stool, Julian's stance.
"Our friend here needs some fresh air." Julian's words drip with venom. "Around back."
The drunk swings wildly at Julian, but Tobi's already there. His massive hands wrap around the guy's waist, lifting him as easily as I'd pick up a kitten. The drunk's feet dangle, kicking uselessly at air.
"Put me down, you?—"
"Nah." Tobi adjusts his grip, heading toward the back door. "Let's have a chat about manners around young women."
I grab a bar towel, dabbing at my soaked shirt. "What exactly happens 'around back'?"
Julian's eyes soften as he turns to me. "Nothing permanent. Just a lesson in respect." He grabs a clean towel, stepping closer. "Here, you missed a spot." His fingers brush my cheek as he wipes away a drop of whiskey.
The touch sends electricity down my spine, and for a moment, I forget about the scene we just caused.
The whiskey's soaking through my shirt when Corey materializes beside us, his dark eyes taking in the scene.
"Are you okay? Heard Tobi on the walkie." His voice carries that quiet authority that makes people listen.
"Just peachy." I wring out my shirt hem, grimacing at the puddle forming at my feet. "Though I might need to wring myself out first."
"Julian, all good?"
Julian nods, still hovering protectively near me. "Oh yeah. Tobi's got it handled."
"Rhea." Corey's attention shifts to me. "I'm sorry about this. We don't tolerate that kind of behavior here." He reaches under the bar and pulls out a folded black t-shirt with the bar's logo. "Here. Get changed and take fifteen. There's a staff bathroom down the hall."
"Thanks." The shirt's soft in my hands. “I’m okay though, really.
I’ve dealt with much bigger shit at concerts.”
He grins, but it’s short lived. “Don’t make excuses for some pompous asshole. We expect nothing but respect around here.”
He looks over his shoulder, Julian nods.
“Go on, get changed. Take all the time you need.”
I head to the bathroom, changing quickly.
The shirt's a bit big, but it's dry and it smells clean.
My shirt's probably a lost cause, but at least I didn't lose my temper.
Pops would be proud – no punches thrown, no screaming matches.
The back door beckons as I pass it. Fresh air sounds perfect right now, and I could use a minute to process whatever the hell just happened. The metal handle's cool under my palm as I push it open, stepping into the night air.