Kim
My Thursday night shift at Rosie's started at ten and ended whenever the last drunk stumbled out, which was usually somewhere around three in the morning.
Five hours on my feet, pouring drinks, dodging wandering hands, smiling when I didn't feel like smiling.
Then home for a few hours of sleep before my day job started. Rinse, repeat.
That was my life.
I'd been working at Rosie's for almost a year now.
Long enough to know which regulars tipped well, which ones to cut off after three drinks, and exactly how to angle my body away from the grabby ones without making it obvious.
I also knew that Thursday nights were usually slow, which meant fewer tips but also fewer problems.
Tonight was no exception.
The bar was mostly empty. A couple occupied the corner booth, leaning toward each other over untouched drinks, speaking in low voices punctuated by nervous laughter.
First date, obviously. I could tell by the way she kept tucking her hair behind her ear and the way he kept checking his reflection in the window when he thought she wasn't looking.
Must be nice, I thought as I wiped down the bar top. Having time for first dates, having the luxury of sitting in a dimly lit booth with someone new, wondering if they might be the one, wondering if this could be the start of something good.
I couldn't remember the last time I'd been on a date. Before Zoe, definitely. Before Cole. Before everything fell apart and I learned the hard way that men made promises they couldn't keep, that trusting someone meant handing them a knife and hoping they wouldn't use it.
They always used it.
I finished wiping down the bar and tossed the rag into the sink.
At his usual spot near the taps, Lou was working through his third whiskey and a crossword puzzle, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.
He'd been coming to Rosie's longer than I'd been alive, according to Hector.
Same seat, same drink, same Tuesday and Thursday nights.
"Six-letter word for 'beautiful woman,'" Lou said without looking up. "Starts with K."
"That's not a real clue, Lou."
He peered at me over his glasses, eyes twinkling. "Sure it is. I'm looking right at the answer."
I shook my head, but I was smiling. Lou was seventy-three, widowed, and harmless. His flirting was more like a grandfather's teasing than anything else. "The word you're looking for is 'lovely.' And it starts with L."
"Ah, but you're lovelier." He winked and went back to his puzzle. "My Rita would've liked you. She always said I had good taste in women."
"Your Rita had good taste in putting up with you."
Lou chuckled. "That she did. That she did."
I moved down the bar to where Hector was leaning against the back counter, scrolling through his phone. Hector was twenty-six, dark-haired, and convinced he was God's gift to women.
He wasn't bad-looking, I'd give him that. Strong jaw, easy smile, the kind of lean build that came from hauling kegs and not much else.
"Slow night," he said, not looking up from his screen.
"Better than a busy one."
"Speak for yourself. I need the tips." He finally pocketed his phone and turned to face me, leaning one elbow on the counter. "You know what you need, Kim?"
"A raise?"
"A night out." He grinned. "With me. Come on. When's the last time you did something fun?"
"I have fun."
"Watching cartoons with your kid doesn't count."
"It does if they're good cartoons."
Hector shook his head, but he was still smiling. "One drink after the shift. What's the worst that could happen?"
I'd known Hector for almost a year. He asked me out approximately once a month. He wasn't pushy about it, which I appreciated. And he always backed off when I said no, which I appreciated even more.
But the answer was always going to be no.
"The worst that could happen," I said, "is that I'd have to find a new job when it inevitably got awkward. And I like this job."
"Who says it would get awkward?"
"Experience."
He clutched his chest in mock offense. "You wound me, Kim Young. Deeply."
"You'll survive."
"Will I?" He sighed dramatically. "Fine. But the offer stands. Whenever you're ready to admit I'm charming and irresistible."
"I'll let you know."
My phone buzzed in my back pocket. I pulled it out, already knowing who it was.
Zoe went down easy. Sleeping like an angel. Take your time.
Dani. My neighbor, my lifeline, my unpayable debt. I typed back a quick thanks and a promise to be home soon, then slipped the phone back into my pocket.
This was the life I'd been dealt. No point in complaining about the cards when you still had to play the hand.
The door swung open at 12:47 AM.
I knew the time because I'd just checked the clock, counting down the minutes until I could go home. Noise followed them in. From the sound of their laughter, they were already pretty drunk.
There were five of them. They stumbled through the door in a pack, with their expensive coats and expensive shoes. I knew the type. I'd served enough of them to recognize the signs: the designer watches, the cashmere scarves, the designer shoes.
What were they doing here? Rosie's wasn't exactly a destination for rich folks. We were a dive bar in a forgettable part of Brooklyn.
They took over the big booth in the back. One of them knocked over the salt shaker and didn't bother to pick it up. Another was already waving for service, snapping his fingers like I was a dog he expected to come running.
I grabbed my notepad and headed over.
Four of them were variations on a theme: mid-to-late twenties, loud, flushed with alcohol, competing to see who could be the most obnoxious. One had slicked-back hair the color of wet sand. He was doing most of the talking, gesturing expansively with hands that had never done a day's manual labor.
The second had long blonde hair he wore in a mullet. He had a permanent grin on his face. The other two had identical brown hair and dark eyes. Probably twins.
But the fifth one was different.
He sat slightly apart from the others, shoulders angled away from the conversation like he was trying to create distance without actually leaving.
Dark hair, disheveled in a way that looked effortless rather than careless.
Strong jaw shadowed with stubble. His coat was open, revealing an expensive-looking charcoal sweater that fit him well enough but not so well that he seemed to be trying.
And his eyes.
Green, I thought, though it was hard to tell in the bar's dim lighting. Framed by lashes that were almost unfairly long for a man. They were fixed on the middle distance, unfocused, like he was looking at something none of us could see.
He was handsome. Devastatingly so, the kind of handsome that usually came with a matching ego and a trail of broken hearts. But there was something tired about him, too. He looked like a man with too much on his mind and no one to share it with.
Not that I cared. I'd learned the hard way that handsome men with sad eyes were just as capable of disappointing me as the ugly ones. More capable, sometimes, because they'd had more practice.
"What can I get you?" I asked, pen poised over my notepad.
The slicked-back one—the loud one—barely glanced at me before rattling off an order. Whiskey sours all around. Top shelf. The others nodded along, still mid-conversation about some club they'd just left, some girl one of them had struck out with, some deal someone's father was closing.
"Just water for me."
The quiet one. His voice was lower than I expected, slightly rough, like he'd been talking too much or not enough. He still wasn't looking at me. Still wasn't looking at anything, really.
"You sure?" The slicked-back one laughed. "Come on, man, don't be boring. We're celebrating."
"Celebrating what?"
"Being alive. Being young." He spread his arms wide. "Pick one."
The quiet one didn't respond. Just shook his head slightly and repeated, "Water. Thanks."
I wrote it down and headed back to the bar.
Hector raised an eyebrow as I approached. "Trouble?"
"Not yet."
I made their drinks quickly, arranging them on a tray with the quiet one's water set slightly apart. When I returned to the booth, they'd gotten louder. I set down the whiskey sours one by one.
The slicked-back one—Chuck, I'd heard one of the others call him—watched me with a smile that made my skin prickle. Not in a good way. Never in a good way.
"Here you go," I said, placing the last drink. "Let me know if you need anything else."
I was turning to leave when his hand closed around my wrist.
"Hey, sweetheart." Chuck's smile widened. "What time do you get off?"
I pulled my wrist free and kept my voice even. This happened all the time. At least once a week, some guy decided that being served a drink entitled him to something more. At least this one hadn't smacked my butt on the way by. That had happened, too, more times than I could count.
"Not interested," I said. "Thank you, though."
He laughed like I'd told a joke. "Come on. Don't be like that." He leaned forward, close enough that I could smell the whiskey on his breath, the expensive cologne underneath. "I'm a generous guy. Ask anyone."
His friends snickered. One of them muttered something I didn't quite catch, but the tone was enough. I'd heard variations of it before.
‘Stuck-up witch.’
‘Playing hard to get.’
‘She'd be lucky to have him.’
I stepped back, putting more space between us. "Not interested. Do you need anything else, or are you good?"
Chuck's expression changed.
The friendly mask slipped, and underneath was something uglier.
His jaw worked. His eyes went flat and cold.
It was obvious he wasn't used to hearing no, and he didn't like that I’d declined.
His lip curled slightly, the beginning of a sneer, and I watched his hand flex on the table like he was fighting the urge to grab me again.