A Crack in Rap
SNOW
"Is she on drugs?" Rap asks from where she’s seated at the half-empty bar.
I ignore my boss, polishing the martini glass and thinking about him. The Seven.
"She’s in love," Ariel supplies, pouring the right mixers into the cocktail shaker to make our signature cocktail of the night. It’s still early and slow.
Rap will disappear later as the dance floor begins to crowd, and the tufted red leather couches fill up. The warmly backlit liquor bottles rise on the shelves behind me, reaching toward the skylight that allows sun to pour down on our tree during the day.
Smack dab in the middle of the bar is a real fairy tree that grows straight from the floor and sets Poison Apple apart from so many other vibey bars with its dripping branches of green leaves and twinkle lights.
In an hour, things will get wild, and Ariel and I will make our grand re-entrance on the bar top to dazzle the patrons.
"Well, if she polishes that martini glass anymore, she’s going to rub the damn thing out of existence," Rap complains. She snaps her fingers in front of my face, but I simply let out a dreamy sigh.
"Hey, Snow. Does Ariel have that right? You got a hard-on for some guy?"
Ever the blunt one, my boss. Her mohawk is banana-blonde again, fuchsia threaded through it this week.
The dark eye makeup ringing her eyes makes the green of them glow, and her lean arms are carved from years of hauling kegs two at a time.
My boss could win any fight in this room, and she's the coolest person I've ever met.
I blink at her, putting the martini glass away. "I’m so hard for him."
Rap can’t help the laugh that bursts free, but she attempts to suppress it anyway. It comes out a muffled snorting sound, while Ariel snickers.
"Okay, well, what’s his name?" Rap finally asks.
"Their name is The Seven," I let out with a dreamy sigh again.
Rap shoots Ariel a side-eye even as Isabelle walks in and slides onto her usual stool at the bar. Our most beloved regular and honorary Lost Girl just finished closing her romance bookstore, Chapter Three.
In a floral summer dress that skims her generous curves just right, the soft print makes her come off equal parts bookish and put together. Her brown hair falls smooth around her shoulders, her bangs sitting perfectly in place, completely unaffected by the humidity.
She’s polished and pretty in the effortless way she always is, which feels rude considering she gave birth less than six months ago and still somehow appears rested. She probably hasn’t, but motherhood looks exceptionally good on our resident smut dealer.
At Isabelle’s side is Jessie, the employee she hired two months ago, practically swallowed up by the tote bag of books hanging from one narrow shoulder.
The girl is tiny, all soft brown waves with subtle warm highlights, black-framed glasses, and blue eyes that flash stormy behind her emerald green lenses. Freckles dust her fair skin. Tonight she’s in a blue V-neck dress with lace at the cups that is dynamite on her, making her eyes pop.
Jessie taps her retractable cane against the floor as she walks in behind Isabelle, favoring one leg just enough for me to notice. Flare day, then.
The first time Jessie showed up with the cane, I asked approximately nine invasive questions in under a minute.
Jessie, being Jessie, answered all of them with saintly patience.
She told me she has Hashimoto’s and POTS, and on flare days, hydration helps, standing too long doesn’t, and acting weird about it is deeply unnecessary.
I immediately get to pulling an espresso shot and pouring a prosecco for Isabelle, her favorite post-work drink.
Then I grab a glass, dump in electrolyte powder, add ice, water, and a splash of lemon before sliding it toward Jessie. Complete in a cute tiki glass, of course.
The hydration mocktail I came up with was my idea, and when Rap found out, she declared that it would always be on the house.
Jessie catches the cup with a grateful smile. "You’re my favorite bartender."
"I know," I grin.
"What is Snow talking about?" Rap asks Ariel.
With a smirk, Ariel pours out three cocktails for an order. "Some guy with multiple personalities who shares Snow’s hobby for stalking the night, acting like a vigilante."
Rap’s expression turns flat. "So you girls just like to run toward the red flags, huh?"
"Stalking the night?" Isabelle asks before sipping the prosecco I slid in front of her. "Snow, you really should stay off the streets. Haven’t you noticed the uptick in disappearances in this city? It’s like people are just getting plucked off the streets.
" She glances at the front door. "Even Dominic has posted round-the-clock security on me, afraid they’ll come after me for marrying a shifter. "
Her security in question stands next to our bouncer, flicking a lighter open and closed with a nonchalance that belies the way he intently scans the bar. Which means Dominic is fully on dad duty so Isabelle could check on her beloved shop.
Jessie pipes in, "I don’t blame your hubby for posting Lucien over there on you to keep you safe.
" She pulls out her stack of books from the bulging tote onto the bar, like they are her entourage.
"The HAMs are getting brazen with Queenie Fairchild likely to win the senate. They may hate mages more, but they don’t have any love for the fae.
And both fae and mages have been disappearing en masse. "
"It’s true," Rap vouches, her face tightening with concern. "Business has been dropping because the magically abled don’t feel safe to come out and party, so I’m hiring more security to help escort people to their rides and the like."
Those fae fucking HAM assholes.
Two nights in a row I’ve found them cornering mages. It’s got to be them. I’ve known them to leave people behind bloodied and beaten, but I didn’t know they’d resorted to straight up disappearing people.
A shiver runs through me.
That’s got to be why The Seven is out roaming the night. They targeted him that first night, but he was jolly on the spot when the mage kid who runs the convenience store got cornered.
Once he realizes we are on the same side with the same mission, or what I like to call a hobby, he won’t be pushing me away for long. After last night, there’s no way he can ignore what an asset I am.
Isabelle nudges Rap with an elbow. "Remember when you were a humans-only bar a scant few years ago."
Rap rolls her eyes. "Yeah well, I tried to distance myself from magic life, but the magic life finds me. When three of your top bartenders all end up developing mage powers, it’s not like I could fire them."
"Yes, actually, you could have," Isabelle points out. "You just chose not to," she adds in a soft tone.
"I wasn’t trying to be exclusive. I was just trying to run a business in Boston that fit the culture to make money. And turns out, being the magical hub in a human-dominated city is a money-making niche. Besides, I’ve just accepted I’m doomed at trying to lead a normal human life."
I open my mouth to jump on that, since that’s a very strange thing for my human boss to say, but before I can get the words out, a deep male voice interrupts.
"Excuse me, do any of you know where I can find the owner?"
We all swivel around to find a muscular man with deep brown eyes and a shaved head, with ex-military written all over him. Or maybe that’s the fatigue pants and green tee that stretches across his broad shoulders and chest.
The man is attractive in an intense, I militantly eat two dozen eggs in the morning to bulk my muscles, because my body is a temple kind of way.
Rap’s mouth opens and then closes a moment as she takes him in.
Holy butterfly balls. Is she actually ogling this guy?
No flippin’ way.
"This would be her," Isabelle says, leaning in and taking hold of Rap’s shoulders as if she is presenting a piece of art. Or maybe showing off a prize-winning dog who can’t find its tongue.
Rap clears her throat. "You must be Ryder."
Finally finding her bearings, she pushes to her feet and stretches out a hand. Except the stool is right there behind her and he hasn't backed up, so she comes up with inches to spare, chin tipped, close enough to count his eyelashes.
Her cheeks flush as if she realizes she’s made a mistake. The man looks down at her with intent focus.
"Yes, ma’am, here for the interview," he says, extending his hand. As soon as they touch, the intended quick handshake slows until they are just holding each other’s hands, looking into each other’s eyes, fingers slightly shifting in each other’s grasp.
I find myself holding my breath as the chemistry is so intense it crowds out everything around it.
Then they break.
"Follow me to the office, and we’ll see if you are a good fit for our security." Rap is back to her usual no-nonsense tone and attitude, but what just happened wasn’t a crack. It was a godsdamned crater.
"Whoa," I say as soon as they’re gone.
"Whoa is right," Ariel says, watching after them too.
"That was...new," Isabelle adds.
"What’s new?" Goldie asks as she sashays behind the bar. In a pair of black leather pants that encase her generous figure, her corset sports her signature color, pink, which matches her lipstick.
The bubbly blonde bombshell only works the occasional shift since she went viral online and blew up as an influencer, basically gaining a new full-time job overnight. But I’m always ecstatic to see her since she’s the reason I work here at all.
Goldie plucked me off the streets when I was in between shit jobs, morale and self-confidence low as hell, and resorting to stealing honey packets from a coffee shop for sustenance.
"Rap’s tongue just rolled out of her head," I provide.
"Over a guy," Ariel clarifies.
Goldie’s laugh practically sparkles. "Haha, yeah right." Then she double-takes when we all remain dead serious, including Isabelle, who is no jokester.
Goldie’s smile fades as her eyes round. "Oh, holy shit."
"She’s interviewing him to be extra security." I waggle my brows.
"Oh good." Goldie presses a hand to her chest. "Ted has been really worried about all the disappearances lately. He gets so overprotective. I have to remind him I’ll teleport if I get spooked or feel unsafe. But he’ll feel better if he knows we got extra backup here."
"Don’t worry," I say, throwing an arm around Goldie’s waist and giving her a squeeze. “I’ll make sure no one touches you."
"She’d cut a bitch," Ariel chimes in as she builds our customary shift shot, Bad Apples. Vodka, raspberry liqueur, lime, and grenadine hit the shaker in quick, jewel-bright splashes. "Or whip out a flamethrower to defend you."
"Hell yeah, I would."
Ariel shakes the tin hard enough her copper hair bounces, then strains the Bad Apples into three shot glasses, each one glowing a wicked candy red.
We all raise a shot with a loud shout of glee and throw them back, in preparation for another busy banging night.