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"Another whiskey, right?" I ask, even though I remember his drink from before—neat, no fuss. It’s the kind of memory that comes with serving drinks to forget your own problems.
"Make it a double this time," he replies, voice smooth as the liquor he favors.
"Coming up," I say, but I linger just a moment longer than necessary. His presence is magnetic, and I can't help but recall the smug looks and empty promises of wealthy men who've sat here before him. They wear their money like armor, thinking it can buy them any heart's desire—including mine. I've learned to build walls made of ice and smiles. They're my shield against these modern-day Midases.
But this guy...he's different. He doesn't flaunt his wealth, yet it clings to him—a subtle hint, like cologne that's expensive but not overpowering. I can't ignore the rugged edge to his attractiveness that sets every nerve ending on alert. The shadow of stubble along his jaw gives him a roguish look, the kind you'd find on a man who knows how to handle more than just business deals. His hair, dark and slightly tousled, suggests he's come straight from conquering boardrooms—or maybe hearts.
"Double whiskey. Sure thing, Mister," I remind myself out loud, tearing my gaze away from the lines that etch his strong forehead and the eyes that seem to see right through the facade most people don't even notice I'm wearing.
"Merrick," he corrects me, and my breath hitches.
I give him a tight smile and turn to go fill his order. Get it together, I mentally chant to myself I make his drink.
I glide back to his table, the weight of his gaze like a physical touch. It's my job to ignore it, to play it cool. "Got your whiskey," I say, placing the glass down with practiced ease. "Anything else?"
"Actually, yes," Merrick doesn't break eye contact as I straighten up. "What's good here, Abby?”
I blink, startled that he knows my name, but then again, that’s not that unusual. Although we don’t wear name badges, it’s easy enough to learn the watiresses’ names here, and he heard his friend from the other night say my name too.
"Depends on what you’re in the mood for." I keep my tone light, but professional. The last thing I need is another rich guy mistaking my friendliness for something it's not.
"Surprise me." His voice is deep, a hint of amusement lacing his words as if he knows I'm trying to keep him at arm's length.
"Alright then," I retort, tapping into that flirtatious energy that makes tips bigger and nights shorter. "How about our signature cocktail? It's called ‘The Maverick’. Bold, unpredictable—might be up your alley."
"Sounds like a dare." He smirks, and even though I roll my eyes, I can't help mirroring his smile just a little. "I'll take it."
"Coming right up." As I walk away, I can feel his eyes still on me, and a warmth unfurls in my chest. I squash it immediately, replacing it with the ice-cold reminder of my goals.
Because while Merrick's attention is flattering, it's not going to help get me out of this place. Every night I'm here, serving drinks, dodging hands that creep too close, I'm one step away from the life I'm desperate for—a life where control isn't just a luxury, it's my reality.
As I mix his drink, I imagine a different scene—one where I'm the boss, calling the shots, creating something of my own. The shaker feels heavy in my hand, not just with liquor and ice, but with all the dreams it represents.
"Here you go," I say, sliding 'The Maverick' across the bar to him. "Careful, it's got a kick."
"Much like its creator, I suspect," Merrick replies, lifting the glass in a silent toast before taking a sip.
"Maybe," I concede with a mysterious smile, knowing full well the most intoxicating thing I could offer him—or anyone—is a taste of the woman I'm determined to become.
I watch Merrick from the corner of my eye as he sips the cocktail, the subtle curve of his lips hinting at approval. My heart does a little dance—not that I'd ever admit it out loud. He's just a customer, albeit a distractingly handsome one with eyes that seem to strip away the noise of the crowded nightclub, leaving only the thrum of possibility between us.
"Good choice?" I ask, leaning slightly on the bar, feigning nonchalance while every cell in my body is acutely aware of him.
"Very," he says, his voice low and smooth, like the jazz humming softly through the speakers. "Though I suspect anything you create would taste like heaven."
My laugh is quick, a burst of genuine amusement that feels too intimate for the space we're in.
The moment stretches, charged with an energy that's new and old at the same time, like a song you can't quite place but swear you've loved before. And for a second, I let myself indulge in the fantasy of it all—of being seen by someone like Merrick, someone who looks at me and sees beyond the apron and order pad.
But fantasies don't pay the bills. They don't break down the walls I've built to protect myself from silver-spooned charmers with more dollars than sense. So I straighten up, tucking away the fluttering hope that wants to take flight.
"Enjoy your drink, Merrick," I say, punctuating the air between us with a smile that doesn't reach my eyes. "Let me know if you need anything else."
He nods, and I turn away, letting the rhythm of my work pull me back to reality. The clink of glasses, the low murmur of conversations, they're my anchor in a sea of what-ifs.
As the night wears on, the promise of closing time becomes my beacon, each tick of the clock a step closer to solitude and the sanctuary of my own thoughts. Finally, the last patron stumbles out, and I'm left alone in the quiet aftermath, wiping down the bar and stacking chairs.
I want more—more than fleeting looks and hollow compliments. I want a life that's mine, forged from hard work and relentless drive.
