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“Fun is subjective,” I snap, turning away to tend to another order.
My heart hammers against my ribs, not in fear, but in fury. They think they can wear me down; break through the walls I’ve built brick by brick with every unwelcome advance and jeer.
They’re dead wrong.
I lose myself in the rhythm of my work, the clink of bottles, the hiss of a beer tap. It’s a dance I know by heart, a dance that keeps me grounded when their words try to clip my wings.
“Keep it up, boys, and you’ll be enjoying your drinks outside,” I threaten without looking at them, the edge in my voice sharp enough to cut.
Glancing in the mirror above the bar, I see Ricky shrug, feigning indifference, while Snake merely smirks, that knowing, predatory look still playing about his lips.
They retreat to a table, their laughter spiking the air like shards of glass, but I’m already moving on, my focus unyielding. I have no room for their foolishness, not when there are orders to fill, customers to please. This bar is my kingdom, and I rule it with an iron shaker.
“Another round, Jane!” someone calls, and I nod, throwing myself back into the fray.
My father’s voice echoes in my mind, reminding me that strength isn’t just muscle—it’s resolve, it’s grit, it’s staring down the snakes and refusing to flinch. I straighten my shoulders, a glint of defiance in my pale green eyes, ready for whatever comes next.
“Rough crowd tonight, huh?” A voice, soft yet edged with steel, slices through the din of clinking glasses and low hums of conversation. It’s Mandy, her warm brown eyes scanning the room with an alertness that belies her cheerful exterior. “Don’t let ‘em get to you, Jane.”
I manage a tight-lipped smile, appreciating the camaraderie despite my resolve to keep my distance. Mandy, with her halo of curly blonde hair bouncing as she moves from table to table, is like a ray of sunshine in this dimly lit purgatory. She’s the sister I never had, the family I’ve chosen or perhaps, the one that’s chosen me.
“Thanks,” I murmur, my gaze locked on the amber liquid I’m pouring. It fills the glass with a promise of oblivion, something many here seek night after night. “They’re just gnats, buzzing for attention.”
“More like vultures,” she counters, her lips quirking up in a playful grin. Her hands flit across the counter, placing down a tray with a gentleness that contrasts sharply with the roughness around us. “But we don’t let scavengers pick at us, do we?”
“Never have, never will,” I reply, feeling a spark of gratitude ignite within me.
It’s fleeting, chased away by the undercurrent of tension threading through the smoky air. The bar feels like a powder keg, one careless spark away from chaos. My fingers tighten around the bottle, the glass cool and slick.
“Hey, beautiful,” a slurred voice calls from the corner, shoving me back into reality. I turn to face the leering grin of a patron, his intentions as clear as the shot glasses lined up before him.
“Easy with the sweet talk, cowboy,” I say, my words clipped like the ice that rattles into his empty glass. “It’ll cost you more than a drink to win me over.”
Mandy chuckles, her laugh mingling with the cacophony of sounds around us. She leans in close, her voice dropping to a whisper, “You handle them with such grace, Jane. It’s like watching a dance the way you evade their clumsy steps.”
“Survival isn’t graceful,” I confide, allowing a rare glimpse into the fortress I’ve built around myself. “It’s necessity.” My past ripples beneath the surface, a constant reminder of why I fight so hard to remain standing.
“Speaking of survival,” Mandy says, her tone shifting back to her usual lighthearted lilt, “table six is giving me the eye. Duty calls.” She winks and slips away, leaving me to fend off another round of advances.
The night drags on, each moment stretching out. Laughter erupts sporadically, the sound brittle and strained, as if everyone’s aware that a single wrong move could shatter the fragile peace. But amid the tumult, there’s Mandy’s occasional touch on my arm, a whispered joke shared between us, a lifeline thrown in a stormy sea.
The clinking of glasses and the low hum of conversations create a constant hum in the Tin Cup. In the midst of it all, I move with a rhythm that’s mine alone. The bar becomes my stage; each motion is part of a performance that keeps the patrons sated and at bay. With a deft flick of my wrist, I send a bottle spiraling into the air, a show of glass and liquid grace. “Jane expertly flips the bottle,” someone murmurs in awe, their voice tinged with respect.
“Watch her go,” Ricky Caldwell drawls from his perch at the end of the bar, his sandy hair catching the dim light as he leans back, eyeing me like a prize to be won. His smirk is a challenge I’ve learned to ignore.
“Ever seen anything so pretty?” Snake chimes in, his tattoos twisting with the movement of his arms as he mimics applause. “A real showstopper.”
I catch the bottle without missing a beat, pouring a perfect shot into the waiting glass. My movements are swift, precise, betraying none of the irritation that simmers beneath my skin.
“Just doing my job,” I say, sliding the drink toward an eager hand, my tone as smooth as the whiskey I serve.
“Come on, Jane,” Ricky presses, his voice slithering over the name like he’s got some claim to it. “Give us a smile, will ya?”
I don’t. Instead, I pull another beer from the cooler; the frosted bottle cool against my palm.
“Smiles aren’t on the menu,” I quip, popping the cap with a practiced flick.
“Too bad,” Snake retorts, winking. “I’d pay good money for one of yours.”
