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He hands me a ten and rushes off into the crowd. Giggling, I ring up the sale and put the change in the tip jar. I pick up a rag and start wiping down the bar before the next person comes forward. I glance up and see Spike staring at me, his mouth open in shock.
“What the hell was that?” he asks when he finally composes himself.
“What was what?” I feign innocence as I take the next person’s order.
“You threatened to cut off that guy’s dick.”
“I did.”
“You pulled out a knife.”
“Yep.”
“Do you do that often?” he asks incredulously.
“Seriously?” After handing a customer their tequila shot and draft beer, I prop my elbows on the bar and lean toward Spike. “I work in a biker bar. In case you haven’t noticed, the clientele here can get a little rowdy.”
“Why don’t you let the bouncers handle it?”
“Spike,” I groan. “If I signaled for the bouncer every time an idiot got twitchy or rude, nothing would ever get done around here.”
“Fine, but I’m gonna talk to Rogue about this.”
“I handled it,” I argue. “I’m not a damsel in distress.”
“Yeah, you did,” he agrees. “But, uh, next time, could you not threaten to cut off dicks?”
I throw my head back and laugh. “I could, but where’s the fun in that? Besides, I’ve only asked if they wanted me to; no one has taken me up on the offer yet.” I wiggle my brows suggestively.
He grabs his crotch and steps away from the bar. “Remind me never to piss you off.”
I wink and give him a small wave as he makes his way to the VIP section to sit with the other club members who just arrived.
For the next hour, it’s a constant flow of traffic at the bar, and my feet are killing me. I need to invest in some comfortable tennis shoes, but around here, your feet can be weapons so you want something that can pack a punch. I have a pair of black Shit-Kicker boots that I wear every night at the bar. I haven’t had to use them, but they’ll definitely come in handy if I ever need to. I hate the thought of having to trade them in for something different. I bounce back and forth on my feet to try and alleviate the pain.
“Feet hurt?” Jez plops down on stool. “I’d know that dance anywhere.”
I grimace. “Normally, I’d be okay, but I’m working a double.”
“Why?”
“Connie didn’t show. Waylon texted and asked me to fill in.”
“Go over to Naughty/Nice tomorrow and talk to Trista. Cece ordered inserts that are supposed to be amazing for the ‘working woman’. You’ve seen those death traps Mel wears.”
Carmella wears three-inch heels wherever she goes. I don’t know how she does it. I’d be tripping all over myself, never mind the blisters I’d be sporting at the end of the day.
I nod. “I’ll stop by there on my next day off. Do you want your usual?”
Jez purses her lips. “Gonna need something stronger.”
“Rough day?”
Jez shrugs but doesn’t answer the question. I fill a shot glass with Jack Daniels and watch as she shoots it back. She taps the bar for another, and I quickly pour it before grabbing a beer as a chaser.
I don’t know Jez very well, but I can tell something is wrong. Her shoulders are slumped, her eyes are dim, and her normal take-charge attitude is nonexistent. Working as a bartender, I’ve become very good at observation. I can spot the lonely, the angry, the partiers, the troublemakers, and the defeated.
“I’m a good listener,” I say.
