Mark, the hulking security guard, and I share a nod as he opens the door for me, letting me past the ridiculously long line of waiting humans. The Poison Apple is often crammed with people until closing, but tonight is extra busy.
As soon as I enter, I see why my best friend didn’t respond. Goldie races back and forth, taking drink orders along with my other friend and co-worker, Cinder. People crowd in, shoulder to shoulder at the bar, vying for attention. I can’t even get a glimpse of the ornate onyx and warm wood bar.
Gold and glass liquor shelves reach up three stories behind where Cinder and Goldie rush back and forth, slinging bottles, and sliding drinks to the thirsty crowd. A low golden light emanates off the display, casting everyone in a flattering, seductive glow. The glass ceiling is vaulted even higher to accommodate the massive oak tree growing inside the building. Long, majestic limbs spread out over numerous blood-red tufted couches and standing bar tables. Fairy lights and lamps decorate the tree, making for a romantic, magical effect, though this is a humans-only bar.
The second Goldie dragged me in here for an interview four months ago, I wanted to run right the fuck back out. I’d never had a job before and working in such a packed, grand space intimidated the unholy hell out of me. I tried to tell the new friend I'd met in my sociology class that I’d work at the library. But Goldie insisted I would love it and that it would be good for me.
After Goldie gushed to the owner, Rap, over how she would teach me everything, Rap agreed I fit the aesthetic and hired me on the spot. She waved us off to get started that very night.
After an embarrassing number of broken glasses, and several heart-wrenching cry fests in the stock closet, I did eventually learn. And Goldie had been there the entire time, assuring me that I needed to give myself time and that I was doing great. Cinder also came to my rescue on more than one occasion, with her quiet confidence and endless patience.
Slowly but surely, I broke out of my shell. The more people I served and talked to, the more confident I got. I dressed to match Goldie and Cinder’s aesthetic, and we became known as thelost girls. While we work fluidly and effortlessly with each other, we are untouchable. Our reputation as the lost girls took such a hold that Goldie made us shirts. She insists our slogan is “unfuckablewith,” but we came to agree that was still a work in progress.
The running joke we pretend not to hear from some of the patrons is that we would make the ultimate threesome experience.
Watching my friends flow behind the bar, I take a moment to feel the deep appreciation I have for them. Where I come from, no one shows weakness. A mere drop of blood hits the water, and everyone usually rushes in to tear the meat off the bones.
Not these girls.
Dropping my stuff off in the back break room and clocking in, I slide in behind the bar and instantly start taking orders and slinging bottles.
Where my studies couldn’t soothe me, I fall into the monotonous rhythm of work. At one point, two arms surround me from behind in a quick, grateful hug.
I tense, but I don’t feel the usual rush of desire. Someone my body recognizes as a friend. Goldie.
Thank the fae lords, because getting aroused by my friends would make my already bizarre little life way harder to manage.
Goldie pulls me down several inches, so she can plant a kiss on my cheek. Her curly flaxen locks brush against my bare back, and I know she’s left a kiss print on my cheek in Mistress Pink. Goldie's favorite lip shade matches her bubblegum pink and black outfit - the signature colors she wears even when she’s not at work. Her full bosom is practically falling out of the halter top today. Goldie is a full figured, curvy girl with honey brown eyes, and gravity-defying confidence. She taught me that a skirt can always be shorter, and how to own a room when I walk into it.
I’d forgotten that today. But now that she’s near, I remember who I am and my spine straightens.
I catch Cinder mouthing a ‘thank you’ at me as well. Cinder’s sleek dark hair is up into two high buns tonight, and she sports a grunge, goth look with fishnet traveling up her legs and arms. Sharp eyeliner wings dramatize the purple, monolid eyes she was blessed with through her Asian ancestry.
Before meeting them, I didn’t have any friends, and now I have a whole place where I belong. They treat me like I’m normal, like I matter. Tears sting my eyes. I’m not sure what happened at Gigi’s house, but the heavy stone sitting in my stomach tells me I may not have this for much longer. Something is coming, and I’m not sure exactly what it is, or how to stop it. But ice ninjas and knee-melting Weres are not part of my plan.
“You are a saint,” Goldie nearly shouts so I can hear her. “But we are going to talk later about why you’re helping us losers instead of going home for break like you said you were going to.”
I wave her off and turn my attention to the guy requesting drinks with an overly bright smile. He's pretty and he knows it. A classic fuck boy.
This place is a hotbed for fuck boys who know girls swoon over the magic atmosphere of the Poison Apple. Having all these guys on the prowl is so not great for me when I aspire to go home,alone.
My stupid hormones rush up to the surface when he shoots me a flirtatious wink. As I turn around to grab the bottle and pour him a round of shots for his friends, a certain Were’s scarred face swims in my mind’s eye.
I can't forget that crazy gut reaction I had to Brexley. The Were is a sex god, but he might as well have red flags tattooed all over his body. Or I guess, slashed across his face in the form of giant claw-like scars.
When I turn back around with the round of shots, I nearly choke on my own tongue. I’m face to face with the very person I’m thinking of. Brexley casually leans against the counter. His intense gaze delivers a stab of arousal straight through my gut. People nearby can’t help but steal glances at him. I wonder what they notice first, his scars or sex god energy?
A knowing smile plays at the corners of his lips, as if to say, “Hello, remember me? I’ve been inside you.”
Images slam into my brain.
His head between my legs.
The feeling of him pounding into me.
His hand clamping my neck, squeezing just right until I saw stars.
Recovering from my misstep, I hand over the shots to the fuckboy who drops cash on the counter and disappears back into the crowd.
