I study the brutish boxer from behind the bar, pretending to wipe down a glass.
He’s got a face that’s been rearranged one too many times. Features like a bent nose and jaw that’ve been broken and reset at least once. A scar that cuts through his left eyebrow. Deep blue eyes that scan the room like he’s assessing threats.
Plenty of women would say handsome… but more so in a broken, unconventional sort of way. In abrutalkind of way.
That is,ifyou’re into guys who look like they’ve killed people.
…which I’m not.
…which is what makes it even more frustrating that I’ll be waiting on him all night long.
I sigh, resigning myself to taking his order.
The exchange is every bit as awkward and unpleasant as I expect. He’s rude and demanding, grinding out questions about Bridget like I’m at fault for her absence. His friend’s no better, making dumb jokes and cracking up in laughter at anything I say.
I keep my answers short.Direct.
I’m not here to make friends, and I’m definitely not here to charm some mob enforcer who moonlights as a boxer and probably has a kill list a mile long.
The best I can hope for is keeping our interactions as minimal as possible.
Unfortunately, it’s not the last encounter we have for the night.
My shift drags on, and I wait on table after table, plastering on the closest thing to a smile I can manage. It’s a flop considering I’ve never been an upbeat type of person like Evaora flirt like Bridget. My face isn’t built for customer service.
It reflects in the meager tips I receive.
The couple by the window stiffs me completely, leaving only a couple quarters from their change. The group of college kids at the bar counter leave two dollars on a ninety-dollar tab, like they’re doing me a favor.
Then there’s the old-timer I spilled the Guinness on. He makes a big show of counting out exact change, then tells me I should consider a different line of work.
Thanks. I’ll add that to the list of helpful suggestions.
By eleven o’clock, my feet are aching, my apron is stained with spilled beer and liquor, and I’ve made roughly twelve dollars in tips. Not even enough for a decent meal in Brooklyn, let alone anywhere else in the city.
The stack of problems sitting on my shoulders grows heavier.
I stashed a half-eaten bag of potato chips from a vending machine in my bookbag. It looks like that’ll have to do as my meal for tomorrow…
But I should be grateful for what Idohave.
At least Tom’s letting me stay in the backroom. At least I have access to clean water, even if the pub restroom doesn’t have a shower. I’ve been having to sneak into the gym down the street early in the morning to use theirs.
Still… I’ve been in worse spots.Eva’sstill in a worse spot than me.
That’s what keeps me going through the night: knowing I have to for Eva’s sake.
“You—new girl! Over here.”
I glance over at the primitive grunt and find myself on the receiving end of Killian Rourke’s cold glare. He’s holding up his empty glass, obviously in need of a refill.
I grind my teeth and resist the urge to pretend I didn’t hear him. I would if Tom hadn’t already scolded me tonight.
“Refills,” he says when I approach.
“Same thing?” I ask flatly. “Whiskey, dry?”
“That’s what a refill is, isn’t it?”
