Page 6 of Striker’s Rebel

“Maybe you ought to worry about yourself for once.”

A chill traces down my spine.

I refuse to let him see it.

“Maybe you ought to go fuck yourself.”

Eliana closes her eyes.

“June, please.”

That does what Jamie’s anger can’t.

I back off.

For her.

Only for her.

I return behind the bar and grab a glass, mostly because if I keep standing there, I might throw something.

Jamie says something low into Eliana’s ear.

She nods.

I don’t ask.

I don’t trust myself to.

For the next three hours, I work.

I pour beer. Mix drinks. Wipe sticky rings from the bar. Smile when customers deserve it and pretend not to hear them when they don’t.

Jamie and his friends take a booth near the back.

Every now and then I feel him looking at me.

I never give him the satisfaction of looking back.

By closing time, my feet ache and my temper has cooled into something heavier.

Eliana finished before me.

She said goodbye quietly and promised she would text.

I made her promise twice.

It’s after two when I finally walk out of the Red Den, pulling my jacket tighter around myself as the mountain air hits my skin.

The parking lot is mostly empty.

My Corolla sits beneath a dying light near the far edge because I arrived late and got the worst spot.

I dig through my purse for my keys as I walk.

Halfway there, I hear footsteps.

I turn.