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I shake off the memories, not wanting to remember. The hollowness in my chest makes me want to break something, to destroy.
I mix the drink I am preparing with careful precision, my eyes cold.
Out of my four friends, I am more of a fighter. Zayn comes in a close second. We were both raised in harsh environments, but where I cover the violence that simmers beneath the surface with an amiable mask, a light-hearted persona, Zayn embraced his dark nature.
He is a man of few words, sarcasm his language. He lets out his beast when he chooses to oversee his clubs. My quip about his being a bouncer is to serve as a warning as well as a reminder to get himself under control.
Bartending relaxes me.
This bar is still an experiment, so I often show up to keep an eye on things.
However, I never noticed Sarah till now.
Putting the drink in front of the customer, I check my phon
e and see that I am due at the restaurant tomorrow night.
I glance in the direction of the young woman sitting at the bar, looking around the room as if searching for somebody, and I purse my lips.
A little rescheduling might be in order.
2
Sarah
I tug at my cardigan, a little nervous.
The bartender is looking my way again.
Yesterday was a waste of time. I haven’t managed to find Roy. However, I am determined not to give up.
I know he frequents this bar. I know because Bryan often came here. I once dropped him off at this very location.
My hand moves to the side of my face, and from the corner of my eye, I see the hot bartender stiffen.
Today is my fourth day here. After the conversation with him a few days ago, when I became a little short with him because of his prying, he has not approached me at all.
But today, he placed a glass of apple juice in front of me when I had sat down.
I sigh and absently twirl the umbrella in my drink.
It is pink today, just like my cardigan.
I wonder why he is staring at me. There is nothing malicious in the way he looks at me, just this strange gleam that makes me fidgety.
“Is something wrong with your drink?”
I lift my head in surprise to see a black button-up shirt in front of me.
“My eyes are up here,” he says, amusement in his tone, when I keep staring at the way that shirt looks on his chest.
My cheeks turn red. “Sorry!”
He is grinning. “So, your drink? Is something wrong with it?”
I shake my head, mutely.
He looks baffled. “Ah, you haven’t touched it. Do you want something else?”
