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“Damn. That’s fucking crazy.” The second guy leans closer, resting his elbows on the bar to get a better look at my truncated limb.
My jaw clenches. The hardest part of losing my forearm and hand has been dealing with the constant stares. I should be used to it by now, but the sting never seems to completely fade.
“What happened to your arm?” The green-eyed man asks.
So fucking rude.
“None of your damn business,” I snap, the heat in my veins flaring hotter. I’m tempted to pour the cocktail I just mixed in his lap, but I need this job. And as understanding as Duke has been about my lingering trauma, he’d definitely draw the line at me hurling drinks at customers.
Fuck you, asshole.
I rein in my anger, resisting the urge to shift my stance to hide my right arm behind my body. I’m not gonna fucking hide. That’s why I rarely wear my prosthesis, despite the fact that I have one. I’m not interested in pretending I’m not an amputee, or in acting like nothing changed the night I got shot.
Because everything changed.
“Sorry.” The guy holds his hands up in the universal gesture of harmlessness, but his gaze flicks down to my arm again. “Pretty sweet tattoo though. Did it hurt?”
“Yes.”
My answer is short and clipped. If I was trying to avoid stares and invasive questions, maybe it wasn’t a good idea to get a full sleeve tattoo on my injured arm. But I didn’t get it for these assholes, and I didn’t get it for anyone else.
I got the ink done for me.
As a way of reclaiming my broken body.
Of making it mine again.
And I’m not lying. It did hurt like a motherfucker. The nerves are all messed up in my arm, so some patches of skin are weirdly numb, but in other parts, it felt like the tattoo artist was carving into my flesh with a razor blade.
“Well, it’s really beautiful. Beautiful tattoo for a beautiful girl.” The frat boy’s friend gives me a self-satisfied, confident smile, as if he’s expecting me to fall all over him with gratitude for the fucking compliment. As if the circus freak should be glad he’s blessed her with his approval.
I don’t need this guy to tell me I’m beautiful. It’s not that I think my dark brown hair, blue eyes, and gentle curves are particularly stunning, but I like how I look. At least, I used to.
My stomach clenches, and I curse my body as my arm begins to throb.
It’s not real, Ayla. It’s all in your head.
Phantom pain always seems to strike just when I think I’ve gotten over it. The therapist I can’t afford anymore was always quick to remind me that it’s triggered by stress.
“What do you want to drink?” I ask, my voice blunt and hard.
“I’ll take a beer. Whatever you’ve got that’s hoppy.” He shrugs as he leans back a little, the look in his eyes clearly saying your loss.
Yeah. Somehow, I’ll live.
His buddy orders a beer too, and they watch as I pour their drinks one-handed, like it’s the most fascinating thing they’ve ever seen. As if I’m a dog that’s learned how to walk on its hind legs instead of a human fucking woman who’s learned how to function with a disability like so many other people in the world have.
I slide their beers across to them and grab the money the man with green eyes drops on the bar, already turning away as he says, “Keep the change.”
No shit. I was fucking planning on it, dickface.
I keep my back turned until I’m sure the two men have moved away from the bar, then I turn around and take the next person’s order. I fall into a routine of mixing and pouring, sometimes switching places with Duke, until about an hour before midnight when a familiar face leans over the bar.
“Hey, sweetheart. Can I get my usual?” Greg Pruitt smiles at me, resting one elbow casually on the polished wood as his reddish-blond hair glints in the light.
I suppress the urge to scowl. This guy is basically harmless, although he’s persistent as fuck. He’s a regular at Duke’s and has been since before I started here, although Duke mentioned to me once that he seems to come more often now than he used to. I think he’s in his early thirties, which puts him at more than a decade older than me, but our age difference doesn’t seem to put him off at all.
“Yeah, sure.”
