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“Careful. It’s already rowdy out there.”
“It’s Wednesday. What the hell are they celebrating?” While the bar always seemed packed, as soon as I opened the door, I knew it was going to be one of those evenings—late and exhausting. Maybe Kirill wouldn’t notice when I got home.
Then again, he had evil eyes. For all I knew, he had another set in the back of his head.
As I grabbed my apron from behind the bar, I took a few seconds to scan the room, breathing a sigh of relief.
At least the shift would give me time to think about how to get the man off my back.
And into my bed.
Nope. That would never happen again.
* * *
I was wrong. Completely wrong. Lately, all I’d been was wrong. My brain was already mush and there was more to endure.
Barely two hours into my shift, I was thankful we were allowed to wear tennis shoes. Between the huge and very rowdy crowd, enough beer had been tossed on the floor to make the place a skating rink.
I was shocked my cousin allowed certain behaviors, but this was New York, or so Rian had told me on several occasions. It had been his subtle way of warning me that I wasn’t in Pennsylvania any longer.
And thank God for that.
While I usually enjoyed the raunchiness of the crowd, tonight the dozens of men and few women seemed downright crazy. The customers guzzled drinks, forcing one of the bartenders to cut an entire table off, which had then led to a near brawl. That had been followed by the manager bringing his steel bat from behind the bar, forcing everyone to cool down.
With Sean Doyle’s six-foot three-inch frame and bright red hair, with the right expression, he was able to create a deranged look with no problem.
There were so many customers, they seemed to illegally filter out the front door since the patio had yet to open for the season. What the hell was going on tonight?
Then there was the yelling, the demands.
“Hey, toots. Another beer over here.”
“Hey, sugar, can you deliver your own personal Killian to me?”
“Such a beauty. How about we get to know each other after you get off. Then I can get off.”
I’d heard just about everything, almost none of which bothered me. My skin was thick enough I usually managed to brush the trash talk aside. Tonight, I was ready for a fight myself. Maybe the fact asshole number fifty-seven had just ‘accidentally’ bumped into me, sending an entire small pitcher of beer splashing down the front of my shirt was the last straw.
Or possibly his shit-eating grin.
“You did that on purpose,” I hissed, forced to lift my head several inches to try to look him in the eye. I’d be damned. By the jeers from the assholes at his table, I could tell the man had been egged on, perhaps dared to do something so… so… stupid!
“Of course I didn’t, sugar.”
That was the last time I would tolerate being called sugar. After giving the sloth a huge smile, I reared back, fisting my hand.
“Whoa. Whoa,” Sean said as he grabbed my offending arm, tugging me away from Neanderthal boy. “I think that’s enough. Buddy. You and your friends are out of here.”
“That’s not fair,” he wailed.
Why was it that drunken men always resorted to acting like children who’d been scolded?
“I said. Outta here.” Sean pointed to the door, still trying to keep me from attacking the pompous asshole.
I shifted around the man, planting my hands on my hips. “I’ll be happy to show you to the door.”
“Woo hoo!” one of them whistled.
