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"It's almost time,"Mags shouts over the music, and I nod without taking my eyes off the bottles in front of me, tapping my index finger to my chin.
Over the last few months, I started making my own drinks. A customer would tell me a flavor they liked, what type of alcohol (also, what they didn't want), and I mixed up a cocktail. It'd gotten so popular that Grizz hired another bartender to work twice a week so I could solely concentrate on my creations. One of those nights is Friday, when Mags and I also put on ourCoyote Uglyshow, as we've dubbed it. I had never heard of the movie until Mags made me watch it five times in a row last winter.
She knew I could dance—not through professional lessons, but I knew how to move. You could say I was self-taught. You learned quickly to adapt when you were, more or less, forced into the job I did for almost four years.
"We should do that. Grizz would shit his pants." I was mostly joking, though I did miss the dancing part in my current gig. It was great exercise and, if I was honest with myself, fun—as long as I wasn't groped doing it.
Mags beamed like I had told her she was getting all my tips for the next week while covering her shift as well as my own. "Hell, yeah! Let's do it."
"Uh." A fluttery feeling in my stomach forced me to swallow hard. Why was I nervous? I had danced in front of complete strangers six nights a week—sometimes seven if money was tight or another collection popped up. But dancing in front of my…friends—I even considered Grizz part of that group—the mere thought made my mouth run dry. "I don't know if that's such a good idea. Grizz wouldn't like us scratching up his precious bar."
Excuses, excuses, my inner voice laughed at me.
But that wasn't even a lie or too far-fetched. One night, when we sat down after a shift, Grizz opened up a teensy-tiny bit. It wasn't anything about his private life (which was still very much a secret) but how he ended up choosing everything for the bar. For my boss, this was almost as intimate as if I were to confess how I ended up in Stonebriar. The bar top was some super-rare reclaimed black walnut from…I don't remember. In short, it cost a shit ton of capital, and scuffing it up with shoes was the last thing I wanted to have on my conscience.
"Boo hoo. I'll take care of it. Don't worry your sexy behind over it." Mags shoulder bumped me, sitting next to me on the couch while the credits for the movie were rolling across the screen.
I scowled at her. "One of these days, you're going to tell me what the story behind you and Grizz is."
She still hasn't let me in on it.
I grab the Ki No Bi Sei off the shelf. "That will go well with what I have in mind," I mumble to myself—not that anyone would've heard me over Kid Cudi's "The Mood."
I tap my cell, which is lying on the backside of the bar, for the exact time and pause. Eight texts from Kiwi.
What the—
The song cuts off, and I know what comes next. We always dance to the same song—the same song she first made me dance to after telling her what I used to do for a living.
Rhianna's voice comes through the speaker, and my mouth automatically pulls up in a wide grin. Who am I kidding? I fucking love these four minutes and three seconds on top of the bar each week. For 243 seconds, I am neither Kingsley Monroe, the girl who rents Mags's spare bedroom in Stonebriar, Montana, nor King, the star attraction of The Pole. I'm…me.
I'd have to message Kiwi back after the number to see what is going on. He's supposed to have a date tonight.
Toeing my shoes off, I grab the tequila and a shot glass from under the bar and climb on top. Moving my hips to the rhythm, I lip-sync the lyrics and pour one of the many free drinks we hand out during our performance—probably another reason Friday is now bringing in double the customers. I spin on the tips of my toes and am about to hand the guy in front of me the glass when my gaze is drawn to the far side of the room. I usually never look around. Dancing on top of a narrow bar is challenging enough, and doing so while not paying attention…rookie mistake. But it's like a magnetic pull, and the instant my eyes lock on their target, it is as if someone has swiped the bar out from under me. Adrenaline surges through my body.
No, no, no.
What is he doing here? His mouth falls open, and I know this is it. He recognizes me. Recognizes me because I exposed myself to him a week ago.
Oh, God.
I need to get out of here. Turning toward Mags, who has also noticed him, I thrust the bottle and glass at her with so much force that the tequila spills over both of us. Not that I care.
Scrambling off the bar, I beeline for the nearest door. I don't stop in the small storage room that holds our inventory that doesn't get displayed on the mirrored glass shelves. Instead, I pull the door to the back hallway open.
Halting in my tracks, I look around. My mind is racing a million miles a second. What do I do? Is that why Kiwi blew up my phone in the middle of my shift? My phone. Shit, shit, shit. I left it behind the bar. I need to go. Thank fuck my purse—including my car keys—is in my locker. I can drive home and wait for Mags to finish her shift. Kiwi will bring me my phone. He'll help me figure out what to do. I have to leave town. God, I don't want to move again—beon the move. I fell in love with this place the minute I exited the highway. Back then, I had no intention of staying, but that was before I met my friends. My heart is hammering in my chest, and with every step toward our employee lounge, my stomach sinks. I'll be on the run again. I don't have a choice. Weston Sheats knows I exist—something that never should've happened. I draw in a deep breath. Kiwi will understand. He can stay. He doesn't have to follow me.
I throw open the door to the break room and beeline to my locker. My vision turns blurry as I fumble with the combination lock. When it doesn't open, I let out a frustrated scream. "Arrrrrgh!"
A hand covers mine as I ferociously pull on the lock. I yelp in surprise and whirl around.
"Roe-Roe, it's me." As I take in Kiwi's concern, my tears spill over.
"He saw m-me," I whisper.
Kiwi dips his head in confirmation, then turns to my locker and spins the dial in quick succession, pulling the door open. Of course he knows the combination. Kiwi knows everything about me.
Grabbing my bag and jean jacket, I face my best friend.
