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He doesn’t respond, turning back to the window.
“How much do you owe?” I ask. I repeat the question with more authority on his second round of silence.
“Fifteen large between the pair,” he says.
My breathing quickens, and I crumble into the sofa to find a source of stability. Fifteen thousand dollars? That’s almost what I make in a year.
“I have to go to work,” I say. This isn’t low-level chump change. It’s real money that has vicious men chasing after us.
“Come on, Bree, don’t be like that. Let’s talk about this.” Noticing my panic, dad turns to me. But it’s too late. He’s dropped the bombshell and left a sour taste in my mouth. If I didn’t have to go to work, I’d find anywhere else to be but here.
“I have to go.” I get up from my chair and make my way to the door. Dad gives a half-assed attempt at following me but stops when I get through it.
“We’re going to be okay, Brianna. I promise I’ll make this right.”
He won’t. But maybe I can.
* * *
Frank Sinatra croonsCome Fly With Mefrom the jukebox in the corner of the Moonshine Saloon. Never before have I so desperately wanted to take the advice of a song until tonight. The weight of my conversation with dad made the start of my shift a nightmare. I didn’t have the spirit and enthusiasm I usually feign to bring in the big spenders.
Those who noticed left small tips in the single digits. Those who didn’t wouldn’t have given much more anyway.
“Are you alright?” Ollie asks when I take a minute to compose myself against the bar. He’s running a tatty cloth around the inside of a pint glass until it sparkles.
“I’m fine.” He’s a good guy, dad’s right about that, but what good will it be telling my troubles to him? He’s got a wife, kids, and a thousand more things to deal with than listening to my sob story.
The worst part about tonight is how it’s getting late, my feet ache, and Mickey still hasn’t shown up.
“Is it those guys from last night?” Ollie inspects the glass in the low-hanging light over the countertop. He twists it, spotting another smudge of dirt. He eradicates it with the cloth.
“It’s just one of those nights. Can’t get into the swing of things,” I say.
“Ah, I got you,” he nods affectionately, “don’t worry about a thing. You’ll bounce back before the night is through. You always do.”
“Oi, barkeep,” someone catches Ollie’s attention. “A rum and coke, and gimme two shots of gin.”
“Duty calls,” Ollie shrugs before heading to sort the order.
I turn to face the crowd drinking the night away to see if anyone wants my attention. Apart from a few sorry fools who’ve offered me cash for a quick handy under the table gawking in my direction, everyone seems content.
But that’s when the front door bursts open and a heavy gust of wind blows fresh air into the smoky bar. And from it, Mickey Byrne steps inside like he owns the place. He’s wearing a sleek, black suit with a loose tie hanging around his neck. He looks fine, all dressed up. A half-smoked cigarette hangs loosely from his lips, and a trail of smoke follows him from the front door to the only open booth seat.
It’s not in my section, but I’ve got a feeling Mickey’s chosen it deliberately. He doesn’t want to be served by me; he wants to stare at my ass while I bend over one table after the next.
My night just got a whole lot better with his sudden appearance. In an instant, my mood is lifted, and I feel like I’ve got life in my legs again. I’m not wandering aimlessly, writing orders, and fulfilling them with great anguish, but bouncing around the bar with a hop and a skip.
“Sugar tits, a round of beers for the boys, will you?” Someone at a table I’m passing yells once I finish serving a couple that chose this dump for a date.
Why did I have to catch the attention of the loudest dicks here?
I head to Ollie, and he delivers it with lightning speed. At the rate people are piling in tonight, it’s a miracle he got to my order.
I place the four beers on my tray and carry it over to the table of four.
“Four beers,” I say, setting a drink down in front of each man.
As I finish setting the last drink down, I feel something brush up against the inside of my leg. It takes me longer than I should to realize it’s a finger snaking higher and higher. It’s the same guy who placed the order trying to cop a feel, and without thinking, I slap his hand away from me.
