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“Is this Quinn Walker?” a female voice asks.
“Speakin’. Who’s this?”
“This is Officer Mendoza with probation. Do you have a minute to talk?”
I immediately grow irritated. “Well, I’m at work, but I have maybe a minute or two. Is there somethin’ wrong?”
“No, not at all. Officer Richards has retired and I’m taking over his caseload, so I’ll be your new P.O. I’m just calling to let you know I need you to come in by the end of the day for a UA.”
I sigh and scrub a hand down my face. “Today, really? I don’t get off ’til five. It’ll have to be after that. Unless you wanna come down here and do it.”
“It’s Friday and I’m really not interested in staying late, so I’ll come down to your place of employment. Still the”—I hear papers being shuffled around—“Silver Park Brewery on Grande Ave.?”
“Yes,” I reply.
“I’ll be there before five,” she says, then hangs up.
I hate this. I hate it so much. I shouldn’t even have to be on probation, I did nothing wrong. But that’s not what a Douglas County judge thought, so I’m forced to adhere to their “release plan” as they call it. Even though I was sentenced to only probation and have never done time in jail, and therefore, have never been “released” from anywhere. I can’t even go visit my family in Alabama or even travel out of the state without written permission from my probation officer, which he usually grants. It just sucks I even have to ask. One more year, and I’ll be done with this baloney.
I shake my head and pop both earbuds in this time, unpausing the audiobook and diving back into my work.
“Hey, Ms. Quinn. Carter needs you.” I look up to see Maria at my door. She has a weird look on her face and seems uncomfortable.
I take the earbuds out and head to the door. “I’ll be right there.”
I follow her out to the bar to see a man arguing with Carter.
“Where’s the rest of my drink, bro?”
“That’s it. That’s the whole drink.” Carter folds his arms across his chest sassily.
“Hi, I’m the manager. What’s the problem, sir?”
The customer points to his three-fourths full drink. “This should be filled to the top, should it not?”
“You ordered a double vodka soda, no ice. That’s how much you get,” Carter quickly replies.
“Sir, ordering no ice doesn’t mean you get more product. It’s measured with jiggers or we eyeball it. You get the same amount you would if you had ordered it with ice.”
The angry young man eyes me, then says to Carter, “Fine, put ice in it and I’ll go elsewhere for drinks from now on.”
Carter snatches the glass and then shoves the scoop angrily into the ice machine. He dumps ice into the glass, causing liquid to pour out the sides, then slams it back on the bar. “Here you go.Bro.”
The guy walks off to a table full of other young men, and I look at Carter.
“At least fake bein’ nice when the customer’s bein’ a dick?”
He shakes his head. “Whatever.”
“Sorry,” I mouth to him.
I’m about to head back to my office when I hear Carter mumble, “Suits at ten o’clock.” I swivel toward the door to see Lincoln and Nathan Silverstone entering. I had no idea they were coming by.
“I got this,” I murmur back and plaster a smile on my face. I rush to greet them. “Sirs, this is a surprise.”
“Hi, Quinn. We’re here because we’re considering adding another beer to the menu, but we have to make sure there’s room in back,” Nathan says, pointing toward the beer room.
“Of course. Let’s go take a looksie,” I say, waving a hand. “Can I get y’all anything? A beer or somethin’ to eat?”
