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While I’m fishing around in my purse for the cash, he pulls out a clipboard and slides it over to me. “Fill this out, show some ID, and you’ll be good to go. I’m assuming you want ammunition as well.”
I look up at him and nod. I hadn’t even considered it.
“What kind? Birdshot, buckshot, slugs…?”
“Which one is better?”
“You’ll be taking buckshot,” he replies, grabbing a jingling brown box off the shelf behind me and putting it down on the counter.
I thank him, paying for the two purchases and putting everything in my trunk. I have no idea what to do with the gun, where to keep it, and how to use it, but I guess having one is better than not having one, right?
On the way back, my phone rings. It’s my mom, but I don’t want to answer it. Even though I’m running the bar, I haven’t fully committed to staying here with it, and I don’t have a good enough story to tell her that will convince her I’m not up to something else.
I mute my phone, allowing it to go to voicemail as I arrive at the bar. I want to be honest with my mom, I really do, but I know she’ll freak out if I tell her that I’m running Angus’s bar. She would become hysterical, crying and screaming at me that I’ve betrayed the family.
I’m not sure I have the mental capacity to deal with that right now without freaking out on her and making it even worse. I have to sort myself out before I can talk to her.
I take the shotgun into the office and lay it down across the desk. It feels so large and threatening there that I feel like it’s going to go off and spray the entire room with little grey pellets. It’s not loaded, but that doesn’t change how I feel.
I move it to the corner, propping it against the wall where I can keep an eye on it from the desk. I’m treating it like a sentient being, but that’s better than mishandling it and causing a tragic accident.
I have to be smart about all this. One wrong move and I could fuck everything up irreversibly. The room for error doesn’t exist.
After eyeing the shotgun suspiciously for almost a full minute, I open my laptop to check on the job listing I put up. I find it funny that just a week and a half ago, I was the one applying for jobs. Now, I’m on the other side of the fence, and I finally realize how stressful it is to try to hire someone. The entire system is rotten through and through.
When I open my inbox, I’m met with a flood of new applications. How did this many people manage to apply in the time it took me to drive to the store and back?
My mind immediately arrives at the worst conclusions. Did I put an extra zero on the end of the hourly wage, and now I’ll have to walk it back during the interviews? Did I forget to tell them that this place is in the middle of nowhere? Are these even real people, or have bots gotten ahold of my listing and spammed my inbox?
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. I can take this one application at a time, and I don’t have to stress out about hiring them. I’m in charge. I’m the boss now.
I look over to the picture of me as a baby on the bookshelf, and I find strength and courage to continue. Other people have been through much worse and came out okay. This doesn’t have to be what ends me.
I open the first application and start working.
9
Savva
I’m going in solo tonight. I tell myself it’s because I should be able to handle Oakley by myself, but really, it’s because Iwanther all to myself. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her since the first time I terrorized her, even after I emptied my balls to the thought of tearing off her panties and getting inside of her.
I idle in the parking lot for a minute, smoking a cigarette and looking in through the freshly cleaned window. She’s obviously hired a few people. I can see more activity inside, and it looks much better from the outside than it ever did under Angus’s ownership. Perhaps she’ll be able to pull this off after all.
My stomach feels weird as I step off my Harley, and it’s not from the nicotine.
No, it’s something else, the tight swirl of anxiety mixed with excitement. It’s like I popped a pill and it’s just now starting to hit me. I almost feel like turning around and going home.
But I’ve faced much greater challenges than a twenty-one-year-old running around a bar in a tight pair of blue jeans. I can handle her. Whatever she throws my way, I can catch it and twist it in my favor. I’ve always been able to do that.
The door swings open silently on its oiled hinges, and I’m met with the scent of beer, chips, and body odor. Despite Oakley’s renovations, some things will never change. Her customers will always be bikers, and the energy they bring will always be toeing the line between a good time and complete chaos.
There’s a new person working the bar, an older woman with hawkish eyes and long fingers. I don’t know her, but she knows me, and immediately heads into the back after she spots me. She arrives a moment later with Oakley in tow.
So, my little Oakley has a team now. That’s cute.
I slide up to the bar, giving her a wink and smile. “I’d like a drink.”
Without hesitation she turns to the hawkish woman. “Pale ale on the house.” She turns back to me with a cheeky smile. “That’s the cheapest one we have.”
