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The moment her and Kate are out of earshot, Nick is leaning in. “You don’t talk to them like that.”
Silently, I brandish a middle finger.
Nick laughs, a cold, empty sound. Arms folded on the counter, he bends down, looking genuinely curious in a way that’s kind of terrifying. “When’re you gonna stop, hm? When they all hate you? Will that be enough?”
It takes half a dozen swallows before the pesky lump in my throat lessens enough for me to spit, “Fuck off.”
“Breaking Jackson’s heart wasn’t enough, you gotta wreck Amelia’s too?”
“Fuckoff, Nicolas.”
“You think she deserves that?” Nick cocks his head, all challenge and no sympathy. “You think any of us deserve that?”
No. Of fucking course I don’t.
But I don’t know how to do anything else.
“Aw, Nicky.” I fake a pout, pressing a hand to my withered little heart. “I didn’t know you cared so much.”
I don’t, I wait for him to say. That’s the answer I expect, the one I deserve, the one I want because it’s the only thing I can handle.
I can’t take the sad, pitying frown I get instead. It’s gone quick, replaced with that typical Silva pissed-off-ness, but the effect of it lingers like a fucking splinter in my chest. Nick slaps his palms against the counter once, not aggressive, just final. “Don’t come near our table unless it’s to apologize,” he says before stalking off.
I have half a mind to leap over the counter and initiate something very similar to a schoolyard brawl; partly because I hate him telling me what to do, mostly because I hate the fucking truth bomb I didn’t need. Luckily for Nick and his disturbingly pretty face, I'm distracted by someone grabbing my elbow.
Quickly forgetting Nick–or, at the very least, shoving him to the back of my mind–I focus on the short brunette peering up at me, hazel eyes rife with stress. Gideon’s not a regular bartender here, she just has the great misfortune of living upstairs with her son and helps out when we're in a pinch. Judging by the look on her face, I suspect tonight wasn't meant to be one of those nights.
Which is why when she asks me to stay an extra hour, just until the rush dies down, I can't bring myself to say no. Especially with those fucking doe eyes gazing pleadingly up to me; it would be like saying no to Bambi.
“Blake with his dad?” I ask, referring to her four-year-old son.
Gideon pulls a face. “No. He bailed again.” Frustration has my co-worker slamming a glass down on the counter with a bit more force than necessary. “I had to get a sitter.”
Her tone makes me wince. It's not the first time I've heard of Blake's dad being a deadbeat. He's come in here a couple of times, and the guy reeks of bad news. Every time I see him and his greasy hair and sneering face, I wonder how the hell he managed to seduce someone as sweet as Gideon, who is quite possibly the reincarnation of Tinkerbell. She reminds me of Ms Honey from Matilda, which is fitting because, by night, she might be a bartender, but by day she teaches second graders. I just know there's a whole horde of seven-year-olds out there completely in love with this woman.
“If you ever need help,” I start, leaning around her to snag a bottle of rum off the shelf. “I'm a pretty good babysitter.” A lie but I suspect it’s seriously bad karma not to offer a Disney princess disguised as a single mom help if she needs it. I've never babysat in my life and I have a feeling Gideon knows that so I tack on, “and I'm cheap.”
Shooting me a grateful smile, Gideon bumps my hip as she squeezes past me, calling over her shoulder on her way to the opposite end of the bar. “I'll keep that in mind.”
* * *
Time goes quick when you're up to your eyeballs in shots and beers and intricate cocktails that make me want to slap my past self in the face for ever ordering.
It’s a blessing in disguise, really. Being busy is better than being at home contemplating my shitty existence. Being busy is fun when I’m working with Gideon; watching this tiny, sweet little woman shooting down men left right and center and handing them their drunk asses is a fucking sight to see.
Being busy makes avoiding people who are very hard to avoid a little easier.
I did as Nick asked. I haven’t gone to their table. I haven’t served them at all; I don’t know if Gideon has a sixth sense or something but anytime one of them approaches the bar, she suddenly appears and attends to their alcoholic needs.
That doesn't mean I haven't had one eye on them all night. It doesn't mean I haven't noticed Jackson is practically glued to the table, as are his eyes. Or that every time a new round is needed, the girls are the ones to come up and order.
It doesn’t mean I’ve managed to ignore just how much a hot commodity my ex-boyfriend and his friends are.
Whatever. None of my business.
I'm pulling what is probably my hundredth pint of the hour when a hand squeezes my shoulder and Gideon's brunette head knocks against mine. Smooth as anything, she takes the half-full pint from my grip and nudges me aside, seamlessly transferring control of the tap to herself. “There's a guy over there asking for you.”
Breath catching, I falter for the briefest second before following her line of sight. A weird mixture of relief and disappointment floods me when I find my favorite baby-faced blond beckoning me over with two fingers.
