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‘Shit,’ Noah says quietly. I glance up to see a man lurch down the steps. His greasy dark hair hangs limply over his pallid face and his sunken eyes are bloodshot.
Without thinking, I get up to help him down the last few steps, only to be hit with the sour smell of sweat and booze. The man pushes me off forcefully and I fall against the bar, hitting my back against the hard edge and knocking over my drink.
‘Gabriel, don’t,’ Noah protests as the stranger staggers into the office, slamming the door behind him. Noah helps me into my seat. The last of my Coke drips onto the floor. ‘Shit, are you okay?’
‘I’m fine,’ I manage, even if my lower back disagrees. I rub the sore spot and notice Noah’s eyes following the movement. ‘Who was that?’
He sucks a breath between his teeth. ‘My boss. He gets like this sometimes. You should probably go.’
‘Are you going to be okay?’ I don’t want to leave him here, especially if he could be in danger.
‘Weirdly, I deal with this a lot,’ Noah says. ‘I’ll be right behind you.’
Under the topaz lights of this basement bar, his eyes shimmer like emeralds. A part of me wants to stay with him, to suggest maybe we go find another bar and continue this conversation—
—no.
I’m here for a reason. Tennis. Tournaments. Glory. Not dreamy bartenders with sexy forearms and hairstyles from the nineties.
‘Thanks for the Coke,’ I say before walking up the stairs and heaving the heavy door open. Sunlight streams into the dark bar, illuminating dust particles suspended in the air. Outside feels completely different; it’s like I’ve stepped out of a cinema after a marathon movie session only to realise it’s still daylight.
My phone buzzes in my hand. It’s Victor.
Your father is asking for you. You know I’m a bad liar.
I tap out a reply before shoving the phone back into my pocket. As I come to the intersection of the busy street, I raise my hand to adjust my cap only to realise it’s not there. I must have left it in the bar.
For a second, I think about returning to find it, even though I have a dozen others just like it. The cap’s not special, and certainly not anything worth going back for.
It’s a cap, I think,get a hold of yourself.
Tennis. Tournaments. Glory.
4
Noah
Ithink about following Gabriel right out that door. Instead, I lock it behind him, trapping me and the beast in together. As much as I dislike Mark, I don’t want him accosting customers or accidentally stumbling into oncoming traffic.
I count the money and tally the receipts in the bar. Between Peaches, Gabriel and a handful of others, we’ve barely made a hundred bucks.
The office door opens again and Mark walks out with a vice-like grip on the bottle of whiskey he must have pinched from the storeroom. He downs a large swallow.
‘Are you playing poker tonight?’ I ask, trying to keep my tone casual even as fear prickles down my spine. I learnt from my dad that he hated being treated like he was a drunk, so I’m wary not to upset Mark.
‘Maybe later.’ He leans over me and glances into the cash register. God, he reeks of sweat and beer and I swallow down the bile that rises into my throat. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a black Nike cap resting on the bar. Gabriel’s cap. He left it here.
‘Is that all we took today?’ Mark demands.
‘People don’t pay in cash anymore. It’s all on card,’ I lie. To see the full balance, he needs to log into the EFTPOS account using the laptop in the back office. Right now, he can barely stand, let alone remember—or type—his password.
Mark’s grubby fingers grab several bills from the till before he slams the tray closed. ‘Go home.’
Don’t have to tell me twice.If I hurry, I might be able to catch up with Gabriel. Quickly, I pull off my apron, check my reflection in the mirror behind the bar, and grab my satchel from the back office.
In the time it’s taken me to clock out, Mark’s moved to a booth. Tennis plays on the big screens. Mark’s greasy head lolls against the velvet-cushioned booth. For a moment, I wonder if he’s passed out.
Mark wasn’t always like this. When he first bought the bar, he was just an arsehole on a power trip and was delusional about how hard it is to run a bar well.
