Chapter One
WREN
“Are you sure there’s booze in this? D-doesn’t taste like it.”
The visibly intoxicated woman frowns at her mixed drink in hand, her eyes glazed over. Her words come out slurred as she leans her weight against the bar top and fights to focus on me.
My irritation piques, but I fight back a snarky remark and settle with something that edges on humor rather than being a pure bitch.
“Did you ever think that makes me a good bartender?” I’m surprised I held the venom from my voice, considering I’ve been at my boiling point for the greater half of my shift.
I need these tips.
I grab my silver drink shaker, slap the top down with pent-up aggression, and begin rocking it back and forth, putting all my frustration into the poor drink mixer rather than my patrons.
I have had it with everyone tonight.
Can you remake my drink?
The ice nearly takes up half my glass. I want more booze!
Six dollars for a beer? That’s highway robbery.
My face remains stoic while crafting the margarita I’ve been working on.
She’s lucky I even served her another drink after she knocked over her friend’s glass earlier—she is obviously intoxicated.
“I just want you to remake it,” the lady whines, giving me a sympathetic look. I give her a strained smile and nod because I totally have time to remake a drink the same fucking way, with my line nearly going out the front door. I shouldn't have told Eric that I could handle this high school reunion alone, but I’m desperate for extra cash.
Lord knows I need the money, especially after my little Honda-that-could started making a frightening noise.
But my pride seems to always step in the way, and I like to bite off more than I can chew, only to realize my mistake when it’s too late and I’m choking.
I frown at the eager patrons, all watching me tackle the crowd on my own with their increasingly irritable groans as the lady in front stamps her foot like a child.
“Okay,” I finally give in, knowing she won’t leave me alone unless I do.
I grab her drink and set it behind the bar while shaking the drink mixer with my other arm. I pour the margarita from the shaker into the prepared glass lined with salt, wedge a lime on the rim, and place a straw before handing it to the handsome man patiently waiting.
“Here you go, sir,” I joke with a smirk. My fiancé, Derrick, smiles and takes a lengthy sip, his blond hair falling into his blue eyes.
“Thanks for the drink, darling.”
“Of course, babe.” I cast a side glance at the woman standing at the front of my bar, drumming her fingers impatiently and sighing. “Now I have to deal with her,” I say, only for Derrick’s ears. She grumbles drunken nonsense as she pulls her phone out and begins typing, her nails clacking against the screen annoyingly.
She’s probably leaving a bad Yelp review as we speak.
She snaps her gum, completely oblivious to the world around her, as her eyes strain to focus on the screen and her body sways on her feet.
“Good luck, baby. You know it’s not too late to call Eric—”
“I got it,” I snap at my fiancé, a little too harsh for my liking. Derrick doesn’t respond, just mouths, “Okay,” with wide eyes and a hand held up in surrender. He walks away from the bar to his friends playing their second round of pool, laughing at their drunken banter and yelling as they fight over whether or not someone is cheating.
Derrick smacks his friend on the shoulder and laughs after Alan shoots the cue ball straight into the pocket, bypassing his striped ball completely. My eyes lift, and my smile falters as I catch Derrick’s friend, Jason, who waves at me from the other side of the pool table. I return the wave with a fake smile, feeling the hatred in my chest blooming for the man who seems to be pulling my fiancé down with him.
Derrick’s weeknights have been slowly mirroring his weekends, spending nearly every night out, drinking, and partying, while I stay home and recover from my long, grueling shifts at the bar. I know it’s because of Jason. He has a reputation for drugs and ragers—which often include strippers—and has been in and out of jail for the better part of his life. Derrick claims he’s a good guy with a bad rap, so I bite my tongue.
Nothing good comes when I question Derrick’s life decisions, so I’ve learned to shut my mouth over the last few years.
Finally, I turn my attention from Jason to my fiancé as he grabs a pool stick from his buddy, and I watch him line up a shot and sink it with no effort.
What a man.
I smile before I turn, pour the drunken woman’s drink into the shaker, and remix it. I pour it back into her glass, topping off her straw with a splash of vodka, only for the taste, and I hand it to her. Being none the wiser, she takes a sip and smiles, nodding.
“That’s perfect, thank you,” she says in a slur as she turns, her heels nearly buckling from beneath her precarious footing. I scoff in her direction as I watch her join her friends who laugh like hyenas in the corner, their phones out and taking videos as another woman shakes her ass to the bumping music.
I have worked hard to keep my bar from turning into one of those bars, but this tends to happen when you get a bunch of high-strung women out for their high school reunion, who have to show off that their life isn’t as miserable as it truly is.
I ignore them, knowing they’re putting money in my pockets and this night will eventually end.
The rest of my shift breezes by quickly with the help of the overwhelming number of patrons that force me to frantically mix and pour drinks, run cards, and deal with drunken pick-up lines from men who think they have a chance with me, even with the giant rock sitting on my finger.
After the night dies down substantially and closing time grows near, I kiss my fiancé goodbye before he leaves, tell him I love him and I’ll see him when I get home. The promise of a long, hot bath with soaks, cuddling up in my bed with my Kindle and cat named Bug, and finally finishing the book I’ve been devouring these last few days has kept me going, even when my poor feet scream at me for relief.
“Last call!” I yell over the commotion, the words coming out with more enthusiasm than I’ve felt all night. The last few customers take the hint and pay for their drinks, leaving generous tips as their judgment, thanks to the alcohol, has skewed. The last of my customers stumbles out the door, and I turn off the OPEN sign that hangs like a neon beacon in the night and take a deep breath, running my fingers through my dark hair.
I plop on a barstool and cringe at the dull ache in my feet, twisting my ankles to fight for relief and wincing when I find none.
Oh yeah, a nice soak is definitely in my future.
I cherish the small moment I have in silence, but begrudgingly stand to my screaming feet to get started on closing duties, knowing the faster they get done, the quicker a glass of wine will be in my possession.
I grab a rag and begin wiping down the bar top and the stools, cleaning them of the spilled liquor and sweat and hopefully not vomit. I round up empty glasses, discarded plates, and napkins, wash the dishes, and load them in the dishwasher.
Usually, my cook does the cleanup while I settle the till and mop, but I sent the cook home early for his wife’s birthday when food orders began to dwindle—I could handle the fried food on my own, or so I thought.
This is another instance of me being too nice and paying the price.
Closing the washer with my hip, I head to the register and settle the tills, counting out my tips with a genuine smile growing for the first time tonight.
I knew wearing my low-cut crop top was a good idea; my boobs always pay off.
Suddenly, I hear the door chime behind me. I whip on my heels, ready to tell the customer I’m closing up and they’ll need to leave.
Why didn’t I lock the door?
I stop in my tracks, my breath hitching in my throat when I see two questionable-looking men standing shoulder to shoulder, watching me. They hide their faces behind masks, one a ski mask, only showcasing his eyes, and the other a dark skull with jutted cheekbones and narrowed eyes. I take in their massive bodies that nearly swallow the entrance, ridding the dim bar of any light from the street lamps along the sidewalks.
They must be at least 6'5" and weigh 250 pounds of solid muscle.
And here I stand, 5′3 , with nothing but a broom that rests behind me as my defense.
“What the fuck do you guys think you’re doing?” I finally ask with a thick voice. Fear licks my insides like flames, and a giant rock settles in the pit of my stomach.
Reaching behind me, I grope for my phone on the counter and find purchase. I clutch it against my chest like a weapon.
Nothing good comes from two masked men in my bar after closing time.
I knew we shouldn’t have skimped on our security because currently, there’s not a single camera about to witness my sure death that’s in my future.
“Door’s unlocked. Thought that meant you were still open,” the man adorned in the skull mask drawls, and I watch as his silver eyes from under his mask rake down my body, sizing me up. A shiver cascades down my spine under his gaze, but I swallow down the lump in my throat as I grab the fistful of my tips and throw them across the bar.
“Here,” I say, stepping back a few paces to distance us. “Take my money; even the till. Take anything you want. Just leave. P-please.”
The beast of a man stares down at the cash that litters the bar top and chuckles. I cautiously watch as he steps forward, his boots echoing in the silence. I step back again, my ass knocking into the cooler, making me wince with my heart hammering inside my chest.
The only thing standing between us is my bartop, but with their stature, it won’t be much of an obstacle.
“We don’t want your money,” he murmurs, his chin dipping as he looks down at me. The man standing next to him reaches forward, almost comically, as he grabs the money and fists it into his pocket. The man with the skull mask who stands before me looks over his shoulder and scoffs, but doesn’t utter a word.
“We’ll leave,” the skull-masked man says, his voice deep and gravelly. “But you’re coming with us.”
