by Kate, Jiffy
We stand there for a few seconds, both lost in thought, until CeCe adds, “Maybe he’ll decide it’s not worth it and forget about it.”
I can’t help the sarcastic laugh that erupts, thankful for her positive attitude, but knowing it’s futile. “Fat chance.”
“Yeah,” CeCe says with a chuckle, “wishful thinking.”
A few hours later, when I show up for my shift at the bar, the nerves are back in full force, but I throw myself into work and try to forget. Fortunately, the weekends are the busiest nights at Come Again. Paulie told me that there are times when Shaw has to turn people away it gets so busy. The last thing any bar or establishment wants is to be over max capacity and get on the fire department’s shit list.
“You good with this end of the bar?” Kevin asks, putting a new bottle of Southern Comfort on the shelf in front of me.
“I’m good,” I tell him as I mix a simple vodka and tonic for a college-aged guy who I just carded.
With my pink hair and big brown eyes, I know I don’t look old enough to card anyone. I’ve been told I don’t look a day over twenty. But surprisingly enough, I don’t get much crap for it. I guess people are used to flashing their IDs in a city like this.
“That’ll be six,” I tell him, slapping down a napkin, dashing it with salt, and then placing the drink down in front of him. The salt helps keep the wet glass from sticking to the napkin. It’s a trick I learned from my first waitressing job back in Honey Springs.
“Keep the change,” he says with a wink, passing me a ten.
One thing is for sure, tips are good here. Hopefully, they’ll be good enough to get me into my own apartment in a few months. I decided earlier as I was walking around the French Quarter, waiting on my shift to start, that I’ll save until I have enough for my deposits and a couple months’ rent. That way, I won’t be stressing over meeting my monthly bills. Until then, I’ll keep finding rooms to rent that are close to the Quarter.
“Two beers,” another guy says, slapping a twenty in front of me. “Whatever you’ve got on tap.”
Taking the money, I turn and fill up two glasses with Abita Purple Haze, our best-seller. When I return with his beers and his change, my breath catches in my throat.
The hyperventilating starts a split second later.
“Eight’s your change,” I mumble as I absentmindedly toss the bills onto the bar and take a few steps back until I bump into the counter behind me. My thoughts are no longer on the customer or whether he took his beers or left me a tip.
I can’t look up.
My eyes are glued to the scratched, weathered wood of the bar as my hands grip the edge.
Maybe he doesn’t see me.
The pink hair kinda gives me away, but maybe there’re so many people around the bar that he can’t see me.
Thoughts of hiding, running, and turning invisible hit me so hard they paralyze me, locking me in place. Another guy leaning over the bar, snapping his fingers in my direction, is what finally brings me back to the present and out of my fear-driven trance.
“Hey, hot stuff,” the blonde-haired twenty-something yells with a sleazy grin as his eyes peruse my chest like it’s the menu. “Nice tits. Can I get a whiskey neat? And, uh, whatever else you might be offering.”
My eyes narrow as I take a step forward, but I don’t get a chance to reply because Shaw’s smooth, deep voice slides over me like warm honey. “You can learn to use a little respect or get the hell outta my bar.”
“What?” the guys says with a chuckle, throwing his hands in the air, his smile morphing to one of fake innocence. “Can’t a guy have a little fun? I was just tryin’ to make conversation with this cutie. Where’d you find her? She’s nice.”
Now it’s obvious he’s already drunk. I didn’t catch that at first due to being preoccupied, but I scowl at him, throwing fire darts with my eyes and again go to defend myself, but Shaw cuts me off.
“You heard me,” he says with a familiar shortness to his words and tone, making them bite. “Show some fucking respect or get the fuck outta my bar. Don’t come in here and harass my employees.”
When I tense, Shaw places a hand on my back and it’s hot—searing—shooting electricity through my body. I’m sure he thinks it’s the “nice tits” guy that’s making me edgy, but he’s wrong. I can handle guys like him all day long. If he’d given me a chance, I would’ve put him in his place myself.
But the tall guy with his blonde hair combed just perfectly, sticking out like a sore thumb in his three-piece suit, is what has me ready to bolt. He’s made his way closer to the bar and I recognize the tie he’s wearing. I bought it for him on Valentine’s Day two years ago.
As he approaches, his blue eyes bore into mine and he glowers when his gaze slides to Shaw standing beside me.
“Avery!” His harsh use of my name causes me to stiffen even more. Flashes of the last time he said my name assault my memory—his hand making contact with my cheek, the sting and disorientation.
“Avery!”
I feel myself physically flinch when he calls out a second time. Knowing I just need to get this over with, on auto-pilot, I step away from Shaw and motion with my head for Brant to follow me to the end of the bar.
Shaw stays behind, filling a couple orders for people, but when I look back over my shoulder, I see him watching me. It’s a relief, like I’m walking a tight line, but he’s my safety net.
He won’t let Brant hit me.
Deep breaths, Avery.
Let’s get this over with.
“Avery.” This time when he says my name it’s a low growl and I can hear the anger over the roar of the crowd. “What the fuck are you doing here? Working in a place like this?”
“What’s wrong with this place?” I ask, a bit of my boldness creeping back in as I bristle at his insult. Brant’s self-righteousness is one of my least favorite characteristics. It’s right up there with condescending asshole, just under abuser. “It’s a bar. You go to places like this.”
“I don’t work at places like this and neither do you.” His jaw clenches as he tries to keep his cool. The tell-tale redness creeping up his neck is the only sign I need to know that his control is slipping between his fingers.
“I do, actually. I’ve been working here for almost two weeks.”
“Does your mama know you’re working here?” he asks, cocking his head to the side with a condescending stare. “Man, I bet she’d be so proud. I bet this is exactly what she dreamed for you.”
“My mama knows I work here,” I tell him, hoping if I show him I’m not intimidated or hiding anything he’ll go away. “What else do you have to say, Brant?”
When I go to cross my arms over my chest, his large hand clamps down on my bicep and he begins to pull me through the crowded bar. A few patrons give us speculative stares as Brant plows through them, bumping into one causing the guy to puff his chest. “What the fuck, man?”
“Excuse us,” Brant mutters.
Using the distraction, I try to yank my arm back. There’s no way in hell I’m leaving here with him. Just as I’m about to dig in my heels, I feel a tall, warm body come up behind me.
“Let go of her,” Shaw barks, causing Brant to stop and look.
“Mind your own business,” Brant snaps sharply, turning back around and continuing to pull me behind him.
“Let her go. Now.” Shaw’s voice is harder this time, leaving no room for argument.
Brant stops and turns with a questioning glare, like how dare Shaw talk to him that way. Stuck in the middle, I try to wiggle my arm away from Brant, but his grip is firm, squeezing so hard it feels like he’s going to stop the blood flow. Then, Shaw’s in my space and his hand covers Brant’s.
“This is my bar and she’s my employee, so it’d be wise of you to let her go and get the fuck out of here,” he warns, low and guttural with a healthy dose of dangerous, like he’s begging Brant to give him a reason to physically remove him.
“We have thing
s to discuss.” Brant’s tone changes minutely. I know him and I know that something he sees in Shaw’s glare scares him. He might be big and bad in a normal crowd of people, but he’s not so big and bad when he’s up against Shaw O’Sullivan. Brant’s golden boy, football past doesn’t mean shit to Shaw’s broad shoulders and well-defined muscles.
“No, I don’t think you do,” Shaw tells him. “And you really don’t have any right to put your hands on her.” His dark eyes bore into Brant’s and I watch as their bodies close in around me.
Brant’s sardonic laugh fills the space and he shakes his head. “Oh, this is rich. Are you fucking her?” He looks at me and then at Shaw. “Is that why you came here? Are you whoring yourself out now? I wasn’t good enough for you so you thought you’d what?” He shrugs backing up a little as he slowly loses his mind, spouting off ridiculous accusations. “Is he your sugar daddy, Avery? Is that what you want?”
“Brant, stop,” I seethe, feeling my blood begin to boil as my face heats with embarrassment.
“How dare you come here after everything that’s happened and accuse me of sleeping around? It’s none of your damn business, anyway. Like I told you the other day, you lost the privilege of knowing anything about me the moment you...” The realness of the situation washes over me and I have to get it off my chest—say it, out loud. This is my chance. “You hit me! How dare you?”
When I leap for him, Shaw pulls me back and I turn on him, giving him my best death glare, feeling tears prick at my eyes but forcing them away. “Let me go,” I demand.
Pulling me into his chest, his mouth is at my ear and his breath is hot against the skin on my neck. “Not happening.”
“You know what,” Brant huffs. “You can have her. I was done with her anyway.”
“Fuck you, Brant!” I half scream, half cry the words, because that cut deep. I was always faithful to him. I loved him. I would’ve married him. And all he has to say right now is he was done with me? “Fuck. You.”
“Where are the keys?” Shaw asks, low and quiet, calmly bringing me back from the edge of my rage, making me think.
“In my bag, behind the counter.”
“Go get them,” he orders and gently, but decisively places me behind him, urging me toward the bar. For a second, I stare at Shaw’s back as he stands in front of Brant with his feet spread apart and his big arms folded across his chest, daring him to make a move.
Numbly, I walk to the bar and kneel behind it, pulling my keys and cell phone out of my backpack. Since he’s here, I want him to have everything he can hold over my head. I want this to be the end of it.
While I’m still squatting down behind the counter, I hear a scuffle and raise up just in time to see Brant throw a punch at Shaw, or try to. His fist flies, but it’s stopped mid-air, and I watch as Shaw twists Brant’s arm behind his back, driving him toward the door.
People are watching, giving the two men a wide berth, and the bar falls silent with only Bon Jovi’s Livin’ on a Prayer playing on the jukebox in the background.
“Don’t you ever fucking lay a hand on her again,” Shaw says, his voice never raising above its normal even, sharp tone. He doesn’t need to yell. The power of his words is in his expression and body language. When I see his fist tighten at his side, I run back around the corner of the bar and toward the two of them, hoping if I can just give Brant what he came for, he’ll leave and we can avoid an all-out brawl.
“She deserved it.”
Those words make me practically stumble over my own two feet as I pull up just short of Shaw’s back. They’re also the last words Brant gets a chance to say before Shaw’s fist makes contact with Brant’s nose.
When I finally get a glimpse of his face, a trickle of blood is the first thing I see, along with a disbelieving look. He’s not used to losing, not in life, and definitely not in a fight.
I’m a little ashamed to admit how much it pleases me—seeing the red smear across his face as he wipes the back of his hand across his nose. I don’t condone violence, but I, of all people, know Brant had that coming to him. My only regret is that I didn’t get to deliver the blow myself.
“Avery,” Shaw says calmly, turning in my direction. “Keys.”
Placing them, along with the cell phone, in his hand, I breathe heavy, my eyes still wide, as everything feels a bit like an out of body experience—wild and crazy—like I’m watching a movie play out in front of me.
“Here,” Shaw says, taking Brant’s now bloody hand and turning it over, placing the keys and cell phone in it. “Start walking around, I’m sure you’ll find the car. Eventually.”
“You’re so fucking stupid, Avery,” Brant mutters, licking his upper lip, more than likely getting a mouth full of blood in the process. “Your ticket out of Honey Springs was me and now you’ve blown it. Hope you enjoy rotting in that nowhere town, because I guarantee you’ll be back there and now that I’m gone, there’s nothing left for you. You better get used to the idea of living a pathetic, lonely life on the farm...where you belong.”
“Get out of here, Brant,” I tell him, my words losing their fury as he uses my fears against me, spewing words spoken to him in confidence, thinking I was entrusting them to someone who cared about me. “Don’t come back.”
With one last look, he stuffs the phone and keys in his pocket. Just when I think it’s over and he’s going to leave without any more of a scene, he solidifies his title of Dick Head of the Year by leaning over to a nearby table and taking some guy’s beer. I watch with wide eyes as he chugs it and then slams the empty glass back on the table. Swiping a stack of napkins, he wipes the blood from his nose and tosses them to the ground before throwing open the door and practically knocking over a group of people coming into the bar. They watch him with rapt confusion, wondering what they missed.
The last thing I see of Brant is his retreating form flipping everyone the bird as he storms off down the sidewalk.
“Fucking asshole,” Shaw mutters under his breath. “You okay?” The question is for me, but he’s giving everyone around us a furtive glance, silently telling them to mind their own business.
“I’m fine,” I tell him, suddenly feeling completely drained, but also relieved. Giving a few people an apologetic smile, I allow Shaw to direct me back to the bar.
“Paulie,” Shaw yells over the crowd. “Get this guy a beer.” He points over his shoulder to the guy by the door who’s a beer short thanks to Brant. “Sorry about that.” Fortunately, the guy seems fairly good-natured about the whole ordeal, probably enough beers in that he’s feeling no pain.
After a few seconds, chatter picks up around us and the bar goes back to a steady buzz.
“You good to work?” Shaw asks quietly as we step behind the bar.
“Yeah, I’m good.” I need the distraction and there’s no way in hell I’m leaving right now. My luck, Brant would be out there waiting on me. No telling how long it’ll take him to find the car.
When Shaw steps back out into the crowd, leaving me to my job, Jeremy and Paulie both give me a tentative smile, but thankfully let everything go. We all go back to the comfortable rhythm of filling drink orders, allowing me a chance to release the pent-up breath I’ve been holding since Brant walked through the door.
He’s gone.
He has his fucking car.
And his fucking phone.
I have neither, but that’s okay.
I’d rather be penniless than owe him single damn thing.
The rest of the night flies by in typical fashion—a few spilled beers and a drunk customer who’s cut off and given a cup of coffee. Fortunately, nothing rivals the scene with Brant, but I’m left wondering where he’s at. Did he find the car? Will that be enough for him?
I hope so.
Paulie and I tag team the front of the bar, wiping down every surface and putting all the barstools and chairs up on the tables so Jeremy and Kevin can sweep and mop the place. Shaw’s been MIA since Brant left. For all I know, he went
home. It’s not like he has to stick around here. Paulie could run this place in a heartbeat.
“I’ll wash the glasses,” I tell Paulie, taking the full crate of dirties and walking toward the hallway.
“Why don’t you go,” Paulie urges. “I’ll get one of the knuckleheads to wash them when they’re finished with the floors.”
“Nah, I don’t mind.”
“You’re a good worker,” Paulie says with a smile. “I know Shaw doesn’t give out many compliments, but just know, you’re fitting in nicely around here.”
“Thanks, Paulie.” I give him a genuine smile, the first I’ve felt like giving all night. He doesn’t know how badly I needed to hear something like that.
On my way to the kitchen, I pass Shaw’s office and notice the door ajar. Glancing back over my shoulder, I see Paulie went back out front, so I indulge my curiosity and look inside. My breath hitches when I peek around and see Shaw at the desk. His head is bent as he works on something, concentration drawing his brows together. A weird feeling floods my chest as I watch him. It’s like warmth and goodness, which is crazy because Shaw is neither of those things.
Clearing my throat, I get his attention, although it’s a slow movement and I wonder if Shaw is ever startled or scared? Does someone like him even truly know the definition? Something about his hard demeanor makes me think he’s immune to weak feelings like fear and panic.
“Need something?” he asks, setting his pen down on the desk and leaning back in his chair, folding his big arms behind his head. My eyes trace the tattoos and I have to force myself to look him in the eyes.
“Uh, just wanted to say thank you for...helping me.”
Our eyes lock and Shaw holds my gaze for an elongated moment, making me feel apprehensive and fidgety. If it weren’t for the large crate of dirty glasses I’m holding, I’d probably be chewing on my thumb nail, but I can’t, so I clear my throat again.
“You’re gonna stay at the apartment tonight,” he declares, relaxing his arms and picking the pen back up like we just had a long, drawn out conversation and it came to a close.
