by Kate, Jiffy
Earlier in the evening, someone ordered it and I couldn’t understand what they were saying over the roar of the bar. I thought they’d asked if this was Come Again, to which I replied loudly, “Yes, this is Come Again.” I’m sure the look on my face was like, duh, didn’t you read the sign outside?
Paulie had stepped in and made the lady her drink, sending a wink over his shoulder in the process.
“Can’t believe the boss hired you without teaching you to make the drink,” he adds, shaking his head in Shaw’s direction.
“He didn’t think I’d be around long enough to make it,” I shoot back. Over the past week, I’ve started to feel more and more like my old self. Thoughts of Brant have dwindled down to practically zero. My job has been going well. The tips have been good. Life is good. And I can feel the weight of the world slowly easing up off my shoulders.
“Let’s go to Bourbon Street,” I announce to anybody and everybody. “First round of drinks are on me and my two hundred and seven dollars.” Waving the money in the air, I get a chuckle from Paulie and an interested tilt from Jeremy’s head. Shaw on the other hand, grunts his displeasure from the corner.
“It’s after one in the morning,” he says in his typical gruff, even tone. “Everyone there is already three sheets to the wind. It’s a bad idea.”
“Great idea,” I counter, hopping down and grabbing my backpack. “I’m twenty-three and I’ve been in New Orleans, Sin City of the South, for a solid month and the only time I’ve been to Bourbon Street was when I was looking for employment, during the day.”
“I’ll go,” Jeremy says, tossing his bar towel on the counter. “I’m not much of a drinker, but I’ll come along for the entertainment.”
“Yes, Jeremy,” I say, pointing to him from across the bar. “That’s what I like to hear. We’ll go, have a couple drinks, walk the disgusting streets, and maybe sing along to a few bad renditions of 80’s hair bands. Then I can at least say I’ve been to Bourbon.”
He smiles, shaking his head at me, but follows me toward the door. “Well, I guess we’re going to Bourbon,” he calls back, bowing as we leave the bar. I don’t miss the furious look on Shaw’s face, but I disregard it because he’s made it perfectly clear we only have one connection—he’s my boss and I’m his employee. Besides, along with my new sense of self, I’ve realized that for the first time in all my life, I don’t have to answer to anyone—not Brant or my parents, definitely not Shaw O’Sullivan. I’m free, and damn it, I’m going to start living like it.
“So, where should we start?” I ask Jeremy as we make our way across Jackson Square. He shrugs and I can feel him watching me as we walk. “Is this okay?” I stop for a second, realizing that maybe I’m putting him in a bad spot. I know he said alcohol isn’t his drug of choice, but I would never want to be that friend—the enabler.
“Yeah, it’s great,” he replies and that’s when I feel it. That long-forgotten knowing, when your self recognizes the awareness of someone else. Maybe it’s the softness in his tone or the lingering of his gaze, but I know in that moment that Jeremy might be reading more into this spontaneous outing than I intended.
Clearing my throat and swiping a loose strand of hair behind my ear, I rip the Band-Aid off. “You know we’re just friends, right? I might be out of line here. I’ve kind of been in a relationship for the past six years, but I feel like I’m getting...signals. And I want to make sure we’re on the same page. If I am out of line, just chalk this up to the crazy girl from Oklahoma thinking everything is about her, but I swear I’m not really that vain. I just—”
“Just friends.” Jeremy interrupts my rambling, thankfully saving me from making a complete fool of myself. “You just got out of a long relationship, like you said, and I’m trying to stay clean. We definitely don’t make a good pair right now.”
I don’t miss the way he says right now, but I ignore it. Jeremy is a nice guy. We’ve bonded over our love of pizza, any kind—pineapple, anchovies, thin crust, thick crust. We haven’t found a combination we can’t agree on. He’s also cute. I can see that. Even under the grit and hardness of living on the street, he’s attractive, but I don’t feel a spark for him. My skin doesn’t tingle when he’s near. My heart doesn’t beat out of my chest when he looks at me.
If I’m being honest with myself, there’s only one person who’s made me feel like that in the last month and he’s sitting back at the bar wearing a scowl.
I smile at Jeremy and nod my head. “Just friends.”
Slowly he stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans and tilts his head in the direction we were walking. “Shall we?”
Thankfully, there doesn’t seem to be any lingering awkwardness as we continue our walk toward the lights, sights and sounds of Bourbon Street. But as we walk, I can’t get my mind off Shaw and the fact that he’s brought out feelings I thought were long gone—feelings I thought I’d only experience once in my life, with Brant. I think I’d chalked it up to first love. I was eighteen when I realized I was in love with Brant Wilson. He was all of my firsts. When the spark I felt between us started to die, I thought it was normal.
“I’ve heard people talk about Hand Grenades from Tropical Isle,” Jeremy says as we start passing more and more people, the music and buzz of Bourbon Street oozing out into the New Orleans night.
Taking a deep breath—and immediately regretting it, because oh my, God, it really does smell like a toilet—I rid myself of depressing thoughts and tell Jeremy, “Lead the way!”
He grabs my hand, not in a romantic gesture, but more in an effort to not lose me. It might only be a Wednesday, mid-week for most working folk, but it’s like a weekend party down here. The neon lights pull your eyes in every direction. There are half-naked girls luring people into bars with open doors and windows, the music from their respective DJs battling it out in the streets.
Finally, Jeremy and I slip into a dim bar and he orders one Hand Grenade. “You’re not drinking?” I ask, disappointment lacing my question.
“We’re sharing. These things are potent.”
“Ohh,” I reply, realization hitting me as the bartender places a large grenade-shaped, bong-looking thing in front of us. With the first sip, I also remember how much of a light-weight I am and that half of this might do the trick and have me flat on my ass.
Chuckling, I pass it to Jeremy. “Good call on sharing.”
“Right?” He smiles and takes a long pull. “Let’s go find some bad renditions of 80’s hair bands.”
We’re not two steps out of Tropical Isle when some guy is yelling from a balcony above us, “Hey, Pinkie, show me your tits!”
“What is it with guys and tits?” I mutter under my breath, giving him my middle finger. Jeremy laughs as we continue walking.
“We’ve gotta get you to Cat’s Meow,” Jeremy says, pulling me along the crowded sidewalk.
“Cat’s Meow?”
“Karaoke. You’re gonna kill it.”
On the way to Cat’s Meow, we stop off for rainbow-colored shots that only cost three dollars and tasted like battery acid mixed with Kool-Aid. By the time we squeezed our way into the bar on the corner with a neon sign proudly displaying Cat’s Meow, my head was swimming.
“I’m signing you up,” Jeremy yells over the music and singing. “What do you want to sing?”
“You Shook Me All Night Long,” I reply without thinking. It’s a no-brainer, especially with my good friend liquid courage on my side. I feel ten feet tall and bulletproof.
His eyebrows go up into his hairline. “AC/DC?”
I nod vehemently. “AC/DC. Let’s do this,” I say, grabbing two shots off a tray that’s passing by and toss one back, then the other, before handing the waitress a twenty.
Sometime later, with all the singing and dancing, I kind of lost myself in the crowd. Occasionally, I’d catch Jeremy looking at me and smiling, but I’d just sing louder, letting the alcohol soothe away any embarrassment or inhibitions.
“Avery
is going to sing for us,” the MC says, squinting past the lights as he scans the crowd of cheering onlookers. “Where are you Avery?”
A sudden jolt of fear strikes me right in the pit of my stomach, but it’s followed up with a huge rush of adrenaline, squealing, I squeeze Jeremy’s arm before running toward the side of the stage. The throng of people parted like the Red Sea, allowing me to get to the guy holding a microphone. “Ready?” he asks when we make eye contact.
With my head swimming a little, I nod and take a deep breath as he thrusts the mic into my hand. The music starts and I feel a bubble of excitement. Once I’m standing in the middle of the stage, the lights blind me a little, keeping me from seeing all of the eyes watching me. Then, people realize what song I’m singing and begin to cheer and the atmosphere shifts.
I rock that stage.
The place was going wild and I was lost to the music and lyrics, letting my pink hair fly around.
By the time I walk off the stage, arms in the air like a rock star, I’m covered in sweat and met with adoring fans handing me free shots. It’s rude not to accept free shots, so I drink. And drink. And pass a few off to my new friends. And drink some more.
Eventually, all the neon lights, booze, and loud music blend into a blur of indecipherability and my body feels too heavy, so I lean on Jeremy for support, laughing at anything and everything.
We stay at Cat’s Meow—dancing and singing and sweating our asses off—until I can finally stand on my own again without swaying, but as the initial buzz begins to subside, I realize I need some air.
“Can we get out of here?” I yell over the opening lines of “Baby Got Back.” This is the second time this song has been sung since we’ve been here, so I decide it’s a good time to depart.
“Yeah.” Jeremy nods and takes my hand as we excuse our way to the open doors.
My vision is still jumpy and I have trouble focusing on one thing at a time. “No more shots,” I tell Jeremy, brushing my damp hair away from my face. Now that I can hear myself talk, I notice the slurred, slowness and it makes me laugh, for no apparent reason.
“No more shots,” he agrees.
“Holy shit,” I murmur. “I think I’m getting drunker.” I thought the cool air would help, but it’s not. My mind is just as jumpy and out of focus as my eyes.
Jeremy laughs and I feel my head spin.
Chapter 10
Shaw
I shouldn’t be here.
I don’t know why I am.
Half an hour ago, I left my bike in my makeshift shed behind the bar and told Paulie I was walking home. This is technically on my way home, but I always bypass Bourbon Street, avoiding it like the plague. So, why am I here now? Why have I walked the length of the street once, dodging drunk people and ignoring jeers and propositions from questionably dressed women, and am now standing at the busiest corner scanning the horde?
Fucking Avery.
She’s been under my skin from the moment she walked into my bar. It was something about her innocent yet soulful eyes that made me reinforce my walls the moment I saw her. She was like a surprise storm, something you never expect and can’t predict. The pink hair is a contradiction to her true self. You’d think she’d be a bit of a wild child, but until tonight, I’ve never seen her portray an ounce of debauchery, and believe me, I watch. I watch all the employees at my bar.
Over the years, I’ve had employees who drink ten times the amount of alcohol they serve, give their friends free drinks, and ones who pocket the cash instead of putting it in the register. I’ve also had employees who use my bar as a front for drug distribution or prostitution.
People will try anything, but at my bar, they only try it once.
Between me and Paulie, we run a tight ship. He’s my eyes when I can’t be there. When I am there, he’s my backup pair. Which is why I should’ve taken his advice tonight and gone home. But I couldn’t. I still don’t trust Jeremy. Something about him doesn’t sit well with me and the fact he’s out with Avery tonight doesn’t either.
Which is why I’m here.
I told myself when I took off walking that I’d make eye contact with him, let him know I’m watching and I’d leave. Avery never has to see me. I just want him to know that someone is looking out for her. And fuck her for making that be me, but I can’t let something happen to one of my employees under my watch.
Technically she’s not on my watch. I get that. But it’s the principle.
I huff in disbelief at my justification. It’s bullshit and I know it.
At first, I didn’t want to hire her because she’s a female and I don’t hire females. Then she threw that misogynistic bullshit in my face and I started reconsidering. However, I never thought she’d make it past the first month. What I really thought was that she’d go crawling back to her boyfriend and they’d kiss and make up and I’d fill her place when the time came. But I now know that’s never happening.
It appears I’m stuck with her.
And if that’s the case, I’m going to make sure she doesn’t get herself into trouble. Or let drug abusing dickheads like Jeremy take advantage of her.
Eye contact and then my job here is done.
“Shaw O’Sullivan,” a disbelieving, albeit drunk voice slurs behind me and it makes all my cells fire. Avery’s laugh forces me to turn around and I’m stuck in her gaze—her glossy, hooded gaze. When she steps into my personal space, peering up at me, I see Jeremy step up behind her, as if to steady her...or pull her back, but I grip her arms and glare at him.
“Why don’t you ever smile?” she says almost like she’s saying it to herself—thinking out loud. Her eyes flutter closed and I hold onto her a little tighter until she opens them and smiles up at me, giggling. Then she touches me, her hands come up to the sides of my face and she holds my cheeks. “You should smile. I think you’d look nicer, not so mean and surly.” She pauses for a second, staring at me. “Surly. That’s a funny word. Don’t you think that’s a funny word, Jeremy?”
Jeremy nods, but stays rooted in place behind her, his eyes also on mine.
“Jeremy took me to Cat’s Meow.” The meow part is dramatic and she brings a hand away from my face in a claw motion, pawing at the air. But with her other hand, the one that’s still planted on my cheek, she brushes softly over my beard and my back stiffens.
Clearing my throat, I take her shoulders and put some distance between us. Her hand falls to her side and her smile goes with it. “Make sure she gets home safely,” I instruct, glaring at Jeremy. There’s venom in my tone and I know he hears it because he visibly swallows and then nods.
“Yeah, sure.”
“Jeremy will. Won’t you, Jeremy?” Avery sing-songs her words, now pinching Jeremy’s cheek with one of her hands. So, she’s a touchy-feely kind of drunk. Good to know. “Me and Jeremy are just friends, isn’t that right, Jeremy?”
The way she says just friends makes Jeremy wince a little, but it makes me feel better. It seems as though there’s already been a conversation about boundaries between them. Good for her.
Shitty for Jeremy.
But, good for Avery.
And me.
Now, I can go home and not worry about him putting things where they don’t belong.
“I’ll see you both tomorrow,” are my parting words and I turn on my heel and walk away, not looking back. Jeremy will make sure she gets home okay. He needs a paycheck too bad. Plus, he knows I got him off the streets and without me, he’d be right back there. I’m not usually vengeful like that, but I wouldn’t be above it.
Walking home, my mind is on Avery, even though I don’t want it to be. I’ve noticed over the past few weeks that she creeps into my thoughts without permission. I’m also pretty sure I can still feel her hands on my face.
Ten hours later, I’m walking back to Come Again, feeling tired and annoyed. I spent the better part of the night unable to sleep due to thinking about things that are not my concern. Avery is none of my business. What
she does and who she does shouldn’t matter to me.
So, why does it?
Between the lack of sleep and not being able to whip my brain into submission, I’m in a worse than typical mood.
Surly.
Is that what she called me?
I huff my answer to my own mental question and put my key in the lock of the front door, but it’s already unlocked, so I open it and step inside. “Hello?” I call out, looking around at the clean, empty bar. Stocking the bar and organizing the shelves, even when they don’t need it, is kind of like my own personal therapy. It calms me—allows me to focus on something besides the droning of my mind. It’s something I’ve always enjoyed doing, so the fact that it’s done makes me even pissier than when I walked in a few moments ago.
Looking around, I notice that everything is done. Chairs are back down. Napkins are filled. Clean glasses are stacked behind the bar. The smell of coffee is filling the air and a faint sound of jazz is coming from the direction of my office.
Just great.
“Hey.” Sarah’s voice makes me spin around and I glare at her.
When I don’t reply to her greeting, she smiles and shakes her head. “Well, good morning to you too.”
“What the fuck? Why’d you clean my bar?” The question is accusatory and all of my distaste for her actions are present and accounted for.
Sarah barks out a laugh and huffs, leaning her elbows on the shiny bar top. “I think a ‘Thank you, Sarah. The place looks great.’ sounds a little better, don’t you?” She rolls her eyes when I don’t crack and then turns her glare on me. “What crawled up your ass this morning? Or who, I guess I should say.”
“No one.” My eyes drift from one side of the bar to the other and I let out a deep exhale through my nose. “I’m going upstairs,” I tell her, brushing past on my way to the back door.
“When you’re finished punishing the punching bag, come see me next door.”
It’s not a request, it’s an order, said in a tone that only my older sister can get by with. My mama used to use it with all of us kids when we were younger. Sarah learned it well. Since she doesn’t have kids, she uses it on me when she thinks I’m out of line.
