Leaving Poppy sleeping on my sweater, I climbed out and scooted through the cars across the street. When I arrived at the front of the building, I paused on the giant blue shoe prints painted on the sidewalk leading to the building. The big blue bull looked down at me between the words “Blue Ox” and I looked across the rickety porch where two chairs and a wooden bench and a table sat. It looked more like the type of porch where I’d see people sitting out blowing on jugs than the porch of a bar in a tourist town. Antique signs covered the door and neon lights flashed from the windows. “Go Pack Go” glowed yellow just below the Miller Lite sign. This was no New York City club, and I started to lose my gumption.
The door swung open and a normal looking couple stepped out. They weren’t wearing overalls and chewing on straw like I now imagined I’d find inside but looked like a couple of regular people. The woman, wearing a big grin and an oversized summer hat, stepped out while the man in khakis and a button-down held open the door.
“Coming in?” he asked while he continued holding the door.
Nodding my head, I bit my lip and started up the steps. “Yes, thank you.”
He waited until I stepped inside before letting go of the door. It slammed behind me and I jumped at the sound. Frozen in place, I stood with wide eyes while I tried to take in the overwhelming atmosphere. Only two patrons sat on the round bar stools lined up along the rough wooden bar. Antique decorations and signs covered every inch of the plank wood walls. They hung over my head, and I looked up at the giant American flag suspended above me. It was surprising this old building hadn’t collapsed under the weight of the countless trinkets clinging to every inch of it.
When I looked to my right, I saw a man in a black fedora hat slumped back in a chair in front of the window. One look at his distorted face and the scream started gurgling up in my throat, but it stopped when I realized it wasn’t a real man. It was a life-sized mannequin of sorts, and he sat unmoving beside me.
“It’s Captain Bailey. Don’t let him scare you,” a woman’s voice called, and I spun to the sound. A cute little brunette in jeans and a tight tank top with the words “I Got Oxidized at the Blue Ox” across her chest stood behind the bar wiping a glass. She stared at me while I remained frozen like my feet were glued to the brown carpet. “Can I help you?”
With a long gulp sliding down my throat, I nodded my head. “Yes. Hi. I, uh, I’m looking for a job. I think.” I managed to say while I forced my feet to move toward her.
“You think?”
I shook my head. “No. I am. I am looking for a job.” It was the first time in my life I’d uttered those words.
“Have a seat,” she said, gesturing to a barber chair at the end of the bar.
What the hell is this? I thought while I tried to climb in it. After shifting around to get as comfortable as I could in the odd chair, she came up and leaned forward on the bar. Chocolate colored eyes the same color as her hair raked me up and down.
“I’m Jo,” she said, sticking out her hand. Even though she wore little makeup and her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, she was as beautiful as the women I normally rolled with in the city. With some makeup, high heels, and a cocktail gown she could have fit right in with us.
“Cass—” I stopped myself. I couldn’t use my real name. Even though these people didn’t read New York papers, my name had gone national on more than one occasion. Remembering Grandpa’s warning I couldn’t use my name or risk losing the company, I pulled one out from thin air. “Cassie Sinclair,” I spit out without thought. Saying the name sent a familiar wave of grief surging inside me and I immediately regretted not choosing something that wouldn’t remind me of my parents every time I said it. My father used to call me Cassie when I was young, before I grew up and demanded everyone call me Cassandra because it sounded more elegant. Visions of him saying the name while I curled up in his lap and got a kiss on the head flooded me with sorrow. And Sinclair was my mother’s maiden name. Struggling to keep from dissolving into a puddle of tears, I swallowed them down while I reached out and shook her hand.
“Nice to meet you, Cassie. So, you’ve bartended?”
I thought there was no experience necessary? “Um, yes,” I lied. Though was it really a lie? Pouring shots into people’s mouths while standing on the bar and spraying them with champagne counts as bartending, right?
“Good. We’re desperate. I’m working doubles every day trying to keep up and Friday and Saturday nights I’m here by myself and I could use a second. Tips are great. We’ve got lots of locals and they’re pretty easy. How often are you available?”
“Anytime, I guess.”
“Anytime? Really? You don’t have a bunch of other jobs I need to schedule around?”
I shook my head.
“Then you’re hired.”
“What?” I nearly choked out the words. This was all it took to get a job in the real world? With great tips? Thoughts of organic blueberries and full tanks of gas danced through my head.
“Seasons about to hit full swing and I need a body. Let’s try you and see how you do. As long as you can tap a beer and take money, I can use you.”
“Okay,” I answered, but wondered if I could tap a beer. Taking money? Now that I knew I could handle. Making a note to Google tapping a beer, I took a deep breath. “I’ll take the job.”
“Can you start tomorrow?” Her dark brows rose, and she pursed her full lips into a thin line while she waited.
“Sure, why not.”
“Awesome!” A smile lit up her face. “Then get here at three. It will give us a little time to train you before the locals come in for happy hour at five.”
“Great. I’ll be here. Do I need anything?”
“Just bring your ID and I’ll have you fill out the forms then you can start.”
An ID? Shit. I’d given her a fake name. “Perfect. I’ll see you then.”
Struggling to get out of the odd chair, I smiled at her and finally made it to the ground. Another look around the bar and I wondered what I’d gotten myself into. But a glance at my purse and knowing how little money was in there, I knew this was what I needed to do.
I climbed back into my car and Poppy was still snoring away. Even though I didn’t want to break the rules and call Grandpa for help, there was one thing I knew I couldn’t fix this fast. Pressing his number on the phone, I sat back against the torn orange fabric of my seat.
“Hi Grandpa, it’s me.”
“Giving up already?” he asked, condemnation thick in his voice.
“No. The opposite in fact. I got a job.”
“You did?” Pride swelled in his voice and it flooded me with the resolution to keep going down this path.
“I did, but I do need something from you.”
“Oh,” he said, the condemnation returning. “What is it?”
“I need an ID. You told me I couldn’t use my real name, so I lied when I took the job, but they need an ID tomorrow. Can you help me?”
There was a moment of pause and then he answered, the judgement now absent. “Of course, Cassandra. I hadn’t thought of that. I’ll have one delivered to you tomorrow morning. Do you need anything else?”
Even though I wanted to scream out a list of things I wanted, I knew it was a test. “No Grandpa, just the ID. Then I promise I’m on my own.”
“I’m proud of you, Cassandra.”
Pride swelled inside me to hear those words. “Thank you, Grandpa. I’m learning a lot.”
“Good. Now, what name do you need for the fake ID?”
Pausing to fight the lump returning to my throat, I took a breath. “Cassie Sinclair.”
Silence hung in the air and then I heard a soft sigh on the other side. “Your parents would be proud.”
“Thanks, Grandpa. I’m trying.”
“I love you, Cassie.”
“I love you, too.”
We hung up, and I sat in silence for a moment before turning the key and listening to the engine chu
g back to life. With his money and connections, I had no doubt I’d have an ID by morning. Now I needed to go home and sit on my phone googling drink recipes and how to tap a beer. Tomorrow I started my new job.
CHAPTER FIVE
Cassie
“Hey, Cassie!” Jo called when I stepped inside the Blue Ox. “Perfect timing. There’s no one here so I can show you around.”
“Hey, Jo. I’m excited to get started. Here’s my ID.” When I held it out, my mind drifted back to when I was seventeen and used a fake to get into a club for the first time. My heart had hammered in my chest while the bouncer gave it a once over, much like it hammered now when Jo took it from me.
“Awesome. I’ll make a copy and you can fill out your W-4.”
W-4? What the hell is that? “Great.”
“So, this is the place. It’s looked the same since I used to come here with my uncle when I was a little kid. Though, the saddle stools are newer.” She pointed to one of the bar stools crafted out of a western saddle. “And they made a little loft not long ago. But other than that, nothing changes, except we add a few more trinkets to the walls every year.”
I wondered how that was possible since there was barely an inch not covered with some strange memorabilia. As she took me around giving me the rundown of the history and nuances, I noticed even the bar had stuff in it. Underneath a thick coat of lacquer were historical photos from Baileys Harbor with captions retelling the history. License plates lined the walls just below the ceiling, and when I turned around, I clutched my chest in surprise when I came face to face with a creepy white rabbit mask hanging off a nail.
“You get used to it all.” Jo had noticed my frozen face and continued on the tour. Even though it was still light out, the bar was aglow not from the sunlight but from the video games and gambling machines scattered around the corners. It helped while I tried to read all the bumper stickers, and I realized by the end of my time here, whenever that was, I probably still wouldn’t have seen everything in this bar.
“It’s haunted, but nothing bad will happen. Just weird stuff sometimes.”
“What?” That little tidbit of info had me ready to run out the door.
“Nothing to be scared of, but sometimes things get moved when you’re here alone. Just last week I heard a clatter in the kitchen and found things scattered all over. I was here by myself.”
Swallowing hard, I tried to keep from letting my bulging eyeballs pop out of my head.
“There’s a haunted trolley tour that comes through a couple nights a week and you get to hear all our haunted history. It gets really busy really fast, so I won’t put you on those shifts until you’re ready.”
“A haunted trolley tour?” The hair on the back of my neck stood up, and I felt like eyes were peering out of the knots in the few spots I could see in the wooden walls.
“Really good money, though.”
“Mmmhmm.” I swallowed, remembering that money was why I was here. You need this job, Cassandra, I thought while I kept myself from bolting past Captain Bailey and out the front door, picturing ghosts hot on my trail. Then I pictured him coming to life, turning his creepy head to look at me and a shiver snaked down my side.
“And this is bimini.” She pointed to the bull’s head with a hook on its nose mounted to the wall. “You grab this string with the metal ring and try to swing it and catch it on the hook.” Grabbing the string dangling from the ceiling she stood back, pulling it tight, then let it loose. The little silver hook dipped low while it swung and then rose and landed on the bull’s nose.
“Whoa,” I said, impressed with her skill.
“I’ve been here for six years. Lots of practice.” With a grin she took me behind the bar. “Tap beers are here, bottles in the coolers, cold shots in this one, and we’ve got the booze here, here and here.”
Following her pointing finger, I tried to make sense of everything and keep up.
“Cash register is easy. No computers here. Price list is there.” She pointed to a yellow sheet of paper with some prices jotted down beside the alcohol names. “Just take their money, hit these buttons to total everything up, then this one when you’re done.” When she pushed the last button, the drawer popped open.
“Menu’s easy, too. Just burgers, cheese curds, onion rings, and stuff. No need to memorize fancy specials at the Ox.”
Cheese curds? What the hell is a cheese curd?
It hadn’t occurred to me I’d be serving food. I hoped my years of ordering at restaurants would give me enough of an idea of how to play the part of the person taking the order instead of the one giving it.
The door swung open and an older man wearing a flannel, torn jeans and a Packers hat sauntered in and slid into a stool at the end.
“Hey, Larry,” Jo said, and he greeted her with a grunt. “Grab him a draft of Bud Light, would ya?”
I thought back to the tutorial I’d watched last night on pouring beers and saw the handles sticking out of the counter. Grabbing a glass from the mat in front of me, I lifted it to the spout.
“What are you doing?” Jo asked, and I turned to face her. “That’s a rocks glass. Beer goes in pint glasses.” Her arched eyebrow made me feel about two inches tall.
“Right. I did know that. It’s just my friends like their beer in these glasses,” I lied. My friends would never drink beer. “Sorry.”
“No worries. Just grab one from there.” She pointed to the taller glasses, and I grabbed one then put it under the tap spout. Finding the blue handle marked Bud Light, I slid it over and pulled. Golden liquid poured out and landed in the bottom of the glass. Instantly white foam started creeping up and soon it was ready to overflow with the bubbles.
“You need to tip the glass,” Jo said, and I turned to see her and Larry exchange a look.
Tip the glass! Damn it! I knew that! It was part of the lesson I’d watched on YouTube last night and already forgotten.
“Oh, yeah. Sorry, been awhile,” I said and heard Larry snort.
“Gotta break the new ‘un in, eh, Jo?”
“Apparently I do,” Jo grumbled, and I could hear the irritation slip into her voice.
Dumping out the foam and starting over, I angled the glass like they showed me in the video and tried again. The beer slid down the side this time, and instead of white foam, the golden liquid rose toward the top. When it got as high as it could without spilling, I brought it straight up and pushed the tap handle back. A perfect glass of beer.
“I did it!” I cheered, stopping just short of jumping up and down so I didn’t spill the beer.
With a huge grin celebrating my accomplishment stretched across my face I turned to Jo and Larry and held it in the air like a prized trophy.
“Congratulations?” Jo said, and I realized the experienced bartender I told her I was wouldn’t think tapping a beer was worthy of a celebration akin to climbing Mount Everest. Trying to stifle my excitement, I carried it over with care and set it in front of Larry. “Here you go. That’ll be four dollars.”
Grey bushy brows snapped together, and he shot Jo a look. “Seriously?”
“Sorry, I didn’t tell her yet. Locals don’t pay as they go. You start them a tab and they pay when they’re done.”
“Oh, sorry,” I said, my excitement deflating beneath Larry’s stare.
“She just started fifteen minutes ago, Larry. Give her a break.”
“What the hell’s the fun of breaking in the new help if I can’t give ‘em a hard time!” The anger in his eyes subsided and mirth replaced it. “I’m just shitting you, kid. Welcome to the family.”
“Oh,” I breathed, then smiled. “Thanks.”
“Jo here’s a good shit. She’ll teach ya right.”
“Thanks, Larry. Wish I could say the same for him, but he’ll never stop giving you a hard time.”
A gruff laugh filled the empty bar then dissolved into a coughing fit.
“Quit smoking, Larry,” Jo chided.
“Quit yapping a
t me like you’re my wife,” he snarled back. They both smiled, and I realized their banter was playful. “I’m goin’ out for one. Save my seat.”
“Will do, Larry,” Jo answered.
When he carried his beer outside, Jo turned to me and cocked her head. “You’ve never bartended, have you?”
Biting my lip, I shook my head. “No. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry but I really need this job. I promise I can learn.”
With a huff she tossed up her hands. “It’s fine. But you’d better learn fast. Pretty soon this place will fill up and I won’t have time to hold your hand. I wish you would have told me, and I would have had you come in earlier to train you more.”
“I’m sorry, Jo. I didn’t think you’d hire me.”
“It’s fine. I need the help. Any help. Just pay attention.”
For the next hour she gave me a basic rundown of how to count the alcohol while I poured, how to work the soda gun and the other basics I would need to know. Some of it I knew from my crash YouTube studying, but letting her in on my secret helped shed some of the stress I felt starting my very first job. At least now the only thing I would need to keep from her was my identity.
Sweat beaded on my brow while I struggled to keep up with the orders getting called over the bar. Jo was right. The bar went from empty to packed in under an hour. Locals bellied up to the bar and tourists flocked in, each oohing and aahing over the same décor I’d been gawking at earlier. The ring continued flying through the air while bimini games caused laughter and good-natured taunting between friends. Pool balls clanked together, and the gambling games chirped in the corner, adding to the music pouring out of the old jukebox. It wasn’t like any club I’d been in, but the same energy pulsed through this old bar.
The Other Half (Door Peninsula Passions Book 1) Page 5
