by Fleur Smith
“Rules are rules, Ariana.”
“Yes, sir,” she muttered under her breath before adding in a louder voice, “What was going on out here?”
“Bella moved out.”
“What?” Bella was the other art student who lived in one of the four bedrooms in the apartment, and Ariana’s first friend in the city.
At least until Bella had expressed her unsolicited opinion about abstract designs before Ariana had a chance to explain that abstract expressionism was her great love. She loved to see peace in chaos or chaos in the spaces between the paint. What some people called mess and claimed could be done by any two-year-old took practiced care to balance so it would speak to the people who gazed upon it. If she really did her job as an artist, her piece would say something different to everyone who gazed at it.
For the sake of harmony in their household, Ariana had ignored the slight as best she could, but she hadn’t been able to muster the same level of enthusiasm about having a fellow artist for a roommate since then.
“When was that decided?” Ariana asked when Chad wasn’t forthcoming with any additional information. “Bella still owes me five hundred dollars.”
“About three minutes ago, and I hope you have her contact number because she’s apparently leaving New York.”
“What? Why?”
“She couldn’t follow the rules, and she can’t afford to move in anywhere else.”
Chad the Inhaler strikes again. He didn’t even care that he’d thrown a young woman onto the street to any number of fates.
Worst of all, it wasn’t the first time he’d done it. Susan, the woman in the last bedroom in the apartment, had warned Ariana about him with horror stories about the previous occupant of her bedroom. It was something of a dictatorship, but they didn’t have any rights. They were living there somewhat illegally in exchange for the discounted rent.
“We won’t be having any trouble, will we?” He leveled a stare at her.
“Of course not.” She pushed past him before she could say something to get on his bad side. He was touchy as hell, and the easiest method to avoid any chance of offending him was to stay out of his way.
She was preparing to head out for what was shaping up to be a big day—she needed to take the subway up to the Museum of Modern Art before her studio time that afternoon—when her cell phone rang. When she saw the caller was Curtis, she considered leaving it unanswered, but she needed to have some more closure.
“What the hell do you want?” She couldn’t put on any pretenses of a friendly attitude after her rude awakening.
“I’m sorry, babe. I didn’t mean to send that this morning. I smoked a little too much and got horny.”
“So you called in reinforcements?”
“It’s not like that. I just needed a little relief. It didn’t mean anything.”
“I have an idea for you next time you need some relief. Fuck yourself instead.”
“Airy fairy,” he said the nickname he’d given her when she was five, no doubt trying to force her to remember their history as a way of drawing her back on side, “it’s not worth losing us over. Is it?”
“What if I was screwing another guy, Curt? Would that be enough to lose us over?”
“You wouldn’t do that though, would you?”
“Fuck you. Don’t bother calling me again.” She disconnected the call before he could respond. Closure was overrated.
Burning with rage from the conversation, she reassessed her outfit. Generally, her clothes were a form of art in themselves; a chance to express her inner thoughts to the rest of the world. Right now, her attire was all wrong. She stared at the selection of clothes and shoes in her closet until she landed on the perfect outfit.
And it all tied together with a pair of black Dr. Martins Rachel had given Ariana as a twenty-first birthday present a week earlier.
Today, she would dress to kick the world’s ass.
#
HENNESSY’S ALARM sounded for the second time, pulling him from sleep as the snooze time ran out. He cracked open one eye and looked at the clock, trying to remember why he’d set the alarm for such an early time anyway. It was barely even lunchtime. He could’ve snuck in at least another hour of sleep before he absolutely had to head downstairs to set-up Cecelia’s.
Then he remembered. While he was closing up the bar the night before, he’d spotted a note his Malibu Barbie wannabe stepmother, Camille, had left, jotting down something about a meeting she was having. Hennessy didn’t know what it was about, but there was no way he was going to let her take control.
With that thought, he threw the blanket off himself and rushed around to get ready. As the bartender, and sometimes manager, of Cecelia’s, he didn’t have to think about what he was going to wear or how formal or casual he needed to be. He’d just dress for his shift behind the bar—a black button-down shirt, black pants, and a red tie. His embroidered half apron was already down in the bar, and he’d put that on right before he opened the doors at four.
Only half an hour after waking, Hennessy was in the service elevator heading down to Cecelia’s.
When the doors slid open to reveal the store room and office, he felt like he’d come home. The bar was his one remaining link to his mother, and sometimes it was the only place he still felt any connection to her.
Legend had it that the bar was named after his great-great-grandmother, and had been a speakeasy in its day. That same allure of privacy and hidden secrets still lingered in every inch of the place. It was dark and had hidden corners that had no doubt stowed a number of secrets in its heyday. That was the way Hennessy’s mother had preferred it, and the way he and his siblings wanted to keep it.
Camille, on the other hand, was more than eager to sink her claws into the place. The first time his father, Jack, was in the hospital—just three short days—Camille ordered strip fluorescents to “brighten the place up” and also added five new cocktails to the menu that each required new booze that wasn't just expensive, but hard to stock too. That was before Hennessy could step back in. It wasn’t that any of her ideas were necessarily bad, they were just too mainstream for the vibe of the bar.
“What are you doing here?” Camille asked when Hennessy emerged from the back.
“I told you yesterday I’m not letting you make any changes while Dad is sick.”
“I have Jack’s approval for any changes.”
“And I have his word that you’re not going to screw with things before he’s able to come back.” Hennessy was well aware his father’s illness was going to take him out for a long time, possibly completely, but that was a discussion for another day. All that mattered in the short-term was saving this part of his mother’s legacy. Camille had already waltzed in and stolen the rest of his mother’s life, Hennessy wasn’t going to let her into this one last part.
“It’s only a contractor to discuss the possibility of moving some of these booths around.”
“You can speak to one hundred contractors if you want. You’re not bringing any of them into Cecelia’s though. You’re not changing one thing in here.”
“If we can get a few more tables in and upgrade the kitchen, we can—”
“It’s not happening.”
“Will you at least consider—”
Hennessy crossed his arms over his chest. “Not. Happening.”
She clenched her teeth and set her hands on her hips as she stared at Hennessy, trying to get him to back down. When it became apparent he wasn’t, she gave a frustrated sigh. “I’m going to talk to your father about this.”
He smirked as Camille turned her back and left via the elevator out the back. “Go ahead. He knows what this place means to Jameson, Bailey, and me. He’s not going to turn his back on that. Not if he cares about what’s important to us.”
As soon as she was gone though, Hennessy exhaled in relief. All the bravado he’d shown Camille left him now that he was alone. He trailed his finger along the bar and thought about his
mother. For the last six months, he’d been the last man standing when it came to the battle of keeping things the way they had always been. To preserve the space that their mother had worked so hard to craft in just the right way, turning it back in time so patrons could relax among the mystique.
Ready to step in if Camille dared to bring the contractor through the door, Hennessy did the prep work required for the coming evening. The bar opened at four, but the other staff would arrive around three. That left him roughly two hours alone.
He was in the middle of prepping the fresh ingredients for the night when a god awful crash filled the air. It sounded as if something had smashed against the heavy metal door at the top of the stairs that lead up to Fifth Avenue.
Tempted to ignore it, he continued with his task. He’d barely picked up the knife when his worries hit. Maybe something terrible had happened. Maybe someone had a heart attack on the doorstep. How would it look for Cecelia’s to have someone die on their doorstep? Just like it always did when allowed to wander, his mind offered up a litany of things that might have gone wrong. Ever since his mother’s death, a degree of anxiety had crept into every aspect of his life.
Deciding that it would be wrong to ignore the noise, he climbed the stairs and pulled open the black metal door. He wasn’t entirely sure what to expect, but the last thing he thought it would be was a woman leaning her entire body weight against the door.
She swore as she stumbled backward into his arms.
“Are you okay?” he asked as he caught the black-haired beauty.
She turned in his arms and looked up at him through her thick lashes. Her dark brown eyes were deep enough to fall into and left him utterly breathless.
“I hurt my knee.”
There was no way Hennessy could let her escape without making sure she was okay first.
“Come in. I’ll get you some ice.”
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