by J. P. Grider
"It's your job." He opens the door, lets me out, and locks the door behind us.
"So, where am I taking you?"
"I'm fine. You don't need to take me anywhere."
I stop in place. When he realizes he's walking through the parking lot alone, he stops and turns around.
"You are not driving with that little girl in the car." At this point, my hands are firmly planted on my hips. "If you do, I'll call the cops."
"Holy Jesus. You really need to start minding your own..."
"Fucking business," I say along with him. "I know. But seriously. You love this little girl?"
I don't wait for an answer, but the glint in his eye says, With all my heart.
"Then why the hell would you risk her life by putting her in a car with your drunk ass behind the wheel?"
"I'm not drunk," he says, stepping towards me.
"You're not sober," I say, remaining right where I am, hands still on my hips.
"Sober enough to know you're a busybody." He steps even closer.
"Hanging around old ladies lately?" I laugh. "What guy, or girl for that matter, our age, says busybody?" I laugh again. "Dorks, that's who."
He inches forward one last time, and now he's a breath away. "I'll show you what kind of dork I am."
His neck is bent and the tip of his nose is now a hair away from mine, but I stand my ground.
"And what girl our age uses the word dork, dork?"
For several seconds, that I am not able to count due to the quickening pace of my heart rate, we stand like that, until finally I push him forward with my palms on his chest. His very lean but muscular chest. "Get the hell in my car. I'm driving you."
His shoulders drop in resignation, but he tosses me his keys and says, "Take mine. The car seat is already belted in."
"Nice car." I get into the small black Kia Forte.
"It's my sister's, but thanks."
I start the engine, and then all of a sudden, I get a whiff of something sweet. Or spicy. Like... Good and Plentys. Surreptitiously, I inch my shoulder across my seat to see if it's Mick. When I breathe in to sniff, I don't realize I'm closing my eyes until Mick blurts, "Are you sniffing me?"
Shit. "Um." I just laugh. "You smell like Good and Plentys.”
His eyebrows knit together. "Just drive."
"Can't," I say, putting the car in reverse, but keeping my foot on the brake. "Don't know where I'm going."
"Out of the parking space would be nice," he deadpans, a monotone voice being his popular mode of speaking.
God, he lacks happy emotions.
Backing out of the space and moving forward, I stop at the lot's exit. "Okay. Now where?"
His dimple dips in, indicating he's biting that inner cheek again, and his finger points to the left.
"Cat got your tongue?"
No response.
"Mick?"
11
MICK
"Sorry. Daydreaming." She doesn't need to know I momentarily slipped into a dirty little thought about her.
"Not daydreaming. Sleeping... 'cause you're drunk."
"Do you ever shut up?" I ask her, causing her to drop her jaw before pursing her lips. "Make a right at the next street."
Holly's face glows beneath the passing street lights, and when I see that her pursed lips have now drooped into a frown, my chest aches a little.
"Holly?" I ask, unsure of her reaction.
She has no reaction.
"I'm sorry," I say quietly.
Under the street lights, I see her bottom lip disappear.
"Make a left," I blurt, forgetting she doesn't know the way to Lara's house.
She skids as she turns left.
"Why do you hate me?" Her voice is unusually tiny.
"I just forgot to tell you to turn. I didn't do it on purpose."
"No. Not that, jerk. In general. You don't tolerate me. At all." She doesn't turn to glance at me, but I can hear the disappointment in her words.
Really carefully, I look at her. Gone are her spunky expressions, and in their place, dismay.
"I'm sorry," I repeat, hopefully relaying my genuine attempt at an apology. "I'll try harder... to not be such a dick."
Though the car is only lit by street lamps and the moon, I swear I can see a blush forming on her cheeks.
"Thanks," she responds quietly. And I'll try not to be... such a brat."
"You mean bitch." Damn. I am a dick.
She shakes her head. "Yeah. A bitch."
Why is it so hard to show my nice side?
Do I even have a nice side?
Sometimes I don't think so anymore.
Realizing we missed the turn, I shout, "Shit. We gotta turn around."
Once we pull up in front of Lara's house, Holly asks if she should come in with me.
"No. Just wait here. Thanks."
Fortunately for me, I have a high tolerance for alcohol, because I'd hate to fall with a sleeping Kenna in my arms while carrying her out of Lara's house.
I do fumble with getting her in the car seat, though, because a sleeping Kenna is not a very cooperative Kenna.
"Oh my gosh, she's beautiful," Holly says of my cherubic niece.
"She is," I say proudly. "She's precious."
I kiss Kenna on her little nose after belting her in and get back in the passenger seat.
"Thanks," I whisper to Holly, snapping my own seat belt in place.
On our way back down to Haledon, Holly asks, "You do this every night?"
"That's the plan." My half-assed, fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants plan, which I have no idea is even a good one.
I can almost hear her reprimanding me before she opens her mouth. "You know...that is so not fair to that little girl."
Resting my head back against the seat, and closing my eyes, I run my hand through my hair and keep it there, leaning my elbow against the window.
"Holiday," I say calmly, "mind your own flippin' business."
"Flippin'?" she asks, noting the change in my F-word.
At the moment, and after recently promising her I wouldn't be such a dick, I figured fuck was suddenly too harsh a word to use on Holly. Plus Kenna may be sleeping, but I make it a rule never to curse in front of her.
Instead of responding, I let the silence and the street lights fill the car, and my thoughts fill my mind. What the hell am I going to do about Kenna? And how the heck is a single bartender who works until two in the morning going to care for a three-year-old little girl?
12
HOLLY
The tenderness in the way Mick holds his niece, and the deliberate change in F-words when he tells me to mind my own business, softens my feelings towards the hot-as-hell jerkhead. There's a person beneath the prick that I think I may want to get to know.
"I can help you bring her up," I offer, Kenna's Rapunzel backpack already slung on my arm.
Dark brown eyes pierce through me briefly while Mick's dimple dips in again. "No," he says firmly, readjusting his niece on his hip and sliding her backpack off my arm. "I got it from here."
I can't help the disappointment that washes over me. I'm not ready to say goodnight to Mick, though I have no idea why—it's way frigging late. "Okay then," I say, for lack of a better response.
There are words stuck on his tongue, I'm sure of it, because his face is tight, and his stance is awkward. But then, his neck dips in a single nod, and he turns to go in through the bar's side door. From over his shoulder, I hear, "Thanks for the ride."
"No problem," I say under my breath, since he shut the door before I even had a chance to respond.
Then I wonder why my new co-worker is so hot and cold with me.
***
In my dorm room, Rose is fast asleep. But by the time I kick off my heels, drag myself to my dresser, pull out my pajamas, and plop on my bed to rub my aching feet, Rose wakes up.
"Are you going to be working this late every night?" she asks, her voice raspy from sleep, her eyelids barely open.
<
br /> "I hate working, Rose," I whine, as I knead the bottom of my poor foot. "Why did I ever let you talk me into this?"
Snapping on her bedside lamp, Rose sits up and sighs. "I'm sorry, Holl. I just wanted you to feel independent. You should quit if you're not happy. I'm really sorry."
I shrug, too tired to respond. Without changing into my pajamas, or even brushing my teeth, I slip under the covers, grateful to my mother for buying me 1500 count Egyptian cotton sheets—the aching in my legs slowly dissipating as I melt into my comfortable bed.
As soon as I close my eyes, they're open again, the morning sun peeking in through the dusty blinds. "Didn't I just go to bed?"
"Pretty much." Rose's voice is too bouncy for this early in the morning.
"Shit. What time?" I ask, turning over and flipping my pillow to its cool side.
"Seven-fifty."
Jumping to my knees, and bringing my pillow with me, I sit back on my heels. "Why'd I ever agree to work?" I say groggily, regretfully.
"You gonna make it in ten minutes?"
"No. I'm failing investment anyway."
I drop my chin to my chest, my head being too damn heavy to hold up.
"'Kay. See ya for coffee at ten?"
"Yup," I say, flopping back face down on my bed and tucking my pillow beneath me.
Wasn't I doing fine before this job thing? Is it really so bad to be dependent on my father?
Rose may have left minutes ago for class, but I still hear her voice telling me I should learn to be independent. And prove to my father that I can make choices that are good for me.
"Oh, shut the hell up, Rose," I say into my pillow.
The campus Starbuck's is roaring with early-ass chattering. Before lugging alcohol from table to table until early morning, I was one of those chipper coffee drinkers, having coffee just to be social. Today, however, coffee is a necessity, and according to my swollen feet, so is buying a pair of sneakers.
"Holly," Griffin calls from our usual table. "You're late."
"No shit." To the boy behind the counter, I say, "Latte with an extra shot."
"So Holly, liking your independence so far?" Braden jokes, obviously recognizing my grumpiness.
Too tired to react, I take the seat between Griffin and Rose and cup my coffee with two hands like it's my lifeline.
"I'm sorry, Holl," Rose says again.
"No biggie. I'm a big girl. I didn't have to take the job."
"So you want to keep your job at the bar?" Rose asks, both hope and apology stuck somewhere in her words.
"No." I shake my head, sip my coffee, and think about it a moment. "But you're right." Turning to Rose, I manage a very sleepy smile, "I do need my own money."
The tension in Rose's small muscular shoulders relaxes.
"By the way, great tank top," I tell her. "Pink looks good on you."
"Thanks. American Eagle."
"Holly, you work every night?"
"Just for now, Brade. Donny is hiring another waitress, so I'll only have to work four nights."
"What nights?" Griffin asks.
"My choice, but only one weekend night. Friday or Saturday. Not both. I need some kind of weekend."
"Yeah," he agrees. "Well, I gotta go. Told Cal I'd meet her after her class."
"You coming back?" Braden asks.
"No. We have the afternoon off, so we're meeting Nate for lunch."
"Say hi to that sexy brother of yours," I tell him.
"He is cute," Rose says.
"You guys are ridiculous," Braden tells us. "By the way, how you getting along with Mick? He's not the friendliest guy around."
"That's an understatement. At least it's only four nights a week with him."
"Why don't you just look for another job?" Rose, in her pretty pink, giving me more suggestions.
"Uh, Rose? Let me do my own thinking from now on."
"Ouch."
"Kidding. Not really. Anyway, why don't you guys come in tonight so I have someone to talk to when it's slow?"
"I have rehearsal tonight, Holl, I'm sorry."
"Braden?" I plead, needing my friends around while I work with Mick the prick. I laugh to myself.
"Not sure," he says. "I have this stupid end of the year report due in economy. I really gotta work on it."
"You both suck," I say, joking, but not really.
13
MICK
It's a light night for customers, but it's still pissing me off that Holly's been in the back on a personal call for nearly fifteen minutes. The girl has got no sense of work ethic.
"Hey," Donny calls from the back door. "Need your help."
As I approach the back entrance, I try hard not to look in the direction of where Holly is taking her phone call, but I fail, and I do. She's sitting with her neck bent, phone in one hand at her ear, her other hand wiping beneath her eyes.
"Mick," Donny calls again.
"Coming."
Outside, Donny is hoisting a huge keyboard up the back steps.
"What the hell?"
"Thought I'd have some live entertainment," he laughs.
Grabbing one end, I say, "You know how to play?"
"No. You do though."
Immediately, I put my side of the keyboard down, say no, and walk back inside the bar.
"Shit. I'm kidding. Fuck, Mick."
Without feeling guilty about leaving Donny to figure out how to get that monstrosity into the bar, I wipe down the already clean counter.
"He's such an ass," I hear Holly say, her words wet and soggy.
When I look up, she's got the other end of the keyboard and is backing into the barroom.
"What the hell?" I throw the rag down and go take the end from Holly.
"Oooh. Don't think a little girl like me can lift heavy things?"
Ignoring her snippy, yet accurate, observation, I carry the keyboard to where Donny directs me and place it next to the jukebox at the back right corner of the room.
"What's up, man? I was only joking. I know you don't play in front of people."
"I don't play. Period."
Donny holds up his hands, palms out, "I get it."
"So what's the keyboard for?" Holly asks.
Donny answers. "I got this for a good deal from a friend. Thought I'd have some live entertainment for the slow nights."
"Oh. Cool," she says, straightening it out and plugging it in. A pretty sound flows out of the speaker when the fingers on her right hand dance across the top octave.
"You play?" Donny asks.
"I dabble." Holly winks at me, but when she turns, her arm lifts toward her face, as if she's running her fingers across her eyes again.
Tension between Holly and me is thick throughout the night, and I'm not even sure why. My mood has sucked since this morning, but it had nothing to do with Holly and everything to do with Kenna and my situation with her. So when Holly came in tonight, sullen and cranky, it just made things between us uncomfortable.
So now, after everyone has said goodnight, and we are the only two left in the place, besides the country band singing from inside the jukebox, the tension is as stiff as a shot of straight whiskey.
When she accidentally bumps into me behind the bar, I grab her by the wrist to stop her from walking by. In return, I receive the death glare. Immediately, I open my hand to release her thin wrist.
But I cannot muster up an apology, and instead, blurt, "What's your problem tonight?" in a not-so-compassionate tone.
Her dark brown eyes continue their piercing stare, but this time, she adds, "None of your fucking business."
"Touche," I say, feeling the corners of my mouth tilt into a smile, contradicting my annoyance with her.
My remark has us both fighting back a grin—her by sucking in her lips, me by turning my head away from her.
By the time I turn back, she's returned to flipping chairs onto the tables, and I've lost my irritation with her. Choking on my reluctance, I clear my throat and ask, "Are you..
.okay?"
She stops mid-flip, the chair in the air, but doesn't turn around.
"Yeah, I'm talking to you."
Resuming her chair-flipping, she says, "I'm fine."
But I know she's not.
Because I'm not well-trained in the social graces, I stumble with what to say next.
"Uh, well, was it something I did?" I hear myself ask, but I can't be sure I asked the question out loud.
Though when Holly turns around, by the way her eyebrows sit far above where they usually do, I venture to guess that I did. While looking at her with my own eyebrows raised, I shrug. Does she really want me to ask again?
Her left shoulder lifts before she sighs and steps toward me, finally pulling out a bar stool and sitting.
Her heart-shaped face stares back at me, while her chin rests on her fist. "No. It's nothing you did." When she drops her eyes to the bar top, she starts drawing imaginary figures with her fingers. "My father's making me come home for the summer."
"And you don't want to." I reiterate what she doesn't say.
Without lifting her head, her eyes find me again, "No shit."
I shake my head and roll my eyes. "Must you always be so snide?"
"Maybe," she responds, leaning back and running her hand through the side of her hair, reactivating the scent of whatever product she used this morning to style her hair with. It smells like strawberry syrup.
Shaking off the distraction of Holly's sweet scent, I try another tactic in an effort to make nice with my co-worker. I pull out the Malibu coconut rum, take the cranberry and pineapple juices out of the fridge, and make her a Malibu Bay breeze—the first drink she ordered when she turned twenty-one and handed me legal identification, just over a year ago.
The rattle of the ice when I slide the drink toward her wakes her from her thoughts. "What's this?" she asks, lightly cupping the glass.
"A drink," I say.
"Thank you, Captain Obvious."
"It's for you," I say quietly, looking her in the eyes, amazed at the golden sparkles that flicker amongst the dark brown.
My breath catches when she realizes I'm not just looking at her awaiting a reaction. I'm staring at her with an intensity I don't mean to reveal.
