by Sarah Black
“Girl, wear a longer shirt,” I hiss, sliding into the chair beside her.
She stops cold, turning toward me with a look that screams I went too damn far. “Got a problem with my top? Because I know you don’t have a problem with what I’m wearing.”
“Aja, I can see your leopard print thong.”
“Good.” She jerks her head across the room at a tall hipster with way too much facial hair. “I’ve been trying to get that man’s attention for weeks now. I’ve had to break out the low riders and the ass floss. If you notice, then he’s going to notice.”
“I—” Do not have the energy for this debate. “What am I doing, boo?”
“Smart answer, for that I’ll buy you lunch. We eat whenever we get hungry. Can’t have a bunch of—” She pauses, snapping her mouth shut. “Hangry employees.”
“Hmm.” Odd.
“Alright, so here at Davis, we do a bunch of different things. Tell me what the sign said on the door?” She raises her brow as if truly interested.
“Didn’t you write it?” I tease.
“No, what did it say?”
“Right.” I pause, feeling weirder. “Davis Temp Services.”
“Perfect, alright, so you will take this list.” She logs in under Aja on her computer, while simultaneously tapping on mine. “Your first name is your log-in and your last name is your password.”
“That’s safe.” Still, I log in as told.
“Eh, nothing getting past Martin over there.” She points to a cute guy with large, black-rimmed glasses who smiles at her like she moves the earth. Aja is bent on getting the hipster’s notice, but Martin is in love with her. What an odd triangle. “Go ahead, log in. Once you do, open the temp files. You will match resumes with jobs that fit the criteria, it’s really simple. Martin wrote this beautiful code to make your life easy. The hard part is having to talk on the phone.”
“Ew.”
“My sentiments exactly.” She closes the file on her screen, hovering over another. “Go ahead, get to it. The phone is right in front of you.”
“What am I getting paid?”
“Enough to feed your damn cat, now get to it.” She flicks her fingers at me. May as well get a move on.
I can do this.
6
I hate this job. I hate it more than my junior year personal finance professor who made me cry. If it wasn’t for the fact that I had to take the class to graduate, I would have dropped it.
Half of the people I called didn’t pick up, the other half wanted to know more about me than the job I was calling about. More importantly, like how a new girl got a job at Davis. A job I’m learning more and more is extremely coveted. Which made me feel guiltier each time someone brought it up.
By the time Aja tapped my shoulder to get lunch, it was nearly two in the afternoon. My guilt supply had met its yearly quota by then for the next decade. We left in a blur, my eyes unseeing as we stepped into the hot afternoon sun, shocking me out of my stupor and slamming me back down to reality.
I wrinkle my nose against the stench of the city and the river beyond. All around us, cars whistle by, moving far too fast to enjoy anything about the day.
“Bourbon or beer, babe?”
“Both.”
“That bad?” She links her arm with mine as we jaywalk across the street, heading down to a little alleyway. “I know a place I’ve been dying to take you to,” she all but purrs. When she does that, I know my day is shot. It’s like a little adventure every time I’m with Aja. Somedays, I just don’t know where I’m going to end up. She’s the perfect friend when I’m in need of an adventure.
I glance over at her flawless face, nope, just a perfect friend.
“Alright, when does the workday end?” Because she has that gleam in her eye that says nothing less than three drinks will pacify her. And maybe some carbs.
“We have an hour for lunch and the workday ends when you want it to end.” Her smile is pure seductress, and unnerving as her friend. “As long as the work gets done then you, baby girl, can spend your life however you want it.”
“That explains a few things.”
“Like what?” She leads us deeper into an alley, moving toward the train tracks that I know cross into a shitty part of town. My nerves flare just a bit, but we’re still miles away from where—
I swallow my bile.
I blow out a breath, calming myself. “Like the fact that I swear everyone I called was more interested in how I got a job at Davis. They didn’t call it Davis Temp either, just Davis.” Which is weird. I swear they all called it something different.
She hums to me, leading us out of the alley and back onto a hot sidewalk toward a hole-in-the-wall pub. The sign saying Pete’s hangs lopsided above the door, and I swear it swings in the wind. I blink up at the sign, convinced it will fall at any moment.
The windows are covered in cardboard, the paint chipping on said windows. The phone number is missing so many digits one could only guess at what it really says. The steps lead up to a door that looks centuries too old.
“Come on, it’s safe.”
“You want me to go in there?” I lock my ankles. She will have to drag me in there.
“Yeah, you ain’t even been in there. You will love it.”
“I think you mistake your sense of adventure for my common sense.” My hands fling out. “That looks like an STD trap.”
“Shhhh.” She slams her hand over my mouth. “You can’t talk about Pete like that.”
I grumble against her hand before licking it. “I repeat, that looks like a place where the toilets haven’t worked since the seventies because it’s used more for a hook up than micturating.”
“Don’t use big words. You’re going in there.” She drags me across the street, my steps stumbling as we go. I can’t keep up and I’m forced to jog behind her. Too late, she’s opening the broken-down door with peeling woodchips that squeals, freaking squeals, as she yanks it open.
I dart past her, eyeing the sign that hangs above the door, convinced the thing will fall, killing Aja who struts in like she owns the place.
Crisis averted.
I spin around, taking in the entirety of the dive bar. To the right of the smoky place, a long, wooden high-top sits, no stools. It just sits there against the wall for people to lean on. The bar in front runs the length of the first room. Stained and yellowing tiles dot the floor, chipped at the edges, ready to trip unsuspecting patrons. To the left, a room opens up beyond a short hallway.
Doors swing open, and a man with a pipe in his mouth grumbles to himself. His face is flushed and his fists are raised as he spins right around, punching the door back open and yelling into what I assume is the kitchen.
He yanks his pipe out, shaking it at whoever is beyond those doors. “Fooking warlords. Breakin’ me tables! I’m sick o’ it!”
I glance over at Aja with a look that should scream, I told you so, but it probably appears more panicked than anything else.
Her smile disturbs me as she slides onto a barstool like it isn’t infested with germs. This whole place blows my mind. How-how has it not been shut down?
“Aja! Me dear! You bring me fresh meat.” He chomps on his pipe. His big, bushy white beard eating it alive. I hope it isn’t lit, but from the amount of smoke in the air that seems unlikely. Wearing an oversized knit sweater, he looks like anything but a bar owner. Especially because that sweater tries very hard to hide a muscular frame.
“Mmm, you remember me talking about the twins?” She smacks the seat beside her, and I panic and glance around for a wipe. “This one is Penny.”
“The reporter.” His heavy Irish accent is equal parts intriguing and confusing to understand.
“She just started today at Davis.”
Just then another man shouts from the back, “Kitchen’s closed!” His own accent leads me to almost believe he’s yelling itchin’ old. But I’m pretty sure I’m wrong.
Aja smiles slyly at me before waggi
ng her brows as a man in his early thirties steps into the bar. Or so I assume he’s in his early thirties. His wild green eyes latch onto Pete before rolling heavenward, he whispers what I assume is a prayer under his breath.
He shoves a cigarette in his mouth before leaning on the counter. His dirty blond hair dusting his forehead while a small black cross decorates the corner of his eye. Muscles bunch and stretch over a dirtied white shirt, grease stains and drippings litter not just the cotton but his tattooed arms as well. Black swirls and designs crisscross up and down his forearms and biceps.
“Aye,” he growls. “What’ll it be?” Those green eyes drag up and down Aja, and I swear she preens under his gaze.
Pete grunts his disapproval. He’s definitely the type of person who grows on a girl.
“Sean,” Aja greets, accentuating a purr in the back of her throat. “Whatever you’ve got on tap and a shot of whiskey. Fries and a burger, rare.” She chomps her teeth and I blush for her.
Head in my hands, I peek out, waiting a few moments for the embarrassment to end.
“You, lass?” Sean backs away, eyeing me up, but not with that same, unabashed approval he gave Aja. This one is speculative, assessing.
“Same, no burger.”
Aja pinches my leg, causing me to yelp.
“What the hell?” I mouth to my insane friend who doesn’t once look at me.
“Get her the light beer. She can’t handle the dark yet.”
Pete cackles, gnawing on his pipe. “Ya brought me a virgin, ‘ave ya?”
“Excuse me?” My eyes dance between all of them, my feet itching to run off. Run back home or to the newsroom and beg Rodger for a full-time position. With real pay and real benefits.
I eye my chuckling friend. Maybe I’ll put out an ad for a new bestie as well. Mine’s lost her damn mind.
Sean backs away, his chest shaking as he turns to Pete. “Pa, get the girls their drinks.”
Pete huffs, and with a wave of his hand, shoos him off. “Fooking warlords.”
“Watch yer mouth, old man. We have customers. There’ll be none o’ that.” Sean ignores the older man who I realize is his father. The similarity is uncanny now that I look between them.
Aja sits beside me with a smile on her face as her sharply filed nails tap the worn wooden bar top. Her eyes dance between the old articles hanging from the walls, the signs and shamrocks, to the books on myths and legends where liquor should be. In fact, there’s only whiskey on that wall. Every other slot is full of some book on history or lore. Irish lore.
Aja loves this place not just for the banter and old world feel, but the little hidden gems decorated all around us. Her eyes dart from one visual enchantress to the next. Her shoulders relaxed and her body content. I can’t say I actually blame her.
Pete slides a light beer across to me with a shot of whiskey to follow. The whiskey he pours is the exact same as Aja’s, but he listened to her over that beer comment. Nothing to do but shake it off.
“I know ye.” Pete points his pipe at me, one bushy white brow rising. “Oh, ye owe me a table.”
“Oh, this one’s never been here before.” Wasting no time, Aja throws back her shot before glugging half her beer. Very ladylike.
“She’s right, though I do have a twin sister. Identical. Pink hair.” Did we just go over this? My gut pings with Poppy’s cutting words from earlier. Aja’s response that followed soon swirl around my brain. My eyes settle on the whiskey, the amber fluid beckoning me to swallow without pause and to keep going until the world rights itself.
But it won’t, not without some action from me, but requiring an action I don’t understand. Yet. Even if I have a vague idea.
I drink, chasing the burn away with a light beer I’m happy Aja picked out. A cross between a cider and a pale ale with a hint of orange. I tap the glass. “That’s good.”
“I knew you’d like it,” Aja purrs once more, her eyes set on Sean as he delivers food in record time.
A steaming plate of fries gurgles my stomach.
“Not that I’m complainin’, Aja, but you haven’t been here in a while.” Again, Sean leans on the countertop as my friend stuffs her face with raw meat.
I almost can’t watch, but it’s like a train wreck as blood drips down her chin. She chews thoughtfully for a moment before answering, “Mama needed me to help out.”
“Ah.” That’s his only reply as though that explains everything. His emerald gaze rests on me, his hands white knuckling the top as though words rest on the tip of his tongue and he’s just not sure how to ask.
“Say it.” I’m used to that look. Especially after our parents died and everyone around town saw us afterwards. No empathy lit their eyes, only morbid curiosity to learn every gruesome detail. Details I couldn’t remember. I didn’t want to remember.
Sean’s mouth opens and closes a few times before the creaky bar door clangs against the wall.
“Fooking warlords!” Pete shakes his pipe at the newcomers.
“Shut it, ya old man! No warlords here!” one of the guys yells back, before the group of three men stumble over each other and head to the back room. Chairs scrape against old floor and tables shift.
Once again the door opens as I chomp on a fry, and in walks a woman clad head to toe in leather. Her teeth pinch one end of a glove as she shakes it off like a dog. “Pete.” Her warm, honeyed voice cascades over the room, and her smile literally lights the dank, smoky space. “Darling, four pitchers of the dark and keep ‘em coming. We have a celebration on our hands.”
“Oh!” Pete takes one glance at me before his lips smack shut.
“Aja.” The beautiful blonde is addressing Aja, but my best friend doesn’t turn around. Instead, her eyes remain forward as she stares daggers into Sean.
I’m not sure what he did, but I shove another fry into my mouth. My lunch buzz creeping up with each sip of ale I take.
“Hilly,” Aja coos, and I’m pretty sure that isn’t at all what the woman’s name is.
Succulent lips pinch as her bright blue gaze rests on me. Her smile renews with pearly white teeth. Canting my head to the side, I shove another fry into my mouth, observing this Hilly. Short, like me and my even five four, her shoulders pull back with regal bearing. Where Mama Davis owns that regality, this woman struggles for it.
I don’t think she’s a shit person. But I don’t think she’s an honest one either.
Her hips sway as she offers me her one gloved hand to shake, her left one. Making the embrace awkward to say the least.
“Hello, I’m Hilda. I haven’t seen you here before.” Her smile holds nothing but warmth, yet something lurks under it that I just can put my finger on.
I shake her hand despite the elbow Aja aims at my ribs. A strike I narrowly dodge.
“Penny.”
“You are Poppy’s twin. I thought I recognized your face. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” And there it is. That slip in her mask, that glimmer of interest that years upon years of learning burned into my brain.
Morbid curiosity.
I struggle to keep my own mask in place. That jutted chin my sensei desperately drilled into my head. It doesn’t matter how I feel on the inside, it’s how I present myself to the world, acting as though I own it lest it owns me.
“She ain’t interested in your bullshit, Hilly.” When Aja says her name, it’s definitely meant as a slight.
Hilda’s lips pinch for just a fraction of a second before she catches herself. With a severe nod to Aja, she addresses me. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again.” With those parting words, she saunters off into the back room, the men whooping at her entrance. They emit a battle roar and a clink of glasses Sean brought them, the sounds echoing all around us.
In a matter of one hour, I entered a place outside of my comfort zone. A place I was convinced was an STD in and of itself. And now? I look up to a bickering Sean and Pete, smiles on their faces as they argue over warlords and pansy soldiers. Each with unlit
tobacco in their mouths, yet that haze of smoke lingers from when they were lit. Stained walls and broken floors embrace me.
In the back room, the group of four shout about a victory that must be from some kind of renaissance faire sport. Though there isn’t one for miles. But their camaraderie slices through me with a pang of want.
My eyes dart to Aja, her brown ones studying me with an intelligence and cunning that amazes me.
“I see what you did there.” I pop another fry into my mouth, washing it down with the Ale.
“Good. I eat here most weekdays, hell, even some weekends.” She takes a bite of her raw burger, smiling with each chomp. “It’s time you start livin’, Penny Piór.”
Ain’t that the damn truth.
7
Mind swirling with a delicious buzz, we lazily stroll back to the office. With each step, dread reverberates up my spine. I don’t want to tell Aja that I’m not sure this is what I really want to do. The words sit on the tip of my tongue despite myself.
“Girl.” She groans, her hand snapping out to twist me around. Taller than me by a few inches, she uses every single one of them to gaze down at me. “Just humor me. Let’s head back and see what happens. Don’t make any decisions until the end of next week.”
“How am I supposed to manage this job and the newspaper?” I hedge, trying logic.
“Hmm. You sure Rodger will keep you around after dissing his new moneymaker last night?” She barely gives me a beat to think. “Didn’t think so. Now. Show up at the newsroom on Monday, work here when it suits you. There are no set hours.”
I rub the sweat off my forehead then under the blanket of my hair. “Yeah.”
“Good, because Mr. Moneybags is leaning against my building.” She grips my shoulders, spinning me around to face the man I took great pains to avoid last night.
“No.” I back up into Aja. “Run,” I hiss.
“Didn’t I just tell you to start living your life?” She pushes me toward the man in question with a swat to the ass.
Valentino looks up, his sunglasses sliding off his nose, allowing his green gaze to travel the length of my body. Flashes of him naked pierce my mind’s eye, and the sweat on my back grows to a trickle. He pushes off the building, wearing a suit that hugs every delicious line of his body. Still, all I can see is him naked.
