Page 23 of Make Me Dream of You

I push thoughts of my younger brother out of my head. I couldn’t protect him, but I will protect her.

So I sip my drink and keep watching.

CHAPTER 5

LIVVY

The sink or swim analogy turned out to be prophetically appropriate, because, similarly to swimming, I am terrible at bartending.

I confused a mojito with a mai tai—but that could happen to anyone, right?

Right?

I ran out of limes and had to go steal some from Riley. I got beer all over my jeans when I spilled one on the counter. The only reason the guy wasn’t pissed is because he got a free drink out of it and then was distracted looking down my shirt when I had to lean over the bar to clean it up. Actually, it’s Bex’s shirt. I don’t own any tank tops this small.

I’m tired of smiling. I’m tired of being asked when I get off later. Three out of four times that question is accompanied by an extra off-putting eyebrow wiggle.

Bex told me to be flirty—it gets you better tips—but to also hold my ground and not take shit. I’m supposed to signal one of the bouncers, Dan or Mark, if anyone gets unmanageable.

“How’re you doing?” Bex asks, carrying a fresh bin of limes to my station.

I give her an unconvincing thumbs up.

“It takes a little while to get the hang of it. You’re doing great,” she says, then immediately turns and starts taking drink orders.

“Hey. You there.” A guy in a jacket and thinning hair snaps at me. Literally, snaps his fingers to get my attention.

I keep a big smile plastered on my face. “Hi there. What can I get you?”

“Finally. I’ve been waiting here for ten minutes.”

“Yeah. It’s busy here on a Saturday night.” I shrug and offer a little giggle to lighten the mood.

He rolls his eyes. “Whatever, sweetheart. Can I just get a fucking beer?”

“Sure. What kind do you want?”

“I don’t care. Whatever you have on tap that’s not too hoppy.”

Fuck.

“Um. The Sam Adams Summer Ale is pretty popular?—”

“I ask for not hoppy and she’s offering me an IPA. Un-fucking-believable.” He looks over and around me to the other end of the bar and raises his voice. “Can I get some help from someone who actually knows what they’re doing?”

“Is there a problem over here?” Bex asks, her customer service voice extra on point and the dimple in her left cheek on full display.

“Yeah.” He throws up his hands. “A bartender who doesn’t know the first thing about beer.”

My throat might as well be full of cotton as I try to swallow.

“Just give me whatever lager you have on tap,” the man sneers.

Bex nods over to me. “The Boston,” she says, then turns back to him. “It’s her first week. Giver her a break.”

“Maybe hire someone who isn’t an idiot, then. Or learn how to train them.”

My blood is coursing fast and hard through my body. I pause filling the beer glass to search through the crowd for a bouncer. Luckily, Mark is standing between me and the dance floor and we make brief eye contact.

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