Page 17 of Shadowed Whispers

The Grotto is situated near the bay, a hub for incoming and outgoing ships. The sound of waves crashing nearby is a constant, soothing backdrop, almost drowning out the cacophony inside. Most patrons are fishermen or people who manage the docks. Morrow Bay might not be a bustling port, but it’s enough to keep Andy in business, and as she would tell anyone, she loves two things in this life—beer and money.

“Fuck me in the ass,” Andy mutters as she approaches me, her bright eyes scanning beyond me, her wild, curly red hair seemingly challenging the very air I breathe. She is among the few who still swear by Aqua Net. The smell of her hairspray is nearly as potent as the alcohol fumes. “We have a rush in ten. College students.”

I finish tapping the beer and raise an eyebrow. “Ninety percent of your clientele are college kids, Andy.” The smell of fresh beer foam rises in the air, mixing with the musty ambiance of the bar.

“Yeah, well, this one is my niece,” she grumbles. “She always expects a damn family discount on my already discounted beer.”

“I know this might come as a shock to you, but ‘no’ is a complete sentence,” I say, placing the second beer beside the first and starting on the third. My fingers are sticky with beer residue, a familiar and oddly comforting sensation.

Andy snorts and places her hands on her ample hips. “You want to tell her no?”

“Give me double time, and I will.” With the last beer finished and set on the tray, I give her a look, waiting for her answer, which I know will be no.

“No,” she says. “I’ve got this.”

“And you just proved you can say no. Congratulations,” I retort.

“Smart-ass,” she replies, swatting me with her towel. “Go.” The towel snaps sharply, its crack echoing over the murmur of conversations.

Humming under my breath as she greets her niece, I take my beers to the end of the bar where a group of regulars, all men in their forties and each trying to win Andy’s favor, sit. I’m pretty sure the one on the end is her friend with benefits. I serve him first, knowing he tips the best.

“Hey, Frankie,” one of them calls to me, which isn’t even necessary since I’m right in front of him. His voice is slurred, slightly lost in the din.

“Fog Lager,” I reply because he always orders the same thing, “Caster’s Stout, and two Krakens.” I serve each, intent on helping Andy with the college rush. At least she’s free to deal with her niece.

“You go to that school on the island, right?” Fog Lager asks. The cool draft from the door opening and closing mingles with the warmth of the bar, creating a fleeting, chilly gust.

“Yep.” Sighing, I keep myself busy by wiping down the permanently sticky counter. The rag comes away brown and damp.

“Is it as spooky as they say?”

“Who are they?” The lights overhead dim, and the twinkle lights come on, signaling it’s past ten. The change in lighting casts eerie shadows across the patrons’ faces.

Only two more hours.

“You know,” he insists.

I blink at him. “No, I really don’t.”

He rolls his eyes at me. I clench my jaw, reminding myself that I need this job and can only attack people when Andy says I can.

“It’s full of weirdos,” Stout pipes up, slurring his words. I make a mental note not to serve him any more.

“Yeah, well, we’re all weirdos, Tom,” Andy chimes in, stepping up next to me. “Frankie, I need you at the back bar.”

“Fuck, it’s that busy?” I look past her, noting the influx of university students. One has a rugby ball, tossing it to someone, while a few cheerleaders in their uniforms giggle at him. “Athletics move-in day.” I groan, realizing I had forgotten the fall schedule over the summer. The athletes and out-of-staters arrive on the same day. That explains why Tori was here today.

The back bar usually remains closed except on busy nights. The Grotto is nestled between a bait shop and a diner that never closes. The buildings aren’t just old but centuries old. They are long and narrow yet expansive. The ceiling overhead is at least twenty feet high, and there are two entrances to the Grotto—the back door and the front door. The bar is split in two, with the front bar typically used during the week, and the back, which is reserved for busy nights.

Already annoyed by the presence of so many of my peers, I toss my towel in the bin and make my way to the barn doors that separate the sections then open them up. It’s like an entirely different bar back here. While the front has large windows that let in sunlight, the back is dark and full of shadows. A row of old-school arcade games lines one wall, and a cozy set of couches sits just beyond the bathrooms. It’s perfect for a bunch of college kids. The separation also means Andy doesn’t lose her regulars to a bunch of rowdy university kids.

“To the back!” one of them shouts, making me move my feet a little faster.

Taking a deep breath, I step behind the counter just as the first jock lines up. The work is mindless. Take the order. Pour. Serve. Repeat. It allows me to disassociate and keep moving, which goes great until a familiar face steps up next.

Fuck me. “Leo,” I greet, giving him what I hope is a genuine smile and not a grimace as he and another guy step up to the counter. “What can I get you?” I ask, wiping my hands on a towel.

“What’s good?” He leans on the sticky counter.

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