Page 16 of Beyond the Bright Lights

I sip on my third cup of coffee, savoring the sweet taste while staring at the paperwork covering the bar. We made a killing last night. Triple what we usually do on a Friday. I’m sifting through the tabs when I come across one worth $50 with a $5,000 tip.

I find the signature. Mylan Andrews.

Are you kidding me?

Of course, he would flex like the rich bastard he is.

A rich bastard who has no idea what this money means to my employees.

Justine, one of my day shift servers, is in need of a new car after hers broke down. She was walking to and from work for weeks before we found out, and I’ve been giving her rides, or Ginger and anyone else who’s available ever since. Mylan’s generous $5,000 tip will be going directly to her.

Once finished, I gather up the papers, stuff them into a folder, and check the time on my phone. Ten a.m. I still have an hour before opening. I try to rub the exhaustion off my face and consider heading to Daisy’s for a donut and a fourth cup of coffee. Like most nights, I only got a few hours of sleep. It’s been that way ever since Tyler passed. By now, my body relies on caffeine or energy drinks to survive.

I start taking chairs off tables when the bell at the entrance jingles. Saturday is our busiest day, so Ginger and I typically work doubles. She’s never here this early, though. Unless she has gossip and is eager to talk to me.

Oh, right.

She probably wants to grill me about last night. She's been texting me nonstop, checking in on me. I’m a horrible friend.

“Hey Ging, sorry I haven’t responded to your texts. Yes, I’m fine and ready to talk about the movie filming here, and no, I do not find Mylan Andrews ‘just dreamy.’”

“Not even a little?”

I’m holding a chair, seconds from putting it on the ground but pause before lowering it the rest of the way.

“We’re closed,” I say, not turning to face him.

“I know.”

“How the hell did you get in?” Only my staff have a key to the place.

“Ginger.”

How convenient of her to let him in then disappear. I’m going to kick her ass.

I still refuse to look his way, knowing that the moment I lay eyes on him, my body will betray me. I’m too tired to fight my hormones right now.

“So, uh, yeah. I asked Ginger for your number, but she told me you’d give it to me if I showed up here this morning.”

Yep. She’s going down, Battle Royale.

“We also need to decide which day to start going over Tyler stuff.”

“Tyler stuff?” I say, my voice low—a warning that he better tread lightly with his next words.

“To go over . . . the role of Tyler?” he revises.

I grab the pen resting on my ear and search my pockets for a discarded receipt to write my number down. I hold it out to him, my eyes looking straight ahead at the wall full of old street signs. The Silo Springs police chief gifted them to me. He’d gotten them from an old buddy of his who works at the state’s Department of Transportation. Apparently, they toss outdated or damaged signs in a landfill, but the chief knew I was looking for ways to decorate my bar and collected every single discarded sign for me. Now my walls are decorated with battered stop signs, faded one-way signs, and even a bullet hole-ridden mile marker when a hunter tracked a deer to the edge of the forest and missed his mark.

“You’re not going to look at me?”

I grind my teeth and will myself to face him. He smiles in victory, and I silently curse my heart for beating a bit faster.

I shove the receipt out to him. “I’m off tomorrow. My place is above the bar. Come around back and the stairs are on the left side behind a tree and bushes. Ten a.m.”

He takes the paper, unnecessarily brushing his fingers against mine.

“What about tonight?”

---