Page 1 of Drunk Girl

1

Nick

“What can I get you?”I ask the patron who just took a seat across the bar from me.

“Blue Moon. Slice of orange, if you’ve got it.”

I reach for an orange to slice for his beer. “Short or tall pour?”

“Tall sounds good,” he says, looking at his watch. I grab the glass and fill it with beer, adding the slice of orange before I set it down on the coaster in front of him.

“Did you want to open a tab?”

“Sure, you got a menu I can take a look at?” he asks before taking a drink.

“Absolutely.” I grab a menu from the pile behind the bar. “Just flag me down when you’re ready to order.”

I step away, looking out over the bar I own with my brother, Kaiden. We’ve poured our blood, sweat, and tears into this place over the last five years, making it what it is today.

It’s Thursday night, which is ladies’ night, so I anticipate the crowds will start rolling in, in about thirty minutes or so, as more and more people get off work. The bar scene in our part of Nashville is steady. The city has poured a ton of money into revitalizing this section of town, and it’s why Kaiden and I picked this location when we were ready to open. The city was subsidizing new local businesses that were willing to invest in the area and help breathe life into it. With that backing, it allowed us to purchase this building rather than pay a landlord rent. It was a moneymaker for us from the first day, since we have other units within the building who rent from us.

I wipe down the bar, tossing the bar rag over the sink before I fling the dry one over my shoulder. I stand back, watching as people start to trickle in, filling up the tables as they meet up with friends.

“Order up,” Katie, one of our best waitresses—who also happens to be my sister-in-law as of about six weeks ago—says as she approaches the end of the bar with her cocktail tray and starts punching in an order on the kiosk.

“How’s it going today?” I ask her as I start filling the beers for her order.

“Good. How’s it going for you?”

“Can’t complain. Another day, another dollar,” I tell her, handing over the last of the four beers in her order.

“I hear ya.” She grabs four coasters and the beers, and heads over to her customers’ table, where a group of rowdy guys cheer as she sets down their drinks.

The night picks up from that point as the after-work crowds start to pour in. Between the food our kitchen puts out and the large assortment of beers we have on tap, we’ve become one of the more popular bars on our block. We feature live music, which on its own isn’t special—it’s Nashville, after all—but for the area of town we’re in, we’ve made a name for ourselves. We’re the neighborhood bar for the crowd looking for that laid-back atmosphere, but also the place the mid-twenty to mid-thirty crowd goes to for a good time, without having to go down to lower Broadway where all the famous bars are.

As I wipe down the bar for the hundredth time tonight, I watch patrons finish off drinks and leave. I’m vigilant about making sure people aren’t leaving drunk then getting behind the wheel. If push comes to shove, I’ll personally pay for someone’s Uber or Lyft ride to get them home safely, if they can’t get one themselves. I turn to put away my rag when I notice a young girl at one of the tables in the corner. She looks almost lost. Not plastered drunk, but she’s definitely had a few drinks tonight. The group of girls she was with earlier has left, leaving her behind and by herself.

I keep my eye on her as I go through my nightly checklist. She’s in no condition to be driving, so I leave the bar and head over to her table, bringing a glass of ice water with me.

“Do you have a ride home?” I ask, setting the glass down on the table in front of her. She lifts up her head, her bloodshot eyes meeting mine. It’s then I realize she’s crying.Fuck.I don’t do well with girls who are crying, they’re kind of my kryptonite.

“Yeah, sorry. I was going to call an Uber.” She pulls her cell from her purse. “Fuck,” she mumbles.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, taking in her appearance. She’s casually dressed, in shorts, a tank top, and cowgirl boots. A normal ladies’ night dress code for many of the women who come in here.

“My phone is dead. I can’t order the Uber without it,” she says, showing me the black screen of her iPhone.

“I’ve got a charger behind the bar. I can take it and plug it in for you for a bit. You’re welcome to stay here or move over to the bar.”

“Thank you,” she replies, the tears that were falling just moments ago now drying up. She slides out of the booth, grabbing her purse and phone, and follows me over to the bar. I take her phone and plug it in next to the register.

“Would you like anything from the kitchen before they close down for the night?” I offer, sliding her glass of water in front of her that I carried back over to the bar. “My treat,” I add as an afterthought.

“That’s so kind of you,” she says, holding back a new flood of tears that are threatening to spill from her lashes. “I’d love an order of the nachos, if that’s not a problem.”

“Regular or supreme?” I ask, pulling them up on the computer.

“Supreme, please.”

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