Page 7 of The Lair

But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t thrive during The Lair’s busy nights.

“Show me that smile, Allie Cat.”

Charlie winks as he approaches, spinning his empty tray on his fingers like a basketball. I give him an eye roll for that, painfully aware that I’m starting to embody Travis.

“Get me some peanuts for tables twelve and seven, pretty please,” he says as he reaches for a wet cloth behind the bar. “Someone spilled his drink.A-fucking-gain.”

“Sucks to suck.” I grab the peanuts and stick my tongue out at him as I place them on his tray. “At least the tips will be good.”

“They’d better be,” Charlie agrees, running a hand through his dirty-blond hair. The strong smell of his cologne hits my nostrils as he leans in conspiratorially and whispers, “Fuck hockey night,” right before he leaves with his peanuts.

I only snort and shake my head.

Charlie is…Charlie. There’s no other way to describe him.

Travis hired him three months ago when our previous waitress left for the big city. As far as replacements go, I can’t complain about Charlie. He’s a year younger than me and a recent college graduate. For whatever reason, he decided to move back to his hometown instead of trying to make it as a marketing mogul in the city. He must have hit his head or something.

Says the girl who decided to stay in Bannport, too, instead of going literally anywhere else.

And I might, one day. Maybe.

Regardless of his sometimes obnoxious and very often over-the-top attitude, I’m happy to have Charlie around. He’s either a breath of fresh air or a pain in the ass, and there’s no way to tell until it’s too late.

All thoughts about my co-worker get interrupted when a loud thump comes from my left side, making me jump.

“What does one have to do to get a fucking old-fashioned around here?”

I crack my neck, readying myself for battle, and manage a tight smile.

David, Danny, or whatever his name is, is no stranger to late-night drinks at The Lair, and I always avoid serving him when I can. He’s loud, rude, and he threw up once. As in, on his lap. While sitting at the bar.

I don’t like him one bit. And if the mean scowl he throws me every week is any indication, I’d say he isn’t my biggest fan either.

Avoiding him tonight isn’t an option, though, so I ignore the other four people yelling for drinks and get on with the old-fashioned. “Coming right up.”

Charlie is busy with the tables, and Travis….

Where the hell is Travis?

I steal a look around as I finish off the drink, but I don’t see him anywhere.

“I’m falling asleep here, girl,” David/Danny/asshole grunts, and it takes all my willpower and then some not to smash the drink into his wrinkly, sweaty forehead.

In reality, I would never hurt anyone. I don’t believe in violence as an answer. And even if I did, I’m too chicken to face the consequences. All it takes is the thought of my face in the newspapers to banish the idea very,veryquickly.

I summon a fake smile because giving him attitude and risking making a scene won’t be worth it, even if that’s exactly what I want to do. “There you go.”

I set the old-fashioned in front of him—I should cut him off after this one—and don’t wait for a thank you that’ll never come. Someone else is already demanding my attention, and for the next minute, I drown myself in the sounds of shouts, laughter, and the celebration of a hat trick.

Until he yells again.

“You call this a fucking old-fashioned?” A glass—hisglass—slams on the bar, liquid spilling everywhere, and I shut my eyes to brace myself for what’s to come.

People around him shift their gazes, alarmed, but ultimately ignore him. Nobody in their right mind would want to mess with a pissed off drunk, and I’m no exception.

But I get paid for this.

I like my job. I like the people I work with. I like this town. I’m lucky to have a roof over my head and food on the table. I can’t compromise that.

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