Page 9 of The Lair

His glassy eyes land on me, hard and unforgiving, as if I were to blame for the situation he got himself into all on his own. I didn’t call Travis, don’t even know where he’s been for the past hour, but he doesn’t seem to care.

Feeling braver now that I’ve got my boss at my back, my only answer is to arch an eyebrow in a “now what?” expression.

The old man throws his hands up in mock surrender. “Got it. No need to throw me out like some drunk.”

I’m not too sure about that. If Travis hadn’t shown up, I’d still be having a one-sided argument with him. I’m not going to cry because some random man was mean to me while under the influence. I have thick skin, if nothing else.

I’d like to think I’m as independent as they come, but I’m also not stupid enough to turn down the help of an ex-Navy SEAL to get out of a sticky situation if he offers. I know how to pick my battles.

I can’t bask in the sweet, sweet sight of David/Danny leaving The Lair with fifty less dollars in his pocket because hockey fans have mercy on no one. For the next hour, I lose myself in the chaos until the bar starts to clear out.

As I lock the front door when the last patron walks out, Charlie appears out of nowhere. “I saw you and Travis having a stare off contest with Dean earlier.”

So that’s his name. No David or Danny after all.

I grab the mop and suppress a yawn. I haven’t felt this tired in a while, but at least I’ll fall asleep faster tonight. That’s always a plus.

“Yeah. He refused to pay for his drinks because I forgot the orange peel in his old-fashioned,” I tell him.

Charlie roars out a laugh. “Oh, Drunk Dean. So that’s why Travis was sending him death glares from across the bar? Checks out.”

Travis and throwing death glares go hand in hand, so Charlie’s words don’t surprise me.

“Let’s finish up,” I say a little under my breath, desperate to rest for a minute but knowing I’ll fall asleep on the spot if I do.

I mop the floors in record time and check if Jude, one of our cooks, needs any help in the kitchen. In his sixties, he and his wife, Sandra, are responsible for the burger-induced comas I fall into every week. Not that I have any complaints.

His tired smile mirrors mine. “Thanks, Smith, but all’s under control.”

I ignore the waySmithcatches all the air in my lungs, even though it’s been his nickname for me since my first day on the job.

The lights in the bar turn off one by one then—Travis’s silent way of telling us we’re done for the day. Sometimes I believe he takes the “no wasting saliva” policy a bit too far. A simple “Let’s go” would suffice, but what do I know?

After a quick stop by the changing room to grab my bag with the spare clothes I’m too exhausted to change into, I say goodbye to Jude and Charlie before they disappear into the changing room.

As much as my legs ache and my arms hurt from the long hours of lifting heavy bottles and pouring drinks, I still manage to beam at Travis as I pass by him at the front door. “See you tomorrow, boss man.”

A grunt is the only answer I get, but I don’t take it personally.

Sometimes I have a hard time understanding how on earth I managed to land this job. I’m a quick learner and give my two hundred percent on everything I do, but I don’t think Travis likes me very much. He doesn’t seem to likeanyonevery much. I’m not the most social of butterflies out there, either, so I get it.

Outside, the cold November air seeps under my puffer jacket, making me shiver until I get inside my car. After I turn on theengine and get the heater running, I glance down the street at The Lair out of habit.

Travis is standing at the door, his eyes on me. He doesn’t go back inside until I drive away.

Chapter Three

Here’s the thing—sometimes,you have to make uncomfortable choices knowing they will set you free later.

When I decided to leave behind my old life in California six years ago with nothing but a suitcase, a car that had seen better days, and an envelope full of cash I technically stole but also technically owned, I had nobody on my mind but me. I’m not ashamed to admit I was being selfish, greedy, and all those other things my mother always accused me of. But I did what I had to do to save myself.

Yet it took me nearly two years to recognize the face I saw in the mirror every day. The brown hair that wasn’t mine, the long hair turned short, the bangs I’d never considered cutting.

I mix the hair dye in the stained plastic bowl and avoid my gaze in the mirror. The deep breath I take isn’t enough to stop the anxiety from sinking its claws into my chest, making it difficult to get air in and out of my lungs.

After using some Vaseline to prevent the dye from staining my scalp, I get on with lie number one.

I know what most people would say—“But Allie, dyeing your hair doesn’t make you a liar!”—and they’d be right. It doesn’t. People change their appearance all the time, and that doesn’tmake them a better or worse person. But thewhyI’m doing it is what makes me hate myself a little more every day.

---