Page 2 of Where Happiness Begins
Plump lips turned into a scowl, thick brows overlining a set of light brown eyes—or are they green?—sharp cheekbones, and a sculpted jaw covered in a perfect five o’clock shadow. A jaw that is currently clenched as the man stares at me, cheeks speckled with liquid.
Liquid I probably coughed out right onto him.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” I exclaim, jumping to grab the rag, and lean over the bar, not pausing long enough to realize that wiping the face of the man I just spat on might be making things worse.
“Please don’t.” The man pulls back from my cleaning assault with a look that tells me he probably thinks I’m crazy, wiping his cheek on his shoulder instead. Thankfully, he’s wearing a black T-shirt, so it doesn’t leave any traces.
“I-I’m so…” I sputter, disposing of my shot glass as if it could magically erase what just happened. I don’t even have words for the level of embarrassment overwhelming me right now. And then I realize he’s looking down in disgust at his glass of bubbly liquid, which I probably also spat in. “My God, let me get you a new drink.”Somebody sedate me.I go to grab the glass, but he stops me by putting his large hand on it.
“It’s fine.” He doesn’t even bother looking at me as he says it.
“Please, I—”
“I said it’s fine.” This time, he does look up, and the annoyance in that scowling, perfect face makes me want to disappear. “Maybe just skip the fireball next time.”
Maybe skip drinking, period.
I force myself not to focus on how he probably knows what I drank because of how it smelled on his skin and instead look to my left, where new groups of customers are walking in and heading toward the bar, just in time for the show that should be starting any minute now.
Quickly, I look back at the victim of my poor choices, who’s now scrolling through his phone, completely ignoring me. A part of me tells me I should probably stay and apologize once again—after all, him making a formal complaint to Jayson, my boss, and putting my job in jeopardy would be the cherry on top of today—but there’s also a line forming at the bar, and leaving customers hanging wouldn’t be much better. Leah is already busy with orders, but she won’t have enough hands for everyone.
“Okay, well, sorry again,” I say in a low voice, and when he only grunts his response, I try not to take it personally.
I force my attention away from him, then try to shake this funk off. I still have to survive tonight, and sulking will only make it worse.
When a couple walks over to me, I put on a smile and get back to work.
The tips I make here are certainly a big part of why I’m keeping this job instead of looking for new postings, but the real highlight of it is the music.
There’s nothing like a live set to make you forget your problems, at least for a while. The way the loud music feels, like it’s resonating inside your chest, the bated energy of the crowd when an artist has them wrapped around their finger, is something I could never get enough of.
Tonight, I had doubts I’d be able to enjoy it, my head lost elsewhere, but that was before I’d heard them.
I’m cheering as loud as the crowd, forgetting for a while that I’m at work. When the four-man band set up earlier, they did not seem particularly charismatic or different from the musicians we usually host, but from the first note, they caught everyone’s attention in a way I’ve never seen since I started working here.
They are way too good for this place.
I’ve never heard of Crash & Burn before, but they’re going to be big.
Once the lights turn on, the room is still dim but clear enough that people can walk away from the stage. The bar gets swarmed again, and I spend the next thirty minutes serving people left and right. I have no clue what time it is or when I’ll be leaving, but I don’t care. I’ll take the distraction of work. I don’t want to think about how I’ll feel when I go to bed, alone with my thoughts and ready to spiral.
Once I’ve served the last drink to a group that’s been hanging around the bar for a while, I head toward a customer who’s waving at me, standing with a group of guys. I don’t have my glasses and forgot to put my lenses in today, but when I get close enough,I recognize the singer of the band, surrounded by the rest of his team. I smile and rush to them.
“What can I get for you?”
The guy—who looks to be in his late twenties and who probably would’ve held everyone’s attention even if he hadn’t sung, with deep brown skin, close-cropped hair, and a piercing stare—orders five beers.
Once I’ve poured them all and placed the glasses in front of them, I say, “Your show was really great tonight. The best we’ve had in a while.”
“Appreciate it,” the singer says, once again giving me a panty-dropping smile. He passes the beers around, and only when he shifts do I spot a fifth person in their small group.
The cold guy from earlier.
I avoid looking at him and try my best not to replay the scene of me spitting on him in my head. With blond hair and fair skin, even just thinking of an embarrassing memory can turn me red as a lobster.
“Are you from the area?” I ask the singer.
“Damn right we are,” the one I recognize as the drummer says, jumping so he’s sitting on the bar. I should probably tell him not to do that, but after the hour-long relief they’ve given me tonight, he can do whatever the heck he wants. Jayson’s not here tonight anyway, and Leah’s not the type to snitch. “Been wanting to play this place for a while. Pretty fucking cool.”
