Page 10 of My Undead Heart
“Bye, Uncle Jimmy.”
Wind whips across my face, a cold and bitter slap as I step off the L and onto the platform. The sun’s already beginning to set, and the city’s night life starts to come alive. The families, shoppers, and business men and women on the streets are replaced with well made-up women wrapped in coats, guys who’ve been partaking in happy hour, and the rest of the population ignoring passersby as they shuffle from point A to B.
A short five-minute walk takes me to Zig’s, and the moment I step inside I can see why business is good. This place is packed. Tables full, standing room only, but that doesn’t deter the after work drinkers from partaking in the entertainment.
“You the new guy?” The girl at the front door with the cash box nods up at my chest where the Zig’s emblem ironed onto my cotton shirt peeks from between the partially open zipper of my hoodie.
“Yeah.”
“Zig said come find him. I think he’s in the back.” She offers a friendly smile and I tip my chin before walking away. A live band sets up on stage as three very busy bartenders sling drinks and holler orders back to the kitchen. I find Zig in the kitchen, loading up two trays of fried food.
“Thank God. You didn’t bail.” he says.
“Never, man. What do you need?”
“Here. Follow me with this. Don’t drop it.” He shoves one of the serving trays in my arms, and grabs two more. I trot behind him as we step outside into the bar and he shouts my next orders over his shoulder. “Need you to watch for fights. Break them up if needed. Don’t let anyone who’ll blow legal limit leave if they’re gonna drive. We’ll get them an Uber.” He pauses to unload the food in his hands at a table and takes my tray. “Stand by the door, make sure no one gives Tana shit while she checks IDs and takes cover. She’ll teach you the ins and outs. Oh, and I need a head count. We can’t go over two-fifty or the fire marshal shuts us down.”
“Got it.” I nod and begin a quick scan through the crowded bar to count heads.
“Questions? Come find me.” he shouts over the wail of electric guitar as he walks away. The band warms up, and the lead singer checks the mic with the typical, “Testing. Testing.”
My gaze continues to tag patrons, an almost impossible task with the constant shift of the crowd but I can always round up. Eighty-one, eighty-two,fuck me. I almost lose count when I spot the zombie vixen from this morning. She’s tucked back in a corner booth between two men while her lips pinch with what I surmise is disapproval. I didn’t notice before, but here she is in the flesh. Same chocolate brown eyes with the spitfire inside, her dyed red hair even brighter under the booth’s dome light. God, I wish she’d look my way. Or that I could try my luck again with conversation, but I’m not here to pick up women. I shake my head, resume counting, and make my way back to the front door.
“So, you must be Tana?” I greet the girl from before and peel my hoodie from my body.
“That’s me.” She grins. “Do I get your help tonight?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m Matt.” I pause as she checks IDs and makes change for a couple of college-aged girls. “Zig said you could show me the ropes.”
“Ever worked security before?”
“Nope.”
She scans my body in a quick appraisal. “You look like you can handle the drunks.”
“For that, I’m your man. Oh, and I counted bodies. We have about one-twenty. Give or take a few.”
Her smile widens with a grin. “Zig ask you to do that?” She continues when I nod, “Yeah, I have a tally here. I’d say one-fifteen, but I like that you rounded up.”
“Thanks.”
She glances at her phone right before the door opens, pulling in with it a group of twenty-somethings and the dropping temps. “Be ready for it to get crazy in here, Matt. The night is young but things are just picking up.”
Tana didn’t exaggerate, either. Zig’s only becomes more crowded, louder, and chaotic with each passing hour. I can’t see zombie girl from where I’m stationed, but I hold out hope she’ll stay late into the night or have a reason to come to the door besides walking out of it. As much as I know she wants nothing to do with me, I can’t help but wish for a do-over.
A little before ten, as the band plays a popular cover and almost everyone in the bar sings along, I’m finally granted my wish. Her long legs, heavy makeup and body paint—albeit beginning to smear—only make her appear more dangerous as she stomps toward the door. Her hips swing to the heavy bass of the song.
Her gaze trains on her cell, the screen lighting up the blaze in her eyes, and leaves me the opportunity to look as long as I want. She’s beautiful. Luscious curves. Shapely legs. But more than the hot body, it’s the sassy confidence of her movements that steals my total attention. Me and every other single, hot-blooded male in the room.
Her focus, almost as if she can feel mine centered on her, snaps up before she reaches the door. Our eyes meet and her brow furrows. “Oh, you again.”
“Yep. Me, again. Back at work. What’s your excuse? Didn’t get enough of me earlier?” I try for funny but her hand goes to her hip.
“I thought this day couldn’t get any worse but I was wrong. Being subjected to your lame pickup lines twice in one day is the cherry to my proverbial sundae from hell.”
“Ouch. That’s not nice, especially from such a pretty face.”
“Good. Because I’m not nice.” She blanches before threatening, “And if you know what’s good for you, you won’t ever call me pretty again.”
