Page 43 of My Sweet Dollie, You Have to Love Me
Downing my whiskey, the amber liquid burns my throat but doesn’t drown my thoughts. Dollie. Rotating thoughts of her have clouded my mind all night.
Is she okay?
Did the local assholes enjoy her cupcakes?
Did they have too many opinions about them?
What is she doing right now?
Is Shane touching her?
It’s a struggle, but I divert my thoughts back to the bar, and with a raised brow, I ask the guy next in line what he wants. He chooses a liquor that’s green in color and tastes like poison.
I down a shot with him, praying the disgusting taste of this one will at least numb my emotions and the hint of loneliness I feel. It’s a cruel combination that makes me feel as bitter as the taste.
Roll on 2 a.m.
Six hours to go, and I can’t wait to get the fuck home, despite not being able to stay in the place only two hours ago.
I left early, taking the longest walk of my life down a dirt road to the remains of a destroyed playground. My boots are still damp at the toe from the puddle I stepped in while I let tarnished memories seep into my soul.
Pushing another glass into the green liquor dispenser, I down another shot. Spinning around, I find my boss staring at me with a penciled brow raised halfway to her hairline.
Fuck…
“Come with me. Now!” She—Valaria, my hopefully lenient boss—taps a coworker of mine on the shoulder and instructs him to take over the bar.
I don’t remember his name, but he knows mine because he gives me a look that tells me I’m done for before saying, “Good luck, La’Darragh.”
I don’t hear him with the music blasting, but I read his lips, which move in obvious ways, the words sliding around his chewing gum and into my view.
Squeezing through a sea of bodies, careful not to touch any of them, I catch up with Valaria in her office.
I can’t wait to fucking shower.
Squinting eyes question me from one side of her desk. My fingers trace the edges as I move to the other side and sit directly opposite her in the huge chair that swallows up her short body.
No fear shows in her irritated expression, which is good because I just want to be looked at like a normal fucking person, and so many people see me as a monster that I might as well have three heads.
I swipe a sheet of paper and a pen from her desk. Her eyes follow my squiggles as I write a quick message.
I’m sorry. It’s been a hard day.
“Am I meant to feel sorry for you? I have a bar to run.”
And I’ve been running it single-handedly all night. I’m not drunk, and you can deduct all three drinks from my paycheck.
“Three, huh? I only saw you drink two.”
I had three. Honesty should count for something.
“Let me ask you something, Ambrose.” Her pointy chin rests on clasped fingers. “Do you want this job?”
That’s a hard question. I want a job. This was the only place willing to give me a chance. I can’t deny that I once had higher aspirations for myself. But I’m aware that my past prevents me from reaching my dreams. I can settle. It’s just difficult when half of the people in this place sneer at me the second alcohol hits their lips.
“I can understand why it’s difficult. I really can. Everyone is out there dressed like pretty jesters and freakishly hot clowns. Add that to the slander from the customers, and it’s a lot.”
A moment of weakness approaches, just a second, where my eyes drop to my outfit, to the fake blood on my hands, and open shirt. Unlike the others here, I don’t wear white face paint on Friday nights.
