Page 4 of If You Never Come Back
I smack his arm. “Don’t do that! I would have given it to you for free if you just asked.”
He shakes his head. “Nope. I want the full customer experience.”
I bite back a grin when I think about Remy’s sweet gesture. For the past five years, I’ve slowly built my art business. It was a struggle at first. Trying to make a decent living as a painter-slash-digital artist is no easy task. I’ve always had to work full-time in office jobs to make ends meet. My paintings and digital prints always generated side money, never enough to justify going full time.
But this past year, I went full force. I created an Etsy shop along with my own website and social media account. I started posting higher quality photos of my work and became more active on Twitter and Instagram. I put out more artwork, more consistently. The result? Three months ago I finally earned enough to quit my soul-sucking job at a local insurance brokerage and focus full time on my shop and artwork. Bartending in the evenings helped me stay afloat, but now I’m making enough that I only have to work a few nights a week at Dandy Lime.
Goosebumps flash across my skin when I think of just how far I’ve come and how much more I want to accomplish.
Remy hand’s fall on his hips. “Now, your prize for being a star employee and verbally kicking Preppy Prick’s ass is to take the table in the corner.”
He points across the bar to a table of late-twenties men, who are slapping backs and downing shots.
I roll my eyes and suppress a groan. “You’re punishing me because I’m cutting back my hours, aren’t you?”
“Not at all. They’re a little loud, but they’ve been polite the whole time they’ve been here. And they’ve been tipping generously. Have at it.”
I perk up at the mention of generous tips and give them my best pageant smile when I clear the empties from their table. “Can I top off anyone’s drinks?”
A couple of them ask for refills on their beers, but then a third holds his hand up. “Wait, wait. Can we ask you to do us a favor first? If it’s not too much trouble?”
My smile turns tight. I wonder what this “favor” will entail. In the past, when a table full of loud, buzzed guys asks me for a favor, it usually involves my phone number.
“Depends.” I rest a hand on my hip. “What’s the favor?”
The shaggy-haired guy who asked me the question elbows the man sitting next to him. When my eyes adjust against the dim mood lighting, I have to blink twice. His seat buddy is the dictionary definition of tall, dark, and handsome. At least, I assume he’s tall. He’s sitting, so I can’t say for sure what his height is, but glancing at his long, trouser-clad legs, I’d guess he’s got at least handful of inches on my five-foot-seven-inch frame. The rest of the description fits him to a tee, though. His dark hair is cropped short on the sides and runs thick at the top. And his skin boasts a healthy medium-tan that shines under the nearby glow of the overhead copper light fixture.
But it’s his stare that’s causing the hiccup in my heartbeat, that hitch in my breath. Those burnt umber eyes are kindness and intrigue rolled in one. The moment my gaze hits the warm hue of his stare, I’m falling into a rich hickory abyss.
It’s a long second before I realize the shaggy-haired guy is talking again.
“— if you’re game.” Shaggy smiles. “What do you think?”
“What?”
Shaggy lets out a chuckle. Tall, dark, and handsome’s gaze falls to his lap. When he looks back up at me, the faintest rosy hue coats his cheeks.
“Weird request, I know, but Wes here lost a bet. Rules are rules. Think you’d be up for slapping him?”
“You’re joking, right?”
Tall, dark, and handsome, aka Wes, shakes his head. “Dead serious.”
I roll my eyes. This is a first. Of all the weird and inappropriate requests I’ve received while serving drinks at my cousin’s bar, I’ve never been asked to physically assault someone. No way I’m starting now.
I play my professionalism card. “Sorry, guys. I’m not in the mood to get fired for assaulting a customer.”
I grab more empties with my free hand and walk back to the bar.
“What if we ask your boss?” someone from the table hollers.
“Sure, whatever,” I call without looking behind me.
I tend to a few more tables, then feel a tap on my shoulder. Remy smirks at me. “I gave that table my blessing. You can slap that guy if you want.”
“Remy, I’m really not in the mood tonight.”
“I told them you’ll do it for fifty bucks, on top of what they owe you for a tip.” Remy peers around me. “If you won’t do it, I will. I’d smack around any of those handsome devils for free, actually.”
