Page 62 of Falling for You
“Five guys. Two groups, over the baseball game. There might be blood.”
“Blood on my fucking bar?”
“Clark is already on it. We moved everyone to a table. He’s got the cleaner out already.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“Do you want us to just separate them and let them stay?”
“Fuck no!”
I hear glass shatter followed by more screaming.
“Was that glass?”
“Uh yeah.”
“Fucking christ. Call the damn cops! Then call me back.”
I run my hand through my hair. I hate drunk guys who peaked in high school sports and have differing views on who to root for.
Especially when it involves broken glasses and blood on my floor.
“I’m so sorry. I’m going to be a minute with this. But I’ll heat everything up, you go snuggle in on the couch and pull up the show.”
She nods, and I reach out to take her hand in mine.
When I place the bag on the counter, pulling out the small dishes to heat up the cake, my phone rings again.
I give Emma an apologetic smile as I swipe accept on the call showcasing the number for Rebels.
“Yeah?”
Emma walks into the living room, away from the stress of my phone call with Jasmine.
“Cops are on their way.”
“Who are the guys?” I turn on the oven to preheat it, and then walk over to my slider to let Fi out. She’s moping around too, picking up on our mood and missing her girl.
“I’ve seen ‘em a few times, I think they’re from a few towns over.”
“I want them trespassed.” Fuck this. I don’t do people who destroy my bar. “And charge them for the glasses they broke, and a round of drinks for anyone that had to move.”
I’ve found that monetary punishment and being cut off from their source of alcohol usually pisses them off enough that they learn to behave and can usually come back knowing my rules.
“You sure? That is…” I can hear Jasmine mumble count the number of people they owe drinks too. “A lot of drinks.”
“Don’t care. Maybe they’ll learn to not be fucking idiots in my brewery.”
I let Fiona in, already done exploring outside. Usually she takes forever, exploring all the new smells up to the cliffs.
“Okay, cops are here. I’ll text you. Go take care of that girl.”
“I was trying to do just that until someone interrupted.” The oven beeps that it’s preheated and I toss in the small bakeware.
“Ha. Ha. Sorry to interrupt you with blood and broken glassware.”
“Text me.” I hang up, not waiting for her to answer.
