Page 8 of Don't Speak
“I went to study Criminology and Forensic Sciences and graduated at the top of my class. I currently work in the freelance department, taking jobs people need done but can’t do themselves,” he tells me, not making eye contact. He shifts his body, seemingly becoming uncomfortable with my questions.
I can tell he’s holding back on telling me some things, but I don’t want to pry. As someone who can’t stand when people are nosy and pry for information, I don’t like doing that to other people, so I move on. “It sounds like the work you do is important, considering no one else wants to do the jobs you do.”
“Yeah, I guess you can say that,” he says, that sly smirk gracing his face again.
Curiosity getting the best of me, I ask one final question. “So how old are you?”
He chuckles. “Don’t you know you’re not supposed to ask that question?”
I snort. “That’s with women, smartass.”
He grins. “I’m 39. Your turn.”
“I’m 28.” He stares at me for a moment, and I feel a blush creeping up my neck. Wanting him to avoid seeing it, I change the subject. “Well, are you ready for your first night shift?
“Born ready,” he says confidently, and I can’t help but feel like this is gonna be a good night.
It’s 11pm, and we have been absolutely slammed. I guess everyone decided to come out all at the same time because the bar has had a consistent line for the last three hours. My feet hurt, I’m exhausted from yet another double, and I just really want to be home. On the positive side, Dean has been doing shockingly well for his first night. He works great underpressure, hasn’t had a single issue with any customer, and has been able to make every drink without having to ask questions. I think saying it has been refreshing would be an understatement.
The next customer walks up, unable to make eye contact with me, and says, “I’ll ha-have anutherr bee-beer pleaz.” He sways back and forth, unable to remain still. He lets out a hiccup. I wince, thoughts of my intoxicated mother flashing in my mind. I freeze for a minute, and my heart starts thumping fast inside my chest before Dean notices and jumps in.
“I think you’ve had enough for tonight, my guy. It’s time to close out,” he states, stepping in front of me. I look up at him from behind, silently thanking him. Working in a bar when you grew up with alcoholic parents probably isn't the most healthy when it comes to healing, but I’ve been able to manage it for the most part.
“Aww, c’mon, mm-man. Don’thiccupbe l-ike th-at.”
“Thems the rules, Tommy. Here’s your receipt.” I look back up at Dean with wide eyes, impressed that he has already learned some of the regulars’ names.
Tommy huffs, but doesn’t put up a fight. He knows better. He’s been coming here for years. However, when Tommy goes to sign the receipt, he misses and ends up signing the bartop instead. I cover my mouth to stifle a laugh, and Dean slides the receipt underneath his pen to at least get some sort of scribble on the paper. He turns around, letting out a silent laugh as Tommy finishes.
When Tommy leaves, Dean grabs the receipt and puts it in the register. Just as he turns around, I lose it, busting out in one of the loudest, belly laughs I’ve had in a while. Tears stream down my face, and I wipe them as they fall.
“I can officially say that is a first.” I chuckle.
Dean leans against the bar, smiling at me.
“What?” I question, still wiping the tears from my eyes.
“Nothing. You just have the cutest laugh,” he responds, grinning at me.
I feel my skin heat, and a flush creeps up my neck. I grab the ends of my hair, fiddling with it between my fingers. The moment doesn’t last as we’re quickly brought back to reality when the next customer walks up to the bar.
“I’ll take a draft Miller, and don’t fuck it up. I’m tired of getting my beer with a ton of head on top,” he snips. I stand there, shocked for a second at his unprovoked hostility. Snapping myself back to reality, I tell him, “Maybe if you ask nicely, I’ll consider it.” The one thing I have loved about working here is that Ben doesn’t make us take shit from anybody. If a customer is being rude for no reason, he lets us handle it as we see fit.
“Excuse me?” the red-headed man says. I’ve seen him around before. I’ve noticed him talking to Eric a few times, almost as if they were friends, along with another gentleman.
“I said, if you ask nicely, I’ll consider it,” I repeat, slowing my words down and staring him straight in the eyes.
“Listen here, cunt,” he says and grabs my hand, pulling it toward him across the bar and gripping it tighter than I’m comfortable with. He leans in and whispers, “I know you had something to do with Eric’s disappearance.” Suddenly, the red-headed man is jerked backward, his grip disappearing, and I see Dean placing him in a position with one arm pulled behind his back, and Dean’s other hand grips him by the back of the neck. “Listen here, you little shit. In this bar, you don’t put your hands on women.” Then, I see Dean lean in and whisper something into the man’s ear. It’s too loud in here for me to hear it, but the red-headed man’s face pales, leaving me with a sense of curiosity I know I’ll never be able to satisfy. Then, in the blink of an eye, Dean escorts him from the bar, up the staircase, and throws him outside, telling the bouncers that he is not allowed re-entry—permanently. Suddenly, my panties aredrenched. That was unbelievably hot.He’s not going to want you. You’re tainted. Damaged.Blinking my thoughts away, I see Dean returning to the bar. “Umm… thanks for that,” I tell him, unsure of what else to say at this moment. I’ve never experienced protectiveness like that, even if it's platonic.
“Don’t mention it. Men who put their hands on women aren’t men. He doesn’t deserve to be in a bar surrounded by women if he doesn’t know how to treat them.”
The rage I saw in his eyes earlier has simmered, but his body still seems tense. His jaw is clenched, and I can tell he’s holding back his anger. This man has secrets. I don’t know what they are, but boy, would I like to find out. I sense a darkness in him, and I think maybe his darkness might rival mine.
Closing goes smoothly. Dean stays behind to ensure I’m not alone in an empty bar, ever the gentleman. The bar has been wiped clean, tables placed out for tomorrow’s lunch shift, and all the glasses have been restocked. Dean walks me to my car, insisting I not walk alone at night in an empty parking lot.A girl could get used to this.
“Get home safe. I hope you have a good rest of your night.”
“You too,” I tell him, leaning against my car and looking into those mysterious hazel eyes. I feel a small spark between us, but it’s gone as quickly as it came when a memory of my stepfather caressing my thigh flashes across my mind, and I turn away, breaking the connection. I can’t get attached. It’s best if I just remain alone.
