Page 2 of Immortal Bastard

Pushing through the remaining throng blocking the bar, Delilah growled as an over-bearded hipster made eyes at her and lifted his IPA. Not now, puppy. She wanted nothing to do with the juvenile college crowd that dominated their town.

Frowning, as some tit cut in front of her, Delilah elbowed her way up to the bar. Tribeca needed more servers. The wench working the tap played favorites and struggled to keep up with orders. Waving a twenty did nothing to flag down a drink.

One quick skim of the packed club, and Delilah assumed her friends weren’t coming. No shock there. But she still suffered a pinch of disappointment all the same. Of course, her friends were mostly her employees. It made sense that they might be a little bent over the recent downsizing, but Delilah hoped they could still keep things cool.

After letting her staff go—a call she’d been forced to make due to economic hardship—her social life grew more and more isolated. She didn’t want to examine the loneliness creeping over her too closely. Her life was not a fucking Instagram reel of inspiring boss lady posts. Hashtag goal-getter! Hashtag boss babe! Hashtag fuck off.

Owning a business was hard, lonely work and when the chips were down, people bailed to worry about themselves, even though she’d constantly worried about taking care of everyone else. Fuck Lance and McGuire if they couldn’t come out and celebrate with her. She didn’t need their commentary anyway. It wasn’t hard to find someone else to keep her entertained—someone better than those two Lurch-looking motherfuckers.

Waiting for the bartender to get to her, Delilah glanced at her newest piece popping against the inside of her wrist, reminding her of… nothing. She really thought the memory would have come to her by now.

She loved being a tattoo artist, loved the adrenaline rush of marking herself with something new, loved the bite of pain that slowly numbed out as the needle pegged over her skin. She also loved inflicting a little of that pain. It helped release some of the inner bitch that built up over her early adult years.

She based her life on a simple philosophy of you get what you get. People waste too many years trying to fit some shitty mold proper society valued when the majority of the world was broken and struggling just like her. Fuck society. Fuck the rules. And fuck anyone who tried to lump her into a group. She valued individuality above all else.

She would never survive working some crappy nine-to-five job, knee-deep in paperwork, scrimping by making small talk with co-workers she hated just to appear pleasant. Nope. Put her in that fishbowl and it would only be a matter of time before she snapped.

When clients were on her table, she was in charge, just as she liked it. With minimal tolerance for stupid people and no patience for entitlement, she called the shots and worked for herself. Yeah, it was hard and there wasn’t always money when she needed it, but she managed to make ends meet each month. So far, so good, as long as she didn’t let the stress get to her.

“Can I get some fucking service?” she yelled, her voice lost in the din of the crowd as the pulsating music rattled her bones.

Some would say she had anger issues, but that was crap. She was a very nice person to those who deserved it.

Stealthily digging her elbow in the ribs of some stool hog, she leaned over and whistled at the bartender. The acrid smell of booze, sweat, and sex tickled her nose as her eyes adjusted to the blue strobe lights flickering throughout the club.

The chick lifted a pencil-thin brow and proceeded to ignore Delilah. Whatever. It was her tip.

“It looks like someone spilled a crayon box on you,” the stool hog next to her commented, his gaze roaming over Delilah’s skin without invitation.

Great. Another insightful boomer who thought it was appropriate to share his unwanted, outdated opinions and hang out in a club with a clientele three generations younger. These judgmental relics were all the same. They still used fax machines, misogyny, and Facebook.

She tried not to look directly at him because guys like this mistook basic eye contact for a rapt audience. The moment they thought they had someone’s attention, the offensive jokes would start. No, thank you.

If she could just get her drink she’d get out of his way. Impatiently tapping her nail on the lacquered bar, she waited for the bartender to take her order.

“Let me ask you something,” Stool Hog continued, swiveling to fully face her with his protruding gut.

Delilah angled her eyeballs in his direction without moving her head. That was all he was getting.

“What would make a pretty young girl like yourself cover your skin in all that crap?”

Here we go… “I like it.”

“I don’t understand why women do that to themselves. A woman’s body is a work of art.”

Turning completely, she eyed her annoying companion. “I don’t understand why men who aren’t starring in a 1970’s porn flick have mustaches, but that didn’t make you shave that caterpillar off your face or toss out that dead cat of a toupee you’re trying to pass off as hair, did it? To each his own.”

“Oh, you’re one of them.” He stilled then laughed. “You’ll regret those tattoos, just wait.”

“Thanks for the prophecy, Nostradamus.” She leaned over the bar and yelled, “Can I please get some service?”

“Imagine what you’ll look like when you’re old and wrinkled.”

Her molars locked. “I’m guessing I’d probably look something like everyone else that age, but prettier and more interesting.”

He chuckled as if they were friends. “You’re a feisty little thing.”

The bartender finally made her way over. Delilah stood on the foot-rail and shouted, “Can I get a red-headed slut and a Guinness?”

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