Chapter 1
Isuppose the first thing you need to know about me is that I’m the villain of this story. The bad guy. Girl. Whatever.
The second thing you need to know is that I absolutelydid notpour that drink on the guy by the bar on purpose, like he’s trying to say I did. He must have just knocked me off-balance while he was trying to grope my ass, is all. At least, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
(The third thing is that one of those first two things isn’tstrictlytrue. I’ll leave you to work out which one it is…)
“Lexie, we’ve been through this before. We can’t assault the customers. Not even the ones who richly deserve it. You know that.”
Summer puts both hands on her hips and gives me what I’ve come to think of simply as The Look. It’s approximately one part exasperation and one part resignation, and it normally means she’s about to push her hair back from her forehead, and say, “Oh,Leeexiiieee,” like she’s my mum about to tell me she’s not angry, she’s justdisappointed.
Summer is my boss here at Joe’s Bar, but she’s also my flatmate (Or “roommate” as they say here in California. Those crazy kids.), and my best friend. Well, myonlyfriend, really, unless you count my mum, and I’m not even sure mymumwould count my mum right now — especially considering I haven’t spoken to her in almost 12 months — so… yeah. I guess I’m not much of a people person. What can I say?
Anyway, Summer’s Australian, and when I asked her if her name was supposed to be a reflection of her sunny personality, she pretended to punch me in the thigh.
I took that as a “no”, then. It turns out Summer’s not much of a people person either, really. I’m pretty sure that’s why we get on so well.
“I swear, Summer, I didn’t do it. I wouldnever.”
I widen my eyes innocently as I look her right in the eye, the very picture of sincerity.
This will work. I see it will, because I’m a practiced liar, having been honing my skills since I was a kid. Also, no one can resist my baby blues when I threaten to turn on the tears, like I am now. I might be the villain, but Ilooklike the heroine, all blonde hair and blue eyes, set above a cute little upturned nose. And that’s the main thing, isn’t it? When you’re pretty, you can get away with anything.
Well,almostanything.
Just to be sure I get away with this, I allow my bottom lip to wobble slightly as I lower my eyes to the ground. When I raise them again to meet Summer’s, they’re filled with tears — crying on demand has been my party trick, ever since I was a kid — and my boss sighs in defeat, before shrugging her shoulders and handing me a tray of drinks.
“Oh,Leeexiieee,” she says, smiling at me despite the lingering doubt I can see in her hazel eyes. “Take these to table 12, will ya? And try to stay out of trouble, Lex. I mean it.”
I smirk with satisfaction as I turn away.
Lexie, 1; Creepy guy at the bar, 0.
I win.
Ialwayswin.
Except when Idon’t, of course.
Therewasone time I didn’t win. Just one time, but it’s the reason I’m here, really. I don’t want to talk about it. It’s amazing how often peopleask, though. Not about how I screwed-up myentire life,obviously; that would be a pretty weird conversation starter, really, even by L.A. standards. But they do ask what brought me from the Highlands of Scotland to Hollywood, and I can’t exactly tell them the truth, so I mostly just smile sweetly and say I really love that Human League song. You know, the one about working as a waitress in a cocktail bar?
(And, okay,Joe’sisn’t so much a ‘cocktail bar’ as it is some random dive bar with sticky floors and questionable hygiene standards. No one writes songs about those bars, though, do they?)
People love that answer. It doesn’t matter that it’s not true; it makes a good story, and that’s all most people care about. Trust one who knows.
But as I was saying. I’m not the heroine, and this is not a love-story. How could it be? I’m just a barmaid with a bad attitude, and right now Ireallywant to get back in Summer’s good books, so I grit my teeth and conjure up a smile as I carry the tray over to the table by the window, stealing a curious glance at the occupants as I set it down.
There are two of them: both men, but otherwise as different as can be. One is older — late fifties, I’d say — with neat gray hair and an immaculate navy suit, which my practiced eye can tell cost more than my rent this month. A silver fox, Summer, would call him. I’d rate him 7/10, but only because I’m not into older men. Otherwise he could be pushing an eight.
The other man, however, is a solid three. Baseball hat crammed over his eyes. Thick black hoodie, even though it’s over eighty degrees outside. Saggy shorts.Pool slides. One of those terrible, bushy beards guys started wearing a few years back, when everyone suddenly looked like axe murderers.
No, wait: that’s unnecessarily rude to axe murderers, isn’t it?
As if reading my mind, the man at the table looks up, his eyes meeting mine with an intensity that should really be terrifying given that I was just picturing him on a murderous rampage, except… except his eyes are green flecked with gold, and, even from across the table, I can say beyond doubt that they’re most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen — and, of course, they’re fringed by the kind of thick, dark lashes that are totally wasted on men, and that women will gladly pay a fortune to fake. They don’t make up for the beard and the scruffy outfit, obviously — no eyes in the world arethatnice, let’s face it — but they’re enough to stop me in my tracks and mentally raise his score to a 3.5. A grudging one, but still.
“Everything okay here, guys?” I say brightly, deliberately looking away to force him to drop his gaze before it gets any more uncomfortable than it already is. “Can I get you anything else?”
“You can getmesomething, smart ass. Like an apology for that little stunt you just pulled for starters.”
