A look of shock flashed on his ratty face right before I pivoted and punched him square in his tiny dick. Not only had he tried to burn me, which Ireallydidn’t like, but he also forced me to sacrifice my treat that I had worked so hard to sneak from Tank’s stash in the garage fridge. He guarded his Yoo-hoo hoard like a burly biker dragon, and no one would risk his wrath. Except for lil ole moi. Because the Yoo-hoo…it literally beckons. I glanced warily at the bag sitting before me. Pyro hadn’t messed with me in a few days, but I wouldn’t put it past him to leave me a bag with a turd in it as some kind of weird warning.
However, I thought, the contents of the bag might not be poop related at all. Really, the only way to know would be to look and see what was inside. I cautiously nudged the bag with my toe, and when it didn’t explode or emit any stinky smells, I knelt and picked it up. Unfolding the top, I peered inside. It definitely wasn’t crap.
I walked over to Cricket’s door and knocked. A few seconds later Cricket popped his head out of his bedroom door. “I know you’re excited to resume your bar wench duties, but we still have five minutes before we have to leave.”
I held up the bag. “Do you know who left me a chunky biscuit? I think maybe it was Pyro. He probably poisoned it.” Handing the most likely deadly baked good over to my conscience, he examined the contents before barking out a laugh.
“You daft bugger, did you call a cranberry-orange scone achunky biscuit?” He chuckled before taking a bite.
“Hey!” I swiped the scone out of his hand. “That’s for me! I’ve never had asconebefore. Sounds fancy.”
Cricket looked back into the bag and pulled out a card I hadn’t noticed. He chuckled under his breath a bit before he turned the card so I could read it. Small, slanted writing spelled out what kind of scone was in the bag, but that was all that was written.
“Do you know who left me a treat? Why wouldn’t they leave their name, so I’d know who to thank?” I asked Cricket while chomping on the best, and only, scone I’d ever tasted.
“Oh yeah, I recognize the handwriting.” He chuckled.
I waited for Cricket to tell me who it was, but he just stood there, annoyingly silent. “Well?” I asked.
Cricket turned and walked back into his room, picking up his LC cut and shrugging it on over his crisp, white button-down shirt. He slid his wallet into the back pocket of his dark wash jeans and grabbed his keys, walking out and locking the door. “You’d have to ask them, love. Surely, I have no idea.”
I rolled my eyes, following my annoying conscience down the stairs and out the clubhouse door. “So you’re really not going to tell me?” I licked the crumbs off my fingers so I didn’t smudge Sheila’s new paint job. I hopped in the driver’s seat and patted her on the steering wheel in greeting.
“Nope,” Cricket replied, popping thepon the end of the word in emphasis as he slid into the passenger seat.
I started Sheila and began driving down the driveway toward the compound gate. “Ugh, why not?” I whined, bouncing in my seat.
Cricket snickered, obviously enjoying my frustration. “Oh love, it’s just more fun this way.”
Pulling Sheila onto the highway, I glared at Cricket before stomping my foot down on the gas pedal. Cricket shot a nervous glance my way, buckling his seat belt with an audibleclick.
“Now now, sister dear, remember what we talked about. The speed limit is flexible, yes, but it’s not Mrs. Freaking Incredible.For fuck’s sake! You almost hit that Volvo!”
Now it was my turn to snicker, changing lanes like a deranged reject fromThe Fast and the Fabulousmovie. Cricket clutched the handle over Sheila’s door and made a very un-manly squeak as I hit a curb turning into Sagebrush. “Why are you driving like a bloody lunatic?”
I smiled over at Cricket. “Oh, love,” I purred, “it’s just more fun this way.”
I started working with Cricket at Crow’s Landing as a bartender a few weeks ago, and when I got my first paycheck I almost cried. Cricket took me to a local bank in Sagebrush and helped me set up a checking account, and now I have a bank card to put in my boot next to my knife and driver’s license. Lennon seemed appalled that I didn’t have a wallet, or a purse for that matter, but who needs extra shit to carry? Maybe if fashion designers would put normal pockets in women’s jeans, I’d actually be able to put my stuff in there instead of my boot. Dum-dums.
“Hey! Helloooo?” A middle-aged man snapped his fingers in my direction. Wiping down the bar was a chore that always caused my mind to wander, and for a second, I forgot I was on the clock. You’d think it’d be hard to get lost in thought in a busy bar, but I was really good at a lot of things, and wandering off in my head was probably my most-used skill. Crow’s Landing was a popular spot in Sagebrush, and Cricket made sure to host fun events and themed nights to keep people coming in. The booze brought in the regulars and alcoholics, but Cricket’s marketing kept a steady stream of college students and young working people walking through the doors. Anothersnapbrought my attention back to the man in front of me. See, I did it again. “Are you fucking dumb or something? I’ve been trying to get your attention for threeminutes! I’ll take a whiskey sour if you think you can manage that,” he said with a sneer.
I eyed the man up and down for a second before I grabbed an old-fashioned glass and started making his drink. He was only a few inches taller than me with thinning blond hair and watery hazel eyes. He wore a suit, and I could tell by the way he snapped at me that he considered himself a pretty important guy. I made his drink and slid it over to him. He picked it up with a tiny smirk on his pink face, taking a sip. “Wow,” he sneered, “looks like she can do her job after all.”
I started wiping the bar down again, remembering Cricket’s number-one rule of working here. No stabbing the patrons, even if they really,reallyneed to be stabbed.
“Did you know that goats have accents? They can also pick up different accents from other goats when they change social groups.”
The man stopped his glass halfway to his mouth and looked at me like I was crazy with a capital Z. “What?”
“Did you also know there’s a type of jellyfish that’s basically immortal? When threatened, they can turn themselves back into widdle baby jelly polyps and start their lives all over again.”
Mr. Whiskey Sour scoffed at me. “I don’t—”
“Who’s fucking dumb now?” I snickered. I relaxed my workplace face and let a glimpse of the real me peek out of my eyes. “Those jellyfish may be immortal, but you’re definitelynot. Snap at me again. I dare you.” I let out a loud bleat in my best goat accent, startling him so much he sloshed his drink onto the bar I’d just cleaned, earning him a snarl. Mr. Whiskey Sour decided he’d prefer to sit at a table instead of the bar and rushed away. I might not be educated, but I wasn’t dumb. He was the dumb one…dumb AND rude.
“Darling, we discussed this.” Cricket’s voice pulled me away from my stabby thoughts. “You can’t threaten every prick who walks through the door, or else we’ll go out of business.” My conscience set down a heavy case of liquor for me to stock and brushed a lock of his sandy-brown hair out of his eyes. He paused for a second, and I got what Bones and Priest meant when they made fun of Cricket for posing. With his tousled hair, dimples, and scruff, he looked a lot like the kind of man you see on billboards advertising cologne.
I hid a smirk at his pose and wiped up Mr. Whiskey Sour’s spill. “I didn’t threaten the asshole. I just hit him with some solid science facts.”
