I lean my palms on the counter, inflate my lungs, and remind myself I’m here for my sister Samantha, the only family I have left who cares about me. And I refuse to let her down.
When I push through the door to reenter the bar, the wall of noise hits me first. Pounding music and clinking glasses compete with inebriated laughter and dozens of shouted conversations. Just like I do every shift, I scan the space for threats.
Red Bird’s is packed tonight, with bodies pressed together in the dim lighting. Customers cram into faded red velvet booths that line the wall beneath a huge mural of red-winged birds in flight.
The birds remind me of Nick. Aggressive and territorial.
I weave between the scarred wooden tables placed strategically around the bar, ignoring how the floor sticks to the soles of my shoes and hyper-aware of eyes tracking my body from cleavage to below my hemline. An open area doubles as a dance floor and separates the back hallway and bathroom from the other seating section filled with booths and two-tops. Including the back room, the entire bar boasts nearly four thousand square feet of drunks, dancers, and, well, drunk dancers.
As I near the bachelor party in the back, I take stock of the other waitresses rushing around in equally ridiculous costumes. Rachel’s in the stripper outfit Nick mentioned, a black lacy one-piece ensemble that reveals more of her toned, dark-skinned body than it hides and comes with thigh-high fishnet stockings. A flushed Lindsey’s wearing a sexy red lifeguard swimsuit and passing out jello shot syringes from her first aid bag.
I cringe when I spot Sarah in a naughty nurse costume and thank my lucky stars I dodged that bullet. Pretty sure she’ll trigger some bastard’s cardiac arrest before the shift’s over. Hopefully, poor Lindsey won’t be expected to administer CPR.
Oh god. I’m stuck in a living, breathing nightmare. Or a frat boy’s wet dream, depending on your perspective.
As I approach, an older man with a long gray beard and no top teeth grabs Lindsey’s arm and yanks her against his body. Whipping out an ancient flip phone, he fumbles to snap a picture.
Lindsey attempts to edge away, but the man clings. “Sorry, no pictures.”
Toothless laughs and takes a photo anyway before patting her ass. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Lindsey’s face flushes the same crimson as her swimsuit.
Anger courses through me, scalding my blood and melting away reason. I’m halfway to the old man’s table before I realize my intent.
“Hey!” Snatching the flip phone, I quickly delete the photo and then slam the device on the table with more force than necessary. “She said no pictures, and keep your hands to yourself. At your age, you should know better.”
“What the fuck?”
Lindsey ignores the now gaping customer and squeezes my hand, whisper-yelling “thank you” in my ear.
“Anytime.” I return the squeeze. “Why don’t you take a break while I go check on the bachelor and his buddies?”
Still fuming, I storm off as fast as I can without tripping in my heels. Along the way, I check hands hovering near drinks for pills, phones angled toward skirts, and men who linger too long by the bathroom door. Unfortunately, Red’s is exactly that sort of place, so I learned every exit, every bouncer’s position, every corner. Us servers can never be too careful, and Nick sure as hell won’t protect us.
A stocky man in a black vest flags me down from a table of middle-aged biker regulars, casting me a teasing glance. “Hey sweetheart, you on the menu tonight?”
“Sorry, Rick, I’m still much too sour.” I wink as I give him my usual reply. “How about I bring you guys the usual?”
He feigns a heartbroken sigh. “I suppose that will have to do.”
“I’ll be right back.”
I return with their drinks, dropping them off on my way to the bachelor party. A dozen or so flushed-face twentysomething guys in designer jeans and button-ups erupt in cheers when I enter their section. With his plastic crown, the groom-to-be is the life-sized version of a corporate-gone-casual Ken doll. I’d wager an entire month’s paycheck with tips that they started drinking long before they arrived.
Another corporate type with black rectangular glasses and brown hair gelled into a forehead swoop grasps my wrist.
“Hey there.” Ken’s friend eyes my costume, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “You’re wearing the maid outfit I chose.”
“Gee, thanks for that.” I disentangle myself from Mr. Handsy. “I’ve always wanted to parade around in a skimpy,demeaning outfit and get leered at by a bunch of blitzed men. If I had gold stars to dispense, I’d offer you one.”
Mr. Handsy scowls, but Ken and several of the other guys snicker.
Tone it down, Aurora. This is not the way to get tips.
Backpedaling as much as possible and injecting a little more friendliness into my demeanor, I jot down their orders. Most of this crew comes across as polite enough, but Mr. Handsy gives me a bad feeling. I beat a hasty retreat, promising to return with their drinks as soon as I put in their orders.
That’s when I spot him.
