Maybe it’s selfish, but I can’t handle him right now. All I could transfer him before was a hundred dollars. If I gave him any more, I wouldn’t be able to eat for the next few days. And I really like eating. A lot.
At least I still have the hidden box of Fruit Roll-Ups in my underwear drawer. The one I stashed away from Taylor earlier. But one can’t live on Fruit Roll-Ups alone.
Believe me, I’ve tried.
At the far end of the bar, Mike sloppily pours a large round of shots for what looks like a bachelor party. Just past him, a game of beer pong is getting started.
Great. So much for things calming down. It’s actually getting worse.
With a sigh, I tie my hair up in a messy bun and swing myself over the bar to the other side. No point in wasting time waiting around for Taylor to finish whatever she’s doing. I might as well make some cash while I burn the next two hours.
I don’t bother with an apron but tug off my sweatshirt, leaving me in just a plain white tank top. One that convenientlyshows just the right amount of cleavage to bring in some serious tips tonight.
Mike grins wide, mouthing a thank you as he juggles drink orders.
I blow him a quick, playful kiss.Instant regret.
The moment I do it, I can already see the wheels turning in his head. Now he's going to think I want to go home with him, and I can't make that mistake again. Last time that happened, I ended up with a night full of disappointment, followed by a week of dodged phone calls. Zero stars. Would not recommend.
I take orders and quickly load up my arms with an assortment of IPAs, silently praying nothing slips. I’ve had a few glasses of sangria, and everything feels a little heavier than it should.
The kitchen bell won’t stop ringing, and by the time I hand out all the beers, a new crowd has already swarmed the bar, shouting drink orders over each other. Sex on the beach. Jell-O shots. Whiskey neats. More beer. And to add to the chaos, everyone is suddenly ordering chicken finger baskets and nachos. The kitchen is barely keeping up.
But the really shitty part? No one is tipping.
A blond man stumbles toward me, hiccuping loudly. A crumpled paper crown sits crookedly on his head, the word GROOM scrawled across it in black marker. He’s wobbling, white-knuckling the edge of the bar like he’ll get thrown out of orbit if he lets go. Instinctively, I slide a glass of water toward him, then turn to make three apple martinis for the group of women next to him. He chugs the water loud enough that the women look offended. He lowers the empty glass, blinking blearily at me. “This isn’t vodka,” he slurs.
I raise an eyebrow. “You chugged that thinking it was vodka?”
Yeah. That’s it. He’s done for the night.
I serve order after order, moving at lightning speed. Five plates of cheese fries. Three baskets of chicken fingers. A dozen Coronas with lemon. Three pitchers of sangria.
And yet, the groom-to-be is still swaying in the same spot like he’s on some kind of invisible seesaw. I press my palms against the bar, leveling him with a look. “I think you should call it a night, sir. You want me to get you a ride?”
He shakes his head, nearly knocking himself off balance in the process. “Need a… another drink. I’m getting married.”
I refill his glass with more water, and again, he chugs it down—only to look at me, outraged.
I shrug.Sucks to be him.
For a fleeting second, I wonder what his fiancée looks like.
Then, he heaves.
I jump back just as Mike slides up beside me, grabbing a handful of sliced oranges for the Blue Moons he’s balancing in one hand. We both freeze. The groom suddenly retches right into his empty water glass. My stomach somersaults, but before I can react, he stares blearily at the glass, sways to the right… then lifts it back up to take another sip.
Mike yells. In one desperate motion, he vaults over the bar, lunging for the glass. The bottles of beer he was holding slip from his grasp, crashing onto the floor in a burst of glass and foam.
The guy just hiccups, completely unfazed. “I swear,” he slurs, “I’m… t-totally sober.”
A wave of instant nausea rolls through me, forcing me to clutch my stomach. I mean, props to the guy for his commitment to his last hurrah as a bachelor, but seriously? I take a slow, controlled breath—four counts in through my nose, four counts out—trying to steady myself.
Mike is still locked in a battle with the groom, wrestling the glass from his grip like it’s some kind of prized possession.
I squeeze my eyes shut, desperate to erase what I just witnessed. Nope. Still there. I press clenched fists against my eyelids, swallowing back the knot in my throat, willing my brain to focus on anything else.Cute puppies. Cupcakes. A good book.Literally anything but a man drinking his own puke.
It takes a few agonizing moments, but finally, my stomach settles. This was supposed to be a nice, quiet night at home. A glass of wine. A nice dinner. Maybe stream a movie. Not this. Not desperately slinging drinks and serving booze to men who mistake vomit for vodka.
