“No, that’s not from the stick. That’s from The Rock. He bit me on the delivery before this.”
“Someonebityou?”
“Yeah. Well, no. It was a dog,” I explain as I clean up the small puncture wound on my heel too. Once that’s done, I debate about whether or not to put my mostly defiled sock back on. I suppose I can’t just walk around barefoot though. There’s no tellin’ what bacteria is hangin’ around on the floors of this dingy bar, but the sock ain’t lookin’ much more sanitary.
“So a dog named Rock bit you on your prior delivery, and then you came here and tripped on a stick, wounding that same foot, and now you’re going to be fired because you delivered this package late,” he says, like he needs to summarize my shitty day.
“Yep.”
I hold up the bloodied and alcohol-dampened tissue, waggin’ it around a bit until he sighs like he’s put out and then grabs the small waste basket from under his desk. I toss the tissue into it and then decide to just pull my now holey sock back on before I get to my feet.
“Sorry for intrudin’,” I say as I get up. “It’s been a day.”
“I can see that,” he says, his eyes softenin’ slightly. I do an internal sigh. He really is handsome. I glance down at his finger and see that it’s weddin’ band free, and I’m shocked that someone hasn’t scooped him up yet.
Gatherin’ myself up, I grab the power pad and stylus, shovin’ them back into the holster before I pick up the long stick. “I’m keepin’ this,” I say sternly, because it’s not up for debate. “I tripped over this thing and came to bodily harm, so it’s only fair.”
His eyebrow arches again, and I swear I see the corner of his lip twitch. “Is that so?”
“Yeah, that’s so,” I say with one hand on my cocked hip. “You’re lucky I’m not makin’ threats to sue.”
“We have insurance,” he says drily.
“Well...still. I’m sure I’m savin’ you mountains of paperwork and such.”
There’s that lip twitch again. It makes my stomach do a little flip, because a hot, stern man with a teasin’ smirk really gets me. “Of course,” he says smoothly.
I nod primly and then turn to go, stick in hand. I should want to burn this thing in a campfire since it not only tripped me and cut my foot, but also added to me bein’ late. Yet I feel attached to it, like it’s a hard-won battle trophy that left me wounded but stronger. Well, I don’t know about the stronger part, but wounded is right.
I don’t even know how I got a damn cut from it to begin with. The wood is charcoal gray, with some silvery metal bands and caps on each end. There’s no jagged pieces in sight. I take in the details of the thing, now that I’m not in such a hurry. It looks too fancy to be part of some mundane cleanin’ apparatus like I originally thought. Definitely not a broken mop.
I pause at the doorway to look over my shoulder, and I give my new stick a friendly stroke. “Have a nice evenin’, Mister…”
“Alder,” he replies as his eyes move from my rather inappropriate stick gesture and then back up to my face. Heat banks in his honey depths, and a little thrill shoots through me.
“Well, you have a nice evenin’, Mr. Alder,” I say demurely as I walk out the door of his office. It’s not his fault I was fired, even if he does have a long name and his bar did leave this stick outside, just ready to trip up passersby. Besides, he’s hot. I don’t burn my bridges with the hot ones. My mama didn’t raise a fool.
The further I get from the man’s office, the further my mood sinks. I’m gonna get fired. Sure enough, like she’s got some kind of radar, I feel the phone in my pocket vibrate.
I pull it out and balance on one foot as I stop to seeWork Callingblink on my screen. That’ll be Patricia ready to fire my ass. She’ll probably do it with a smile in her voice, too.
I purse my lips as I send the call to voicemail. The reality of my new situation settles on my shoulders like a heavy weight. With a sigh, I start to head out, but I only take about five more steps toward the exit when I stop.
Where am I goin’?
I’m gonna hobble out to my truck, return it to the warehouse, get fired, and then what? Go home to cry in my pillow? Maybe go try to drown my sorrows somewhere? I look around at the strange bar I’m standin’ in sans one shoe.
Maybe a cold one and a little more time in this nicely air-conditioned establishment is exactly what I need to face the oncomin’ crap that I have waitin’ for me as soon as I walk out the door of this place.
So instead of hobblin’ out to face the world and its shit, I turn on my uninjured heel and limp right up to the bar. I plop my butt down on the only open stool before I raise a finger to the bartender. “Gimme a mint julep, my man.” I pause for a moment. “You know what? And keep ’em comin’.”
Screw Patricia. She can come get the truck if she wants it. I’m done, and I’m ready for lots and lots of alcohol to wash the taste of this day right out of my mouth.
3
The bartender, a sallow, lanky man, looks at me funny for a beat and then lifts one shoulder in a shrug before he moves down the bar to make my drink. I check around discreetly to see who else is judgin’ me in my work uniform, poppin’ a squat at the bar with one shoe and a stick.
For a run-down swamp bar, this place is actually more populated than I would have expected. There’s a couple sittin’ at the other end of the bar, overtly watchin’ me like I’m gonna do somethin’ more excitin’ than simply sit here, ready to enjoy a refreshin’, and much deserved, libation.
