He curses, hitting his head in his haste to back out of the small space and pat at the top of it. Finding only thick, lush hair, he glares at me.
I smirk. “You’re such a sucker.”
He lets loose another four-letter word before dipping back under the sink.
I sigh, glancing around the empty space and taking in the abandoned-because-the-owner-is-off-his-rocker small-town bar of it all.
Framed pictures of regulars line the walls, split up by a Wall of Shame for banned once-patrons. In the corner, a jukebox that’s probably older than I am plays some rock song from the 80s, just begging for a hair flipping air guitar battle, something the Blackwood Brew has seen much of in her day. Bar tables covered in sticky… something litter the floor, halting my perusal of my work space.
Ugh.
I should probably clean those.
Or, you know, not. Fox can do it, and I can go home.
“If you don’t dosomething,” Fox’s voice calls up from the depths of the sink cabinet, “I’m going to fire you.”
I snort. Yeah, right. “Sure you will. And then you’ll have to explain to your parents why you fired me. I figure I’ll be rehired in… what? Two hours?”
Gilbert and Belinda Blackwood love me. They’re the reason I have this job in the first place. They’d never let their stinky son fire me.
Under the sink, he grunts a response.
“What was that? I couldn’t hear you over the sound of me being your parents’ favorite,” I taunt, digging into my favorite of his sore spots. Am I actually their favorite? Mmm… debatable. Fox doesn’t seem to know that, though, which is all that matters, because it makes it just that much easier for me to poke at the insecurities he createdhis own freaking selfby leaving home foryearsin a fit of irresponsible twenty-something man logic. Now he’s back, convinced that everyone hates him, and further convinced thatIhave somehow taken his spot as the once-favored son.
I know. And I promise it’s just as ridiculous, stupid, boys-are-morons as it sounds.
“I said,” he clips in his stupid boy way, pulling out of the cabinet and tossing the wrench on the ground, “that they can’t rehire you if I throttle you first.”
Mmhm. Sure. “If you were going to throttle me, you would’ve done it by now.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” he grumbles, standing up and wiping non-existent dirt off his jeans. He was down there for four seconds tightening a nut, not getting down and dirty with the plumbing lines. What a drama queen.
I open my mouth to make fun of him for being a germaphobe, but his phone blasting “Sweet Child O’ Mine” from his pocket interrupts me.
Speaking of Gilbert and Belinda…
“It wasn’t my fault,” Fox answers the phone. “It was Poem.”
“Excuse me!” I object. “I didn’t do anything!”
A muffled female voice speaks in his ear, and he winces.
“I–” he starts, then stops, pulling the phone away from his face and shoving it in his pocket. “Change of plans,” he says. “We’re closing.”
What, now that things are getting good? I don’t think so.
“I need to wipe down the tables,” I tell him, making no move to get a rag. “And my boss asked me to do inventory, so closing doesn’t really work for me just yet.”
“Poem,” he snarls my name like a curse, moving forward to loom over me, hands on his hips. “We’re closing.”
I tsk, standing my ground. “I don’t think so. That inventory soundedreallyimportant.”
He glares. “You just want to see me get yelled at by my parents.”
Uh, duh.
“Belinda and Gilbert are coming?” I widen my eyes, all shock. “Wow! It will be so nice to see them!”
