1
BRIELLE
Rain tapsagainst my window in a steady rhythm, pulling me deeper into the kind of tiredness that lives in your bones—the kind I feel every day.
My alarm went off about a half hour ago, but I haven’t found the strength to leave the comfort of my bed.
I flick on the lamp, throw the blanket off, and scoot to the edge of the mattress. I stare at the pile of dirty laundry from this past week. It’s my usual black jeans, fitted shirt, and sneakers that have all seen better days. The standard uniform for mixing drinks until my feet can’t take any more, and doing it all over again tonight makes me want to crawl back under the covers and never come out.
I don’t want to go. Especially not with the rain leading to wet clothes and hair.
Dragging myself up, I grab the last clean set of clothes from my dresser and walk to the door, finding the living room blessedly empty.
I silently thank God for giving me a break from my roommates. I waste no time shuffling to the bathroom. Flipping the switch on, I inch the creaky door closed behind me. No fucking way am I going to risk waking Chase or Morgan up. It’salready a miracle they decided to lock themselves away in their room after drinking all day.
At first, they were okay. Chase is your typical tool. Exactly like every other guy who has no respect for his girlfriend and does coke more than he takes a shower. He’s a sleazeball at his finest. Morgan is a grade-A cunt. Her shrill voice makes me want to punch holes in the wall every time I hear it.
I’ve been working at a biker bar called The Whiskey for a few months now, and it’s been decent so far. The tips are nice and on a good night, everything is pretty laid back. I was hired on the spot even though I didn’t come looking for a job, but for the alcohol the bar had to offer—wanting to drown my sorrows after the shit show my life has become.
All my money went to supply my mom’s medication. That was until she passed away, leaving me with a hole in my chest and nowhere to live. I was lucky to have found a room for rent in a crappy apartment with two asshole roommates.
I squint against the bright light as my body slowly starts to wake up. Taking in my appearance in the mirror, my deep brown hair is a mess on the top of my head, and the bags under my eyes can be seen for miles. I look like someone who needs a coffee… or a solid twelve hours of sleep.
Deciding against washing my hair, I jump in, washing my body quickly, then wrap myself in a clean towel, wishing I could go back to my room to read a book or watch a true crime documentary until I fall back asleep.
Thankfully, it’s Saturday, and tonight the tips will be even better.
After fighting to get my clothes on my still-damp body, I run a brush through my long hair before grabbing my favorite pocketknife off my dresser and sliding it into my back pocket.
I was hoping the fatigue would have lessened with the shower, but nope. It’s still there, but I no longer look like I got hit by a truck.
I glance down at the time on my phone, and I need to hurry if I don’t want to be late again. As much as I bitch, I can’t afford to lose this job. It’s been saving my ass since Mom died and I had to move from my childhood home.
I throw on some lip gloss and mascara to add to the ‘not a zombie’ look.
After a few finishing touches, I check myself out in the mirror and nod when I’m satisfied. I exit the bathroom and head back to my room. My pajamas land on top of the never-ending pile of laundry, and I grab my bag and jacket. The thin, worn fabric won’t do much against the rain, but it’s all I’ve got.
Wrapping the jacket tighter around myself, I pull open the door and make my way down the road where I parked, ready to face whatever shit show is out here.
I pushthrough the door into a packed bar, taking my jacket off and shaking it like a wet fucking dog. The short walk from the parking lot to the door soaked me to the bone.
The heat hits me first, clinging to me as the smell of beer and way too many bodies hits my nose. The noise follows. Music and conversations roaring together, filling the room.
I push my way through the crowd until I make it to the bar. Instead of walking around, I hoist myself up onto the bartop and swing my legs over, immediately drawing Bexley’s attention, who’s mid-glare before realizing it’s me.
“Brielle! I almost just cussed you the fuck out,” Bexley yells over the music, followed by a laugh. I only smirk as I toss my jacket on a hook behind the bar. It should dry before the end of my shift.
A few patrons seated at the other end lift their hands, flagging me down as I get to work.
“What can I get you, gentlemen?” I ask, lining up two glasses on the counter.
The man on the left leans his elbow on the bar, his eyes lingering a second too long. “Whatever you have on tap, beautiful.” He sends me a wink, and I laugh as I pick up one of the glasses. His friend doesn’t bother looking up from the beer list. “I’ll have the same.”
You never know with the men who come into this place. Some are nice—respectful, even. Others get handsy, and Susie, the bar owner, already told me she wouldn’t fire me for protecting myself. Which is the reason I keep the knife in my back pocket. One that has ended up in the tops of two hands so far. If I hate one thing, it’s strangers touching me.
I tilt the glass and let the beer pour, my eyes roaming the room. When they are full, I slide them over. The men thank me, open a tab, and head back to their group of friends.
Bexley and I fall into our usual rhythm, Kristie joining us not long after. The three of us get drinks out as fast as the crowd orders them. About an hour later, things start to die down enough to breathe.
