But instead of telling her that, I silently get back to work.
Within the first hour of being open, the thrill of the evening seeps its way into my bones as I settle into my element, mixing drinks and charming patrons.
While Andromeda is known for being the local biker bar because Ridgewood’s motorcycle gang, The Sinners, has made this their home away from home, we get plenty of locals and college students filling our tables. Tonight, we’re at capacity—ladies’ night always brings in a large crowd.
“Hey, help me out?” I yell to Monique, the newest hire. She’s still getting the hang of things, but she’s a quick learner.
“On my way!” She wastes no time racing to the other end of the bar to take drink orders.
Turning my attention to the two bikers in front of me, I tip my chin at them. King and Damon are all brute and brawn, with hard, bulky muscles straining the fabric of their T-shirts and leather vests. “What’ll it be?”
“Shouldn’t you know our drink order by now, Indy?” King tsks.
“You might surprise me one of these days and order a Shirley Temple or something,” I tease.
King grunts, his nose wrinkling. It makes me laugh, and he narrows his eyes, attempting to be menacing, but I’ve spent enough time around him to know he’s a big softy. “Isn’t that cherry juice?”
“Ginger ale and grenadine.”
Big, bad King shudders. “Gross.”
“They’re actually not bad, man,” Damon mutters, which only makes me laugh harder.
Pulling out two glasses, I pour them both two fingers of whiskey, toss an ice cube into each, then push them across the bar.
“Thanks,” they simultaneously mutter. Waving my hand dismissively, I go help the next customer.
Several hours later, the bar’s finally closed down. Tipping everyone out, I have to recount the money twice before I’m confident in my math skills at two-thirty in the morning. I’m beyond exhausted—ready to shower, then crawl into my bed.
“Let me walk you to your car, Indy,” Cain, Rosie’s husband, says as I grab my purse from the office.
Cain is here every night, with or without Rosie. He stays until the last person leaves, making sure we all get to our cars safely. As the motorcycle club prez and Rosie’s husband, he feels like it’s his duty to protect her bar and everyone in it.
Honestly? I don’t hate it. Ridgewood’s gotten a little sketchier over the last couple years.
“Thanks, Cain. You ready, Mo?” I grab Monique’s purse off the couch, bringing it to her as she meets me in the doorway.
“YES!” She groans, kicking off her platform boots in favor of the flip-flops she left by the filing cabinet. “Oh my God, my feet are killing me.”
“You’ve been here nearly a month, when are you going to learn heels are a no-go?” I laugh, watching as she leans against the wall.
Cain flips the light, casting us all in darkness. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”
When Monique and I are tucked into each of our cars safely, I hear Cain’s motorcycle roar to life over the rumble of my engine. Yawning, I pull my phone out of my purse, my heart sputtering when I see a single message from the one person who still manages to make me nervous as hell.
Golden Boy
Missed you at the team BBQ last weekend.
All these years, and I never changed his name in my phone. I stare at the two words, nine letters, that comprise the name I’ve foolishly built up to mean much more in my mind.
Golden Boy started off as a cutesy nickname everyone called him because that’s what he was—perfect in every way. Now, it’s still his contact because he’smyGolden Boy.
Even after all this time, I can’t shake him from my system. He’s the opposite of me. Brighter than the sun, the light to my darkness of my self-proclaimed moonlight.
The center of my universe even though he’s never officially been more than just a friend.
The one person on the planet who’s made himself completely off-limits.
