“Natalie, stop fucking around,” the man shouted.
She didn’t look up again, focusing on cleaning up the mess and avoiding her boss. Like a skittish nobody, she hurried and seemed to be on the verge of breaking down under the pressure, looking like she needed someone to give a shit about her, not berate her.
I exhaled a long breath, oddly sympathetic to this stranger. Because in her harried expression, I felt a kindred longing.
A wish that I could have someone special to give a shit about me.
2
NATALIE
Another tall glass slipped out of my grip. Amber liquid sloshed out and coated my hand.
Dammit!
I turned to block my latest mistake from Peter’s view. If my new boss at this crappy little bar had any more incentive to yell at me or give me a hard time, I was bound to break.
Bartending wasn’t my first choice of a job. It was more like thelastthing I wanted to do to earn an income.
“Comeon, bitch,” a customer at the end of the bar whined. A worried glance up toward them peeved me.
Okay. Scratch that.
Theverylast thing I’d want to do to earn an income was flaunt my body and dance on a pole like that group of scantily dressed entertainers did. I did have some dignity. With that dignity, though, was a whole load of nervousness to even be in a rowdy, grungy bar like this. A hefty dose of desperation went right along with it.
Simply put, after my husband, Fitz, was killed, I had to make money somehow. Not many employers were interested in a stay-at-home-mom/widow. None of them seemed crazy about giving me a chance when I had next to no work experience to bring to the table.
I hustled to slide these new drinks to the bar top, though. My delivery wasn’t as smooth as I hoped it might be. Punctuality was something else I needed a learning curve for. These glasses didn’t topple over and empty despite my shaking hands. The booze was intact as I foisted them on the customers who’d ordered.
“Hey! I said I wanted this on the rocks!” one protested after I gave him a whiskey sour.
Fuck.
Slapping on my best smile—which probably came off as a grimace—I nodded and extended my arm to reach for it.
The old man grinned as he lifted his hand and tossed the drink back. “Whoops. I guess you owe me the right one now.”
My jaw dropped. Was he serious? “I can’t…”
“Make it snappy, sweetheart,” he snarled, slamming the small glass to the table.
I flinched, not at the sound, because it was deafeningly loud in here to the point where I now knew the true meaning of being overstimulated. His swift movement of the container landed it in a puddle of vodka I’d spilled. A few drops shot up and flicked onto my check, startling me.
Everything was startling me.
“Ease up, Nat,” Rosa, the other bartender, the one who’d trained me, said as she checked my hip with hers. “You look like you’re going to either cry or crack up.” Hiking her thick black eyebrows up as she tilted her head toward where Pete sat on a stool and sipped his drink behind the bar, she indicated that neither option would be wise. I didn’t need her to point out that he was watching. He had one of those micromanaging personalities that drove me insane. I’d hoped that he wouldn’t be around often, but so far in my first week of being here, he’d shown up on only the busiest and wildest nights. The nights where I got overwhelmed and acted like an amateur with no clue how to pour anything.
I nodded shakily, so stunned and lost and wishing this crazy rush would simmer down already.
My feet ached, but maybe that plantar fasciitis was more due to how often I slipped and missed my footing back here behind the bar.
The back of my shirt was damp and starchy from sweat dripping down my spine from anxiety. But that might have been due to how freaking hot it was in here with too many bodies crammed inside on this fall night.
My head ached with a dull, thudding, pulsing pain with how tired, stressed, and nervous I was just to be in this bar. The Diamond Mirage was loud, without pause. Boisterous in a bad way.
But it’s a job. Suck it up and deal.
I couldn’t let my daughter down. Fitz passed away far too soon. It was just me now joining the legions of single mothers who had to scrimp and save and slave away for a living, all to provide for the future. Maisie was only four, and I was all she had. Whateverwages and tips I could earn here were all we’d have for the basic necessities.
