“I doubt my ex-girlfriend cares right ‘bout now, seeing as how she’s hangin’ off the arm of some suit at a fundraiser or something that her daddy’s puttin’ on.”
“I see now,” I tease, “little Colt is feeling lonely.” He scowls at my use of the loathsome nickname reserved especially for him and sneaks his arm around my waist, pulling me in for a side hug despite my antagonizing. When he turns to whisper in my ear, his hot breath tickles the hairs on my neck.
“Lonely, horny. Call it whatever you want if it means I get to watch your tight ass riding my cock,” he mutters, and my breath hitches when he grazes his lips against my skin. Thank fuck for Bert blatantly clearing his throat. I remove his hand from my waist and back away as if the physical distance can erase the effects of his words and negate my rising irritation at his unrepentant smirk.
“Colt, fuck off with that shit while I’m at work.” Chastised and entirely without remorse, he raises his hands in feigned innocence. I roll my eyes once more—frankly, it’s a miracle they haven’t fallen out of my face—and make my way back to the bar.
A few hours and several drinks later, Colt comes up behind me as I’m closing out the register, slipping his warm hands under the hem of my shirt and around my waist. He chuckles when I growl, pressing his chest against my back.
“What are you doing after work?” he asks, rubbing his thumbs against my lower back, kneading my tight muscles. As much as I could probably use a good fuck after the week I’ve had, I have too much self-respect to be a rebound.
“Ask me again next week,” I say, leaning into his warmth and looking at him over my shoulder. While I refuse to be a stand-in for his ex, I am more than happy to steal a few moments of comfort from a familiar body. I’m momentarily knocked off balance at the intense look of longing and something like—regret? in his eyes, before it disappears when that thousand-watt smile comes back out to play.
“I’ll hold you to it. Maybe we can do something for your birthday.”
I smile, surprised that he remembered. “You’re a day early, but I appreciate the thought.”
“Nah, just wanted to be first in line,” he says with a wink. I blow him a kiss and he clutches his heart like I’ve struck him with Cupid’s arrow, and I shake my head to hide my blush. The door has barely closed behind him when Maddie and Eileen flank me at the bar.
“Are you ever going to give him a real shot?” Maddie teases, closing out her last customer on the register next to mine.
“Hell, Nyxie,” Eileen starts as she grabs her pack of cigarettes from behind the bar, “if you don’t want him, I’ll take him.”
“You’d eat him alive,” I drawl just as sarcastically. She cackles, lighting up a cigarette .
“Gotta keep young somehow,” she mumbles around it, and I bark out a harsh laugh as she leaves to bus the last few tables. Half an hour later, the bar is closed and Eileen locks up. Carlos stays with Maddie and I while Sheriff Royce’s patrol car idles, waiting to escort Eileen to the after-hours bank deposit box. Before I know it, the door to my just-this-side-of-condemned apartment locks behind me. On autopilot, I undress in the bathroom and soon the groaning shower pipes rattle, spitting out tepid water that flows down my spine. My soaking hair cascades around my face, shrinking my world down to the swirling bubbles pouring down the drain, washing away my thoughts along with the dirt and grime.
Long after my body is scrubbed raw, I linger under the dwindling spray. Long after my skin pebbles in the humid air, and my hair creates rivulets of ice-cold water that trace my veins, I linger in that quiet, shrunken world. And as I finally crawl under the cold, lonely sheets of my bed, sleep welcomes me with promises of peace.
2
NYX
I dream of wildflowers and wild horses beneath a pink sky. Distant, rumbling thunder draws my eye to the horizon, and I wonder if it’s my storm following me across the void between dreams. Movement along the distant ridge reveals a herd of horses flowing like water over the grassy plains, conquering the wild earth underfoot. Their unbridled, feral beauty mesmerizes me, and my heart races. Every fiber of my being longs to join them, leaving my worries to dissipate in the swirling dust that follows. In the last heartbeat before daylight pierces the heavy veil between fantasy and reality, I dream of freedom.
Scattered, golden sunbeams filter through my broken blinds, warming my tangled nest of self-indulgence until I can no longer ignore the discomfort of my full bladder. Afterward, I start a pot of shitty coffee while I check my online classes—I’m at least three weeks ahead in English and my next Calculus test isn’t until Tuesday, so with shitty coffee in hand, I sit on my tattered couch and revel in the lazy morning. I’ve only recently been able to afford the two online college classes—so far, I’m majoring in “not being poor” with a minor in “getting the fuck out of here”.
It’s effortless to sink into the latest novel from one of my favorite romance series, daydreaming of rugged cowboys, gruff ranchers, and sinfully sweet bull riders. Hours later, when I dig through my bare fridge for some leftovers, I make a mental note of what groceries I can afford and decide to treat myself to a little cupcake—you only turn twenty years old once, after all.
As suspect as the leftovers are, I still clean my plate, having gone without a full stomach enough times to know that you never waste a meal if you can help it. Yet another example of how Daly’s has saved me in more ways than one—not only do we get one free meal per shift, but Carlos loves to test out his more adventurous dishes on us and I regularly end up with a fridge full of his creations. The only downside is that my taste buds die a little every time he goes heavy on the spices.
When I can no longer ignore my responsibilities, I quickly get ready for work and walk the twenty minutes it takes to get to the bar. The familiar pulse of life serves as background music as I wind through cracked, pothole-ridden streets: the sharp scent of metal and gasoline from Andy’s Auto, the ping of the convenience store doors, and the squealing brakes of rusted out cars stopping at the only traffic light.
When I arrive, Carlos grunts out his typical greeting, Chloe gives me a quick hug, and I mentally prepare for the long Friday shift. Eileen is nowhere to be found, which means she’s probably smoking a joint in the cellar, so we prep the bar while Carlos warms up the kitchen and shares the first basket of fries with us. It’s not long after a very mellow and ravenous Eileen makes her way from the back bar when the tables begin to fill with the happy hour crowd, and muscle memory takes over.
Pour.
One one-thousand.
Two-one thousand.
Shake.
Stir.
Walk.
Pocket tips.
