When Eileen sidles up to me with a shit-eating grin hours later, I’m immediately suspicious—she’s not yelling at anybody, she’s not smoking a cigarette—she must be planning something. I narrow my eyes at her and search for back up, or at least an eyewitness. Montrell quirks his head, and I face my boss now that I have reinforcements.
“Did you need something, Eileen?” With a mirthful grin, she grabs the busted karaoke microphone behind the bar and turns off the music. Everyone’s attention turns to her and I cross my arms, leaning back against the counter.
“Listen up you shits! Tonight’s a special night here at Daly’s,” she shouts, making several people wince at the feedback. I shake my head, fighting a smile as she commands the room. “Our Nyxie here is having herself a birthday, so y’all are gonna pretend for two minutes that you’re not a worthless bunch of lobotomized raccoons who can’t find their way out of a trash can and sing our girl happy birthday—capisce?” She threatens, addressing everyone like a herd of drunken toddlers, and soon murmurs of “yes ma’am” fill the silence.
“Get on over here, baby girl,” she demands, motioning for me to join her side. She pours three shots of whiskey, hands me one, and picks up the microphone once more to lead an off-sync, off-key rendition of “Happy Birthday”. My eyes burn with unshed tears, but I manage to hold my shit together as Tammy and Maureen try outdoing one another on the last verse. I throw back my shot and Eileen pulls me into a tight hug against her tits—no wonder she won second place.
“You’re suffocating me!” I shout, struggling to pull away.
“Most people have to pay for that, you know,” she teases when she finally releases me, only for Maddie and Chloe to pull me into a group hug. Carlos lifts the three of us and spins until we screech for him to let us go, and he only grins when I give him a dirty look, but then we both devolve into laughter.
“Misty came by earlier with a special order from Jefecita herself. You’ll thank me later,” he says with a wink, handing me a freshly wrapped brownie before turning back to the kitchen.
Eileen waggles her eyebrows and tells me to take my break, and I head to the back alley behind the building. Despite the scent of garbage, I inhale the cool, late September air deeply, and exhale what could be mistaken for a quiet laugh. Spending my life as a town pariah, it’s a foreign concept that people might actually care about me. I’ve been mired in my solitude for so long that having friends is actually discomfiting. The irony isn’t lost on me—how pathetic to be so desperately starved for affection yet incapable of reaching for it when offered. Annoyed with myself, I unwrap the pot brownie and take a small bite, only to discover that Carlos has added chili powder to the mix after my mouth begins to tingle.
A metallic clang breaks my brief moment of calm, and I chuckle when two glowing eyes peer at me from behind the fallen trash can lid—"lobotomized raccoons” may not have been entirely inaccurate. I toss a chunk of the brownie behind the dumpster and wish my new friend a good night before heading back inside.
“Next year,” Eileen says as she joins me a few minutes later, “we’ll have streamers, cake. The whole shebang.” I shake my head, smothering a smile. Once Eileen gets going it’s best to let the train of thought come to a rolling stop. “Carlos insisted on baking a cake and Maddie already volunteered to jump out of it. He thinks he can submit it for some reality show so if you say ‘no’ now, you’ll be breaking all three of our hearts.”
I throw my hands up in exasperation. “Jesus fuck, fine! It’s not like you’d listen if I said ‘no’ anyways.”
“Now you’re gettin’ it. Take another shot,” she says, dangling my glass in front of me.
“This isn’t legal, you know that right?”
“Nyxie, I don’t give a single, solitary, flying fuck if it’s not ‘legal’,” she emphasizes with air quotes. “This is my bar. What’s the use of owning the damn thing if I can’t do what I want?!”
“Hey, Eileen!” we hear Bert shout from across the room. How this man can hear anything over the din of the bar still surprises me. “Eileen—do you think Maddie would do that for my next birthday?” he asks hopefully.
“Fuck you for making it weird, Bert!” she hollers back.
“I thought we were friends!”
“Bert. Honey. You pay me to bring you drinks with my tits half out. It’s not the same thing.” I have to hide a smirk when he grumbles into his glass.
“I don’t know Eileen, you pay me to pass out drinks with my tits half out, doesn’t seem that far off,” I tease, filling a customer’s drink across the bar.
“Ornery little shit,” she mutters. “The fact I haven’t fired you yet means we’re practically friends. And people who are almost friends don’t snitch about things like ‘underage drinking’ or ‘income taxes’,” she emphasizes again.
“Pretty sure that’s not legal either.” She merely waves me off as we get back to work. A pleasant buzz spreads throughmy limbs from the two earlier shots and piece of pot brownie. After promising to give me a lift home, Eileen sends Chloe and Maddie home early since there are so few customers this late at night. Chloe’s boyfriend pulls up a few minutes later and Maddie hitches a ride with them.
“Make bad choices, sweetie!” Eileen yells, and Chloe flips her off while her boyfriend visibly blushes from his parked car. Tanner’s not her usual type but he seems to be treating her and Cora well, so I hope he sticks around. I hear the door open and Eileen tell whoever just walked in to take a seat wherever when I’m putting the last of the bar rags into the washing machine in the back room and groan. I was so close to getting out of here without having to put on another painfully brittle customer service smile.
I stop in my tracks when I see the two impossibly beautiful women sitting in my section. What the fuck? I can’t even blame the alcohol or pot for my confusion.
Pretty people don’t come here.
They certainly don’t come here at one in the morning.
And they definitely don’t look like they’re happy to see me.
“What the fuck are they doing here?” Eileen whispers, coming up next to me under the pretext of wiping the counter.
I snort before I can stop myself. “That's not nice to say about your bar.”
“It’s my bar, I’ll say whatever the fuck I want. Go see what they want. Ask if we’re being audited,” she whispers harshly, “I’m too pretty to go back to prison.”
“Coward,” I whisper back. “Wait, prison—” I start, but she snaps my ass with the towel and shoves me towards the two newcomers. I’ve walked this path so many times I could do it with my eyes closed, but right now it feels like a gauntlet.
