“Watch your tone, fire-rat.” I point to him as he nearly pushes Sunday off her stool to get to the bar. “Maybe you should be asking your friends, they seem twice as drunk as you.”
“Harmless hazing, Miles.” Kaia leans over the bar as she sips on her drink with a grin.
“Fuck off, Keegan. You’re probably behind this,” he sneers.
“If I were, you’d know it,” she snaps.This doesn’t bode well.
“Can I get something to drink that isn’t water?” He ignores her and redirects his attention to me.
“What do you want?” I ask, cleaning my hands on the towel thrown over my shoulder.
“Vodka.”
“We’re out.”
“Whiskey,” he snaps.
I look around at the bar, eyes raking over the abundance of full bottles that are stored above my head. “Shit out of luck.”
“Gin,” he tries, and it’s clear he’s going to lose his shit any second, but he looks like an idiot without a shirt on, and his contest number is roughly finger-painted on one of his flabby pecs.
“Don’t know what to tell you,” I say, and I hear the girls snort into their drinks.
“I don’t know what fucking game this is, but I know a lot of people who can make you hurt for this little stunt,” he sneers, wagging a finger at me. I’m content to ignore him until he reaches out to take Sunday’s full glass of sangria. Faster and working with the advantage of surprise, I catch him by the head and slam his face into the bar. Sunday is up out of her stool before the glass tips and shatters across the counter.
“Don’t touch my sister,” I warn him, holding his cheek to the surface.
“I wasn’t going to!” He yells, and a few of the people around the crowded area have stopped to watch what’s going on. “I just wanted a fucking drink!”
“Bri,” Sunday’s voice isn’t quiet, but it’s not commanding. I look up at her, and she smiles at me. “I’m alright, let him go.”
“Get your shirt on and get out of my bar.” I give him a shove, and he stumbles back, the side of his face red from the contact.
“You can’t kick me out!” Miles argues, putting his hands out wide. The way he’s talked about, I expected him to be bigger, tougher, maybe. But he’s all binge drinking and no self-control.
“I don’t have to,” I say, nodding to who’s behind him.
Rhea had appeared from the crowd shortly after the girls had funneled back into the bar, and she’s watching now with her arms crossed behind Miles as he throws his hissy fit. She narrows her eyes at him, and for once, they aren’t sad; instead, they’re full of excitement and bright with hues of green and gold I’ve never seen before.
“He’s shoving customers around and being rude.” I cross my arms and watch as his face falls.
“Yeah,” Rhea says. “That tracks. I’ve got plans tonight, so let’s keep this parting clean of any drama.” She smirks at him, and Kaia starts to laugh so hard she tips from her chair, and Cosy has to keep her upright.
“Are you seriously still salty?” Miles jokes over the sound of cheering as more firefighters roll onto the stage.
“Yeah,” Rhea says. “I am.” She smiles, sharp as a blade. “You got it wrong. I’m not only high maintenance—I’m petty, too.”
She doesn’t wait for him to respond; she just walks forward with intimidating height and every muscle in her arms flexing as Miles starts to stumble backwards. He yells a few more profanities, complains about his shirt, and tries to argue her out of it, but she never breaks.
“Here.” I hand her a beer without looking at her as she leans her back against the bar, and the girls hype her up. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch her bring it to her lips with a tiny smirk on her face. Her pride and confidence were restored in one fell swoop.That’s my sad girl.
“Hey, Hellcat,” I call as I walk through the apartment. I heard her come home — singing some stupid song at the top of her lungs in the shower again. It’s always something new, and she’ll sing it until she’s bored with it. Luckily for me, and the rest of the Hollow, she has a pretty decent voice, and it’s kind of endearing. I look around, putting my hand on my hip, but she isn’t in the kitchen, and her bedroom door is closed.
It creaks open, and she appears in a pair of black shorts and an oversized nineties-style shirt with a wrestler collage on the front of it. Her hair is pulled off her face in a ponytail, and she's surprisingly lacking any of the makeup she normally wears for work. She’s staring at me like I’m insane, and she’s got those filthy string headphones in again. I hate them. They’re not even white anymore, are constantly tangled and the rubber around the ends has started to shred. She wears them around the apartment and can never hear anything. Half the time, she’s talking to herself while she makes a mess in the kitchen for me to clean up later.
I step forward and gently tug them from her ears.
“What’s up?” She leans against the frame and crosses her arms beneath her chest, but I keep my eyes on her face. I know I should step back, but I can’t make myself even if I wanted to. I like being in her space and I like how she reacts to it.
