The Tin Tankard runs a hybrid tip pool system. As the bartender, I get a percentage of the servers’ tips, but keep my own. All of us give a small percentage to the bussers and food runners. “Yeah, not too bad, tonight,” I agree with Louise. I don’t tell her that “not too bad” won’t cover the college deposit I dream about. Just like I don’t share that there’s a college website bookmarked on my phone, and I look at it on my fifteen -minute breaks like it’s porn.
I want to tell her I got an acceptance email three months ago. I would be a part--time student, attending law school pre-requisite classes in the mornings so I can still work at the Tankard.
But I never clicked the big blue button that said toconfirm enrollment.
It’s hard to confirm anything when you’re one emergency away from choosing between groceries and rent.
“Last call in ten,” Louise says, pushing away from the bar. “I’ll take the floor, you can start running the drawer.”
“Got it.”
She weaves between the tables, balancing the battered plastic tray on her palm, calling out “Last call!” in a voice that’s way toochipper for how I feel. A few people wave her off. One guy slurs something about another round of shots. She laughs it off and promises him water.
Before I get to the till drawer, the door opens.
Three men walk in, and the change in the room is instant. It’s like someone hit mute on the entire bar.
Conversation drops an octave. Heads turn. Even the couple making out pauses long enough to glance over.
The men are wearing expensive dark coats. Their shoes are shiny and their haircuts too stylish for this neighborhood. But despite the professional appearance, there’s an edge to the men that has nothing to do with fashion.
I don’t know their names, but I know what they are.
Bratva. The Russian mob.
Two of the men I recognize. They’ve come in a handful of times over the last year to meet with Pete, the Tankard’s owner. At every occasion, they ordered drinks, but never get drunk. They don’t shout at the TV, like most of the other patrons.
They just sit and talk quietly with each other while waiting for Pete, creating a field of tension around their table that makes everyone take the long way to the bathroom so they don’t have to walk past them.
I grab another rag and start wiping the bar again. I know not to stare at the men with the hard eyes and the expensive watches. Not to eavesdrop. Not to ask questions. But I rarely have to worry about interacting with them. Usually, they just find a table and order from the server until Pete joins them.
But tonight, one of them stares right at me, and I can’t look away.
He’s tall with broad shoulders filling out the black coat, the collar turned up against the evening chill. His dark hair, cut close at the sides and a little longer on top, is combed back, exposing a face that is all sharp lines and angles, and his square jaw is shadowed with late--night stubble.
But it’s his eyes that make me catch my breath.
They’re pale gray and cold, watching me like I’m not just a girl in a cheap black tank top and jeans, but something he’s placed under a microscope. A chill races down my spine, a weird mixture of apprehension and anticipation that makes me swallow hard.
I tell myself not to react. Don’t stiffen. Don’t look away too fast.
Giving my hands something to do, I grab a clean glass I don’t need. They sit down at the far end of the bar, near the wall, where they can see the entire room.
Of course, they do.
Louise clocks them and gives me a look. Not scared, exactly, but alert.
“I’ll take the regulars,” she says under her breath. “You handle the VIPs?”
My laugh is thin. “Lucky me.”
I walk over, smoothing my ponytail with one hand like that’s going to fix anything. I feel that stranger’s gaze tracking every step.
“Evening,” I say, voice steady. “What can I get you?” Pete’s not here tonight, but I keep that to myself. In case he’s missing a meeting with them, I don’t want to be the messenger reporting his calendar screwup.
The two men I recognize both order whiskey, neat. Their accents are more British than Russian. I can’t focus on that discrepancy because the man with the pale gray eyes hasn’t looked away from me once. He’s a little younger than the others, but still ten or fifteen years my senior.
“What about you?” I ask him.
