Mallorie grins. “They’re probably worth something at auction.”
I laugh, but it fades quickly.
“I just need to get out. For both of us. I need my own place. Something small, butours.”
“It’ll happen, don’t worry. And, you know, starting over doesn’t mean starting empty. If nothing else, you’ve got motivation.”
I lift my cup and soft-clink it against hers. “To surviving teenagers and moving out of my mother’s house before I lose my mind.”
“Cheers to that.” She grins and downs the rest of her cappuccino.
“You know,” she adds, “no matter what, you’re doing great. You left. You’re taking care of your kid. That takes guts.”
My throat feels lumpy all of a sudden, which isn’t like me at all. I’ve always been the sober, pragmatic, level-headed one, while Mallorie was the messy, hot-headed, emotional half of our duo.
“Thanks. I don’t feel brave. I feel tired.”
“Same thing,” Mallorie says, shrugging. “It’s just that bravery has better PR.”
My laugh is a little lighter this time and I reach across the table, closing my hand over hers.
“I’m sorry I left it so long, Mal. I’ve really missed this.”
She leans forward and pins me with a devious stare. “But you’re back, Erin honey. There’s no escaping me now.”
Erin
I hate this place.
The bar is called The Rusty Anchor, which is misleading because it is nowhere near any water, and the romanticism of dropping an anchor in the middle of the sea is lost in this dubious part of town.
The air smells rancid and feels treacly with beer fumes. The bottles lining the back of the bar are coated in a thick layer of dust sticky with nicotine. It’s like the smoking ban never happened. And the only thing masking the foul language that comes out of patrons’ mouths is a temperamental jukebox that seems to be stuck in a loop of depressing country songs about trucks and betrayal.
Only three shifts in, and I’m questioning every life choice that led me here.
“Fill me up, darlin’.”
The command reaches me from the opposite end of the bar where a scruffy regular is nursing a now-empty glass of scotch.
“Sure thing,” I reply, reaching for the bottle of Johnnie Walker.
I pour a double measure, trying not to shudder at the sensation of his eyes on my breasts.
“Put it on my tab,” he adds, in a rumbly grunt.
“Okay.”
I return to my safe haven at the back of the bar and take out the tab book, then the voice of Bobby, the manager, slithers into my ears.
“Make that his last. If he doesn’t make good soon, he’s going to drink us dry on our dime. The boss won’t take kindly to that.”
My gaze snaps to Bobby, briefly taking in his short and skinny frame thrown wildly off balance by an enormous, rotund stomach that has Metabolic Syndrome written all over it. His skin is perpetually perspiring and he appears to have either shunned or not discovered deodorant.
“What boss? I thought you were the boss.”
“I’m just the manager. The boss is the guy who owns this place. Buthisboss is the one we really have to worry about. Nobody fucks with him, and everybody knows it. So I guarantee our little drunk over there would prefer to hear his tab is fullfrom you.”
“Me? Why?”
