Work always helps.
Movement to outrun the fear.
Noise to drown out the doubt.
Focus on anything but the two questions that continuously defeat me.
What if this is as good as it gets?
What if this is all I deserve?
Before leaving, I check for my keys, wallet, and phone, the three tangible pieces of my life that make me feel like a grown-ass adult. The cracked teacup from Mari’s shop catches my eye on the counter as I’m walking toward the door. I lift it carefully, running my finger along its fault line.
Broken but usable.
Still standing.
Even if just barely.
“Same,” I tell it, my voice too small for the empty room. I give the teacup a tap as if it’s a pet cat I’m saying goodbye to and then head outside and down the street.
The walk to the Alley Tap feels longer today. Every storefront window reflecting someone who looks composed but slightly too rough around the edges. I roll my shoulders back, lift my chin, and try my hardest to think about anything other than the raising of my rent or my fears of how I’m going to make life work for me. By the time I push open the bar door, my face isalready set into its usual expression. Professional. Unbothered by life.
My emotions untouchable.
Cal looks up as I silently tie my apron around my waist. “You good?” he asks.
“Fantastic,” I say, with zero emotion which is how he knows I’m absolutely not good. But he doesn’t press, thank God.
The first couple of hours pass in a blur of poured drinks and forced smiles. I’m on autopilot, which is probably why I don’t notice them right away. Three guys at the corner of the bar, business casual types with loosened ties and too-loud laughs. I usually see these types on a Friday night, but they must be in town for some sort of professional conference this weekend. They’ve been here maybe thirty minutes, but I can already tell they’re the kind who think their tips buy more than just drinks.
“Another round for my boys,” the one in the middle calls out, snapping his fingers in my direction.
I feel something cold slither down my spine but paste on my professional smile. “Coming right up.”
As I pour their drinks, I can feel their eyes on me. Not the usual appreciative glance that comes with the territory, but something heavier. More entitled. The kind of stare that makes you want to check if your shirt is buttoned all the way up or if you’re actually wearing pants.
“So, what time do you get off?” Middle Guy asks when I bring their drinks over.
“Late,” I answer, keeping it vague as I set down their glasses.
“We can wait,” says the one on the left, leaning forward. His cologne is expensive but he’s wearing too much of it, like he’strying to mask something else. “Pretty girl like you shouldn’t walk home alone.”
My face freezes. “I don’t walk, but thanks.”
That’s a lie but they don’t know that.
“No, really,” Middle Guy insists. “We’d be happy to make sure you get home safe. Or maybe we could take you somewhere else.” His grin doesn’t reach his eyes. “Somewhere more…fun.”
The other two snicker like this is the height of comedy. I’ve been in this industry long enough to recognize the warning signs; the way they’re positioning themselves to block my exit path, how they’re watching me instead of each other, the calculated way they’re getting drunk enough to justify bad behavior.
“Thanks, but I’ve got plans.” I start to move away, but one of the guys catches my wrist.
“Come on, don’t be like that,” he says, his grip tight enough to make a point. “We’re just being friendly.”
I twist my arm free, keeping my expression neutral even as my heart hammers against my ribs. “I need to check on my other customers.”
As I walk away, one of them mutters something about me being a “stuck-up bitch.” The words slide off my back like water. I’ve been called worse by better. Shepherd probably thought the same thing the night he met me.
