He squints a little, as if he’s trying to figure me out. But I just standthere, smiling sweetly, silently imploring him to be cool, to not call me out. That explains the flush—just nerves that I’d been caught.
“How about,” I say slowly, leaning closer, close enough that I can see the dark shadow of stubble on his chin, close enough that he’s got a great view of my cleavage, “your drink is on me, and we won’t worry about your friends’ change?”
For a moment, he doesn’t react, and I’m convinced he’s going to ask for the manager. But then he shakes his head. “You’re going to have to do better than that.”
Takes a hustler to know a hustler. “Understood,” I say, tapping my lip like I’m thinking. “How about all of your drinks, all night long, are on me?”
He nods. “Now you’re talking.”
There’s a little flutter in my stomach. He might have bad judgement when it comes to hairstyles, but I respect his game. I feel his eyes on me as I mix his rye and ginger. My fingers graze his as I hand it to him.
“I lied to you earlier,” he says, his voice low and conspiratorial.
“Excuse me?” I heard him, but I’m distracted by his brown eyes, which are so dark and deep, flecked with amber and gold around his irises.
“Those guys aren’t my friends. I barely know them.”
I open my mouth to ask him about it, but he’s already sliding off the bar stool. He raises his glass to me, tilting his chin, and retreats to the table of his not friends.
Cori sidles up beside me. “Hot,” he proclaims, his eyes following the long-haired guy.
I shake my head. “Not for me.” I hold my breath as I wipe up the spilled shots of tequila the bros left behind. I bet hell smells better than Jose Cuervo.
“I’ll take him then.”
“You’ll take who?” Lucinda has appeared out of nowhere, as she tends to do.
“I’ll take those bottles off that table right away,” Cori says with forced enthusiasm.
Lucinda raises an eyebrow. “Cleo, take your break. Then Cori, you can go.”
Cori pouts for my sake, but I can tell he’s secretly thrilled. And I can’t blame him. This is a side hustle for him. He only took the bar job to build his nest egg, with the eventual goal of being a freelance makeup artist. He doesn’t complain, but he must be exhausted.
The break room smells of stale cigarettes and rancid beer. Against one wall, there is a metal folding chair and a card table with an over-flowing ashtray. I sink into the chair and kick off my ugly, heavy-soled shoes. They’re stiff with newness, and maybe a half-size too small, but they were on sale for seventeen dollars, which makes them perfect.
If this job has one singular perk, aside from Cori, it’s the free wifi. I connect and open my socials, but I regret it immediately. Social media is a minefield. I clench my teeth as I scroll past the images of my old friends showing off their new outfits and workouts and beauty routines. I have none of those things. And what do I have? An ex that ghosted me and left me for broke, an ever-growing stack of unpaid bills, and no plans or hopes for the future. But none of those things look good on the grid. Maybe my inbox will be less depressing.
Or maybe not.
Sales for stuff I can’t afford—delete. The monthly newsletter from the UNLV School of Theater, Film and Television, which for some reason, I’m still subscribed to—delete. Notifications from Backstage for auditions I can’t attend—delete. Remnants of a life I used to know—delete.
The only message addressed directly to me is from Michael Kateb at the First Union Bank, the scammer who has been hounding me for the last three months, who has somehow found my email address in addition to my phone number. My loan payments are late, they’re going to confiscate my assets, blah blah blah. Delete!
Who falls for this shit? It’s so sloppy. I don’t have a loanorany assets. But their commitment to the grift is admirable, I’ll give them that.
I’m jolted back to reality by the sound of the Frat Bros ringing out in a raucous chorus of “BAHMP BAHMP BAHHHHM” to the NeilDiamond song playing on the jukebox in the corner. I’ve been scrolling for fifteen minutes—time goes so fast when you’re having an existential crisis. I throw my shoulders back and enter into the fray.
Cori, who has already changed into his civilian clothes, gives me a peck on the cheek and hightails it out of there, like he’s afraid Lucinda will change her mind.
I’m wringing out my bar mop when I notice I have a new customer at the end of the bar. He has a swoop of thick, white hair, and his beard, equally white, is neatly trimmed. He’s wearing a dark blue suit, perfectly cut to frame his broad shoulders. His white shirt is impossibly crisp, and is open one button too many.
A Silver Fox. A dime a dozen on the Strip, but a rare species around these parts. Known to be big spenders. My favourite.
I stretch my face into my sparkliest smile as I approach him. “What can I get for you?”
“I’ll take your finest whisky, on the rocks,” he says, his voice low and lilting, with an accent that brings to mind green rolling hills.
“I can do you a Canadian Mist, and that’s as fine as it gets.”
