“Heard you knocked T-Bone out cold,” he says. “Dez has been blowing up the group chat.”
“Dez needs to learn how to shut the fuck up.”
Sean snorts. “Good luck with that.”
I slide into the booth across from him, body starting to ache now that the adrenaline’s fully worn off.
Gonna feel like shit tomorrow. Worth it.
My eyes scan the bar, searching for a flash of ginger hair and a pretty, bright smile. Bridget usually works Tuesdays. She knows my order before I even sit down—dry whiskey, no chaser—and keep them coming ’til I say stop.
But I don’t see her anywhere.
Instead, a girl I don’t recognize emerges from the back. She’s got a notepad in one hand and a pen in the other. Her expression is about as welcoming as a root canal.
She’s a small thing.
Average height, maybe five foot five, with a slim build that makes her look like a stiff breeze could knock her over. Brown skin the color of caramel and a mess of natural curls piled on top of her head like she couldn’t be bothered to tame them.
She’s wearing glasses that are slightly too big for her face, and there’s a birthmark on the apple of her cheek that draws attention to features that might be pretty if she ever bothered to do herself up.
Heart-shaped face. High cheekbones. Full lips pressed into a flat, unimpressed line.
Plain Jane through and through. Jeans and a T-shirt under her apron. Tennis shoes. No makeup. No effort whatsoever.
From the vibe she gives off, she seems to prefer it that way.
But I’m more preoccupied by other things: Who the fuck is she, and what’s she doing waiting tables when Bridget should be here?
She walks up to our table as if she’s doing us a favor. “What’s it going to be?”
No peppy greeting or bright smile.
The exact opposite of Bridget in every way.
Sean glances up from his phone, a grin spreading across his face. “Bridget, you’re looking tanner this evening.”
The joke lands with a thud. The girl doesn’t even blink.
“I’m not Bridget.”
“No shit.” I lean back in the booth, studying her. “Where is she?”
“Not here.”
“I can see that. I’m asking where she is.”
The girl’s dark eyes flick to me, and for a second I catch how they sharpen behind her glasses.
Assessing. Judging. Instant dislike as she takes a single look at me.
Then it’s gone, replaced by the same flat indifference.
“She left early. Said she wasn’t feeling well,” she answers stiffly. She taps her pen against the notepad impatiently. “What’ll it be? Your order.”
Neither of us answer her. I’m staring at her with a grizzled expression that usually scares off grown men. Yet she merely stares back as if it doesn’t matter to her how large, brutish, and intimidating I am.
…or how I’m covered in bruises with dried blood on my knuckles.
