Page 2 of Wrecked

To everyone below me, I’m the town joke. The blonde who didn’t go to college and still works in the bar she worked at in high school. While I might be the punch line, I’m here to help them unwind after a long day of work, and I’m why they’re opening their mouths like teenagers on spring break.

Noreen, one of the bartenders, comes up behind me and starts grinding against my back. Not only is she a hard worker, but with her short blonde hair, big doe eyes, and taut figure, she’s also a knockout. Her hand caresses my thigh and then travels up my stomach. The eyes of the guys below us pop out of their sockets.

I give her a hip check, and she walks down the bar, looking for a patron who wants to come up and dance with us. I find a pretty brunette and give her a hand up. Juice, one of the bouncers, comes over to assist. When the girl is safely up, I hand her the bottle. She thinks she’s the life of the party as she drizzles the watered-down vodka into very eager throats.

The next song on the jukebox is “Cherry Pie” by Warrant. I can guarantee ninety percent of the people in here have no idea who Warrant is. I only do because Paulie has been ingraining his love of rock in me since I started working here at eighteen years old. I couldn’t bartend back then, but I made one hell of a bar-back.

When the song is over, Noreen and I help the girls get down from the bar top without breaking any limbs. The music volume diminishes at the same time, allowing the hum of overlapping conversations to break through.

Some might think being a bar owner is a crazy life goal for a twenty-three-year-old, but this is what I’m good at. It’s what I was meant to do. My family believes in me, too, or else they wouldn’t have mortgaged the house in order to help me fulfill my dream.

Stepping down from the bar, I wipe my hands on a rag. Victoria takes off to flirt with some guy by the mechanical bull, and I lean in to talk to my friend.

“I thought you were taking the night off?” Suzanne asks.

I laugh, looking at my place behind the bar when I should be on a stool next to Suzanne. “Yeah, I was, but the place is packed. What was I thinking, taking off on a weekend?”

“Come on, Paulie told you to actually have some fun tonight. Pretty soon, you won’t be able to let loose in here, so live it up while you still can.”

With a grin, I say, “‘The older you get, the more rules they’re gonna want you to follow.’”

“Did you just McConaughey me?”

I roll my head back and laugh. My good mood instantly dies when the front door opens, and in walks the one person who affects me like no one else.

Adam Reingold.

Six feet tall and built like a stallion, the man is the epitome of male. He also happens to be the town narc, and he hates my guts.

He strolls in with his officer’s uniform on—that tacky polyester ensemble that is a symbol of honor, protection, and ruiner of fun. I swear, every time he walks in here, everyone freezes. With his copper hair and onyx eyes, he scans the room with a grimace.

Ever since a drug overdose killed his best friend and my boyfriend, Brad, he’s been on a mission to make sure no one is messing around with narcotics. While I admire his dedication to keeping our town clean, I do find an issue with him sauntering into my bar all the time, treating my customers like they’re criminals.

“Uh, Leah…you’re staring.” Suzanne reaches across the bar and pinches my nose.

I swat her hand away.

She giggles and sits back, lifting her glass to her mouth. “I get it; he’s gorgeous.”

I place my hand on my hip and scrunch my face. “Ew, gross. He is not gorgeous. He’s rude, condescending, and the most boring person I’ve ever met.”

Suzanne puts her hands up in defense. “I agree with you. He’s drab, and damn if he doesn’t give me the heebie-jeebies sometimes.” She gives a little shiver. “But he sure is nice to look at.”

I squint my eyes at her and take an order from a patron. If I’m going to stand back here, I might as well keep making drinks. My hand is filling a cup with ice when I see Adam walking over to Kimberly, a local who went to high school with us. She’s at the opposite end of the bar in a short little skirt and a shirt that is more revealing than what she usually wears.

Adam leans his side into the bar, his muscular forearm resting on the wood. The fabric of his shirt, having zero stretch, hugs his bicep with the curl. He’s talking to Kimberly. At first, she seems flattered by the attention, and then she quickly stiffens and starts to look uncomfortable. She’s staring at the drink in front of her.

Kimberly mouths something to him, and he nods, seeming satisfied but unhappy with her answer. With a point of his finger, he appears to be reprimanding her, and then stalks off.

When he is gone, I let out a large breath and realize my hand is still sitting in the ice machine. It’s so numb, I can barely feel it.

“Damn it!” I pull it out and then tuck it in my back pocket for warmth.

My nerves are shot, and my hand is frozen.

I ask one of the bartenders to finish making the drink and then turn back to Suzanne. “Let’s get drunk tonight.”

Two hours, two shots, four beers, and a table dance later, I’m swimming in a sea of lanky limbs and good times.