“I’m sorry,” Holly says again in a small voice.
I shrug and drag around bottles of vodka in the end fridge. “It’s okay. I’m just . . .” Trapped, without a passport or a booked plane ticket. Living my nightmare. “A bitch. Don’t mind me.”
Out of the corner of my eye I see the light catching in a bottle of whiskey, giving it a go
ld glint. I feel a twinge low down in my stomach and I exhale until I have nothing left inside. I’ve had a chronic case of the heavy sad sighs lately, especially when I think about weddings. Which I refuse to do.
I ran my own business for years, and I feel like I have X-ray vision for things that are going to become a major problem. Holly still hasn’t been given any payroll forms. Stock levels are alarmingly low. Maybe alcohol is not Anthony’s main source of income. I go to the back office and write on a Post-it: Anthony—do you want me to do a stock order? —D
For a tough bitch, I’ve got embarrassingly girly handwriting. I sure don’t see the guys on the daytime shift writing conscientious notes for the boss. I scrunch it up.
When I come back out and begin to count cash in the till, Holly tries again, rewinding to the part before she blew it. “I don’t think Vince is the guy for you, anyway. I think you need one of them.” She means the Leather Jackets.
I keep counting cash. Five hundred, five fifty. That’s interesting, coming from her. She’s petrified of them. If a glass breaks, it’s me trudging out with a dustpan and broom. “Why do you think that?”
Holly shrugs. “You need someone even tougher than you. What about him? He looks at you all the time, and he always makes sure you serve him.”
I can’t be bothered even looking up from the register to see which one she means. Six hundred, six fifty. “I’d rather die alone than end up with one of these assholes.”
The same young Leather Jacket who helped me scare the college boys is weaving back to us. Free beer obviously goes down easy.
“Thirsty boy tonight,” I say, and pour his usual whiskey this time.
“Very,” he says in a way that sounds sexual, but when I look at his face, he’s serene. “Bored and thirsty, that is.”
“Well, that’s why you’re here. Now, if you’re gonna beat up those kids later, do it in the parking lot, please.”
His crystal-blue eyes flick to my name tag. “No problem. See you around, Lorraine.” He pays, tips me, and walks away.
“That’s the one that loves you,” Holly says, far too loud.
Chapter 2
His boot misses a step and a splat of whiskey hits the ground. Gamely, he recovers and walks off, looking rattled. I hiss at her, “Shuddup.” I’ve never even registered his existence properly, but he reveals himself to be tall, handsome, tattooed. Muscles, butt, boots. Tick, tick, tick. Decent bone structure, too.
I picture myself trying to talk to him. Touch him. Know him. Then I think of him trying to do the same to me.
Maybe he could drive me to the airport.
“Pass.” I give her a mind-your-own-business look and she receives it, loud and clear. We avoid each other politely for probably close to an hour; she serves drinks, each transaction like a novelty for her, blinking at the register in earnest. I dread to think whether the final tally will balance.
I lug a new keg out of the storeroom and a familiar chest-rattle begins. I should know better, but every time is a surprise, because I’m a moron. You’d think that a lifelong heart arrythmia would be something I am used to, but every time: Gosh, that thing again. It’s the tripwire that I forget about the instant I’m past it, and despite my being an otherwise healthy twenty-six-year-old, I have to sit in Anthony’s chair, my vision pixelating and my heart palpitating.
“You okay?” Holly calls, her face peeping around the corner. “Girls aren’t supposed to get the kegs.”
“Twinged it a little,” I lie outright, indicating my back. “Go out front.”
“Shoulda gotten Keith,” she says mutinously, and I point my finger until she leaves.
Meanwhile, my heart is running up a skyscraper’s fire stairs, and it’s got a little wooden leg. Step-pause—hop-scramble. Up and up, no handrail, don’t panic, don’t fall backward into black. I’ve just got to endure the blip until it passes. But this time, I’m breathing like I’m taking the stairs, too. I can almost feel Jamie’s angry alarm fogging around me in these moments; he’d be using his strength of will to make my heart beat right.
Jamie caused my heart condition. He unplugged my umbilical cord to take a leisurely swig, smirking, watching me turn blue before giving it back. My cardiologist told me that was impossible, but I’m still convinced. That’s very on-brand for Jamie.
Apparently, I was lined up to be the firstborn, but at the last second, Jamison George Barrett swooped around and beat me to it. He belted out of Mom first, rosy and strapping, screaming Touchdown! He was in the upper percentile for everything. I came out jaundiced and was kept in one of those newborn pressure cookers for a week with a heart monitor. Jamie’s been outpacing me ever since, scoring endless touchdowns in classes and offices and bars, mirrored surfaces, and probably beds. Ugh, gross.
Maybe the reason I can deal with the guys in the bar is because I was dealing with an alpha male in the womb.
It was raining today in Jamie’s new city. I can picture him walking down the pavement to his dream job as an associate at an investment bank. I don’t know what he does except I imagine it involves swimming in a vault of gold coins. He’d be in his Burberry trench coat, black umbrella in one hand and phone in the other, Blah, blah, blah. Money, money, money.