Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 81261 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81261 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
“I’m good.” My tone is curt, and I’m not even sorry. It’s best to keep him at arm’s length, even though I can tell he’s the type of good-hearted guy who routinely takes in strays. I don’t want him getting attached to me in any way, because I won’t stay here long. It’s impossible for me to settle down.
This is my eighth night in a row I’ve worked, and in those eight days, I’ve picked up partial day shifts too. I’ve been here two weeks, and the small apartment Sam rented me above the bar suits my needs. I figure I’ll stick around a few months before moving on.
Not to find greener pastures, because those don’t exist.
Really, I’m just trying to outrun my demons. About the time I start feeling secure, it’ll seem like the walls are closing in, and I’ll jet.
I mix drink after drink, pull pints, and force myself to act interested in those sitting at the bar hitting on me. I’ve become good at pretending, and my tip jar is filled with green—mostly fives and tens—which is pretty good for a dive bar like this.
A man takes the bar stool right in front of where I’m pulling cold bottled beer out of the cooler.
“Be right with you,” I say without glancing up. I efficiently twist off the caps, tossing them to the floor where they’ll be swept up later tonight, and hand the bottles off to a couple a few seats down. I mark it on their tab and turn to the new customer. “What can I get you?”
When my eyes make contact with the man, my entire body locks in recognition. Same dirty-blond hair, except it’s thinning on top, and watery blue eyes that make him look perpetually sad. It’s been nine years. He’s gained a little weight but is otherwise utterly recognizable.
“I’ll take a screwdriver,” he says before his gaze moves from me to check out the other patrons in the bar.
I’m stunned into inaction. While I would know Vince Matheson anywhere, he doesn’t recognize me at all, and I don’t know whether I should be offended.
Granted… I’ve changed a lot in nine years. My dark brown hair has been bleached platinum and cut short in shaggy layers. It’s an awful hairdo, and I did it myself with a cheap drugstore kit and a straight razor. I’ve lost weight since he last saw me, and while it’s noticeable in my body, my face has thinned out the most.
No, I shouldn’t be offended he doesn’t recognize me. Not sure anyone would from nine years ago.
His gaze comes back to me, and I manage to offer up a polite smile before turning to mix his cocktail. With my back to him, I feel his eyes on me, and I verify it with a quick glance in the mirror behind the bar. I’m wearing a mashup of clothes I got from Goodwill—a denim skirt cut super short and frayed, a tank top that’s tight and a little too small for my breasts, and a mesh overlay shirt that really doesn’t conceal the fact I’m not wearing a bra.
It’s a provocative outfit, designed to up my tips. Vince’s eyes drop to my ass, and it does surprise me just a little. The way I look now wouldn’t have appealed to him back then, but maybe he’s changed.
Turning, I set the drink on a napkin, and he slides a credit card toward me. “Open a tab, if you don’t mind.”
His voice is what I remember. Timid, butterfly soft.
“Got it.” I put his credit card in a leather jacket awaiting his final tally and move down the bar to handle some refills. When I glance back at him from time to time, he’s not watching me anymore. He focuses on his drink and his smartphone, closed off and not inviting conversation.
After about ten minutes, I can’t help myself, and I move back to him. His drink is only about half empty, but still I ask, “You want another?”
His head lifts and he blinks at me in surprise. “Um… yeah. Why not?”
I mix his second drink even stronger than the first and set it down before him. “Thanks,” he says.
“My pleasure.” I lean on the bar, folding my arms, and I know it plumps my breasts. His eyes can’t help but flick there. “You from around here?”
He shakes his head, hand curling around the first screwdriver. “Traveling through. Looked like a nice bar to have a few drinks.”
I flash him a flirty smile. “This place is a dump, but I make excellent cocktails.”
Vince smiles back, taking the bait. “Too bad you’re working or I’d buy you one. Of course, it probably wouldn’t be as good as yours.”
“Too bad indeed,” I purr, reaching out to stroke a fingertip down the back of his hand.