Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 65582 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 328(@200wpm)___ 262(@250wpm)___ 219(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65582 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 328(@200wpm)___ 262(@250wpm)___ 219(@300wpm)
It’s getting close to midnight and she looks tired. I know I am, but I have another hour before I get off work. When the asshole snaps his fingers at me three times, I go begrudgingly. “Close my tab.”
A please would be nice, but what the fuck ever with him. It has started to feel like Constance is avoiding eye contact with me, so my mood has soured.
Rule number one: Don’t get too close.
Fucked that one right up. Now I’m left with the remnants to clean up. At least rule number two is safe. I hand him his change and just as I’m about to tell Constance that it was a pleasure to not just meet her, but spend time with her, she turns to the woman next to her, and says, “The Gimlets are amazing. You should order one from Hardy, in particular.” She’s nodding and though I can tell she’s definitely tipsy, she didn’t seem drunk until now. “He loves serving Gimlets. Don’t you, Hardy?”
Confused to where she’s going with this, I eye her, and whisper, “What are you doing?”
“Helping.”
“Helping how exactly?”
“Helping you find your next one.” Staring at her, I watch her nod, signaling to her barstool neighbor. “You know, a Gimlet girl.”
“Don’t,” I reply, flatly. “Don’t help. I’m not a gigolo.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to imply that.”
“What did you mean then?”
Asshole leans over. “Hey buddy, I don’t know what’s going on here, but it needs to end. She’s with me, so stop hitting on the customers, and stick with what you do best—serving them.”
My spine straightens and my fists itch to punch his fucking face for talking to me like that. “I think it’s time for you to leave.”
“I’m a good paying customer. Don’t make me report you to the manager.”
“Hardy’s Hideaway. I own this place, so get the fuck out and don’t come back.”
Looking at Constance, he says, “Come on. It’s late and I have a deposition in the morning.”
Constance’s eyes close. When she reopens them, a muted shame is seen in the usually rich color, dulling them. “Hardy,” she starts, but asshole yanks her barstool back and paws her hand. Before she’s pulled away, she says, “I’ll see you.” What she said earlier slips out without the most important word attached—again—and I hate that I notice.
Instead of watching her leave, I push down the sickening feeling in my stomach and start serving customers again. But that damn feeling doesn’t ease up once they’re gone and I stop, and look up. Gone.
I’m just not ready to have her gone—from the bar . . . from my life? I toss the ice scoop into the bin and hightail it out from behind the bar and weave through the crowd toward the exit. Pushing the door open, it’s cold and snowing and I don’t have a jacket on, but step out anyway. She’s twenty or so feet away waiting for a cab. “Constance,” I call, just before she heads to the cab asshole has hailed.
Her eyes go wide when she sees me, and says something to her date before coming back to me. “What are you doing out here?”
I’m dumbfounded by the way she’s acting. Is it a show she’s putting on for that asshole? Or is this the real her? “I’m not chained behind the bar.”
“You’re twisting my words.” She looks nervous, and glances back at her date before turning back to me. “What did you want to say?”
“You know what’s funny?”
“What?”
“I’ve hooked up with more than my share of women in my life. I never felt ashamed or apologetic about it because I respected them. I gave them a good time. I had a good time, and it was always an act between two consenting adults.”
Her date holds the cab door open. Impatiently, he says, “Come on, Virginia. It’s cold.”
Virginia. Time is ticking, the seconds going from one beat to three in the blink of an eye. “I’ve owned every encounter I’ve had and never felt cheap. Until tonight, Constance.” I back toward the door, grabbing the handle.
Those eyelids I enjoyed kissing an hour earlier close tightly. When she opens them, she says, “I’m sor—”
I don’t want to hear it, so I open the door and cut her off, “And for the record, I wouldn’t have kept you waiting even a second knowing some other guy could come along and steal you away. Much less stand you up.”
“Hardy?”
“Goodbye.”
I wish I could leave and go home. I’m not in the mood to stay, which is a first for me. I love my job, but disappointment is settling into my bones, an unfamiliar feeling of wishing it could have been different with her. I’m not sure what to make of my emotions. They’ve never flip-flopped on me like this. I’m probably just tired.
The door closes behind me, and the crowd inside welcomes me with a cheer. With rule number two safely intact, it’s time to celebrate that same victory, though it doesn’t feel like one deep down. “Eddie, a shot for everyone.”