Nicole's eyes briefly browse over me with a flicker of curiosity. I no longer have a valid reason to stand around like a bump on a log, eavesdropping on her heartbreaking monologue, so I pretend to dust the fireplace behind her table like a complete idiot.
Needless to say it’s way out of my job description, right?
Mikey, who sits at the bar with Jaime, our manager, sends me a WTF look, and Bree, who’s returned from her toilet break, looks puzzled too, wondering how come I haven’t hurried back to my place behind the bar. I pretend not to notice their dumbfounded stares and keep listening to Nicole as the bar gets more and more crowded with people wondering why the hell the bartender is dusting the fireplace instead of pouring drinks.
“Na-ah, the assclown,” one of Nicole’s clones gasps dramatically.
“What a dog,” agrees another blondie. Nicole is now approaching her grand-finale, and I pray to God it’ll arrive before I get my ass fired.
“So he calls me up on Tuesday, right? And get this—he’s talking as if nothing’s happened! He’s all ‘Hey babe, what’s up? Wanna come over to my place,’ and I’m like ‘What?’ and he’s like ‘Is that a yes or a no?’”
Is Nicole going to get to the bottom line sometime in this decade? Because I’m running out of spots to dust and the bar is getting backed up with unattended drink orders. Luckily, after a few more seconds and complete violation of the use of the word “like,” Nicole finally gets to the point.
“Long story short? I went over to his place. At the end of the day, he’s the hottest piece of ass in this county, and I’m enjoying the mind-blowing sex. Guess Ty Wilder is my steady dip for now.”
Wait...what?
I drag my feet back to the bar, stunned. He’s had sex with her. And possibly with three other girls. I’m not sure why I’m surprised. This is exactly why I didn’t want anything to do with him in the first place. All this Casanova behavior from an ultra-pumped MMA fighter is such a cliché. He slept with Nicole on Tuesday, the night before he almost kissed me.
Not that I should be mad. He’s a free agent. He can do whatever (and whoever) the hell he wants.
But crap, this pisses me off too.
I trip my way behind the counter and grip it firmly. Judging by the worried looks plastered on Bree’s and Mikey’s faces, I’m guessing they think I’m in the middle of some kind of a seizure.
I can already see the humiliating headline: Bartender, 23, dies of heart attack caused by boy she doesn’t know.
My hands move fast as I try to catch up with the number of orders that piled up while I was gone. I make horrendous mistakes. I pour the beer awfully and whenever someone orders a cocktail (which is rarely) I find a way to ruin it somehow. People are finally getting the drinks they ordered ten minutes ago, and all of them probably taste like whale sperm.
Bree plucks the cranberry juice from my hand before I pour it into someone’s pina colada. “Sweetheart, are you okay?”
Maybe it’s because I’m pale as a ghost and just about as jolly. Or maybe I’m lucky and she might just be referring to my cleaning the fireplace out of the blue.
“I just noticed all the…dust,” I blurt.
Bree arches one brow as she scans me up and down. “And I’m just noticing all the bullshit you’re feeding me. Start talking, girl.”
Well, I have a long shift to burn and Bree has ears, so it makes sense to let her in on my latest adventures at the XWL gym. I have plenty of chances to share my love-life woes with her, because she has to keep returning the drinks I’ve prepared, people complaining they don’t taste right. I remake all the orders, this time pulling myself together.
“So, you have a crush on a bad boy, huh?” Bree slides beers on a tray.
No. No. No.
Maybe.
“But you don’t want to date him because you’re afraid he’ll break your heart?” Bree—mother to fourteen- and twelve-year-old daughters—has adopted a don’t-bullshit-me tone. It seems to be working just fine on twenty-three–year-old me.
I hitch a shoulder up and fish for a piece of gum. I need to chew my nerves away.
But Bree isn’t done. “Well, let me make it easy for you. Bad boys? They're bad. Taming the bad boy? That's a good idea for a chick flick. Doesn't usually happen in real life, though. Sweetheart, you're far too smart to be another notch on his belt."
She's right. I don't want to become a statistic.
“Don't date the guy unless he makes it a point to show you you're different. Because you are.” She cups my cheeks with her hands and smiles at me. “And I don't just mean your weird musical taste and the plaid boyfriend shirts no one actually wears but you."