My heart hammers, but I nod, writing down the orders on the pad even though she just told me. I can't afford to forget.
Miguel, the bartender, is a blur of motion behind the bar. I call out my orders, and he fills them without a word, sliding glasses onto my tray with precision.
I lift the tray. It's heavier than I expected.
*You can do this. You've carried a sleeping five-year-old up three flights of stairs. You can carry some drinks.*
Table fifteen first. I spot the number, weave through a cluster of slot machines, and approach.
"Two Jack and Cokes and a Bud Light?" I say, trying for the confident smile I've seen Liz use.
"That's us, sweetheart," one of the men says. He's older, gray hair, kind eyes.
I set the drinks down without spilling. Small victory.
Table twenty is harder to reach. It's tucked near the back wall, past a craps table where a crowd has gathered. I edge around them, tray held high, focused on not tripping over my own feet.
I'm almost there when someone moves backward suddenly, bumping into me.
The tray tilts.
I overcorrect.
It tilts further.
And then, as if in slow motion, all three Coronas slide off the tray and into the chest of the largest man I've ever seen in my life.
Time stops.
He's standing right there, directly in front of me, and he's soaked. Beer drips down the front of his black t-shirt, plastering it to a chest that looks carved from granite. Tattoos snake up both arms, disappearing under his sleeves. A scar runs down his left cheek, vicious and pale against his tan skin.
Steel-gray eyes lock onto mine, and I forget how to breathe.
"I—oh my God, I'm so sorry—" The words tumble out as I scramble for napkins, my hands shaking. "I didn't see, someone bumped me, I'm so sorry—"
He doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Just stands there, dripping, watching me.
I'm going to get fired. Or worse. This is one of them. Has to be. No one else in this building looks like they could break a man in half without blinking.
"Here—" I shove napkins at him, my face burning hot enough to combust. "I'll get you more. I'll pay for your shirt. I'm so sorry—"
Finally, he moves. Takes the napkins from my trembling hand.
"It's fine," he says.
His voice is low, rough, like gravel under tires. It does something strange to my pulse.
"It's not fine, I just—"
"It's. Fine." He wipes at his shirt, then hands the soggy napkins back to me. His eyes haven't left mine. "You new?"
I nod, words gone.
"Figured." He steps back, glancing down at his ruined shirt. "Watch your spacing on the floor. People don't pay attention."
And then he walks away, cutting through the crowd like it doesn't exist, and I'm left standing there with an empty tray and a racing heart and the certainty that I just made the worst first impression of my entire life.
"Holy shit," Liz hisses, appearing at my elbow. "You just dumped three beers on Havoc."