“I’ve got experience,” I say smoothly, dodging his question.
Doubt starts to creep back over his face. I interject before I lose my one chance to sway him. “Look, you don’t know me. You don’t trust me. Frankly, you have no reason on earth to hire me. But I promise, if you do, I’ll work my ass off for you without complaint. I mean it. I’ll wash dirty dishes, mix drinks, wipe down tables, sweep the floors if you want me to. I’ll be your hostess, your busboy, your bartender, your server, your toiler cleaner. Whatever you want, whatever you need, I’m your girl. I’ll doanything. Without complaint.”
He grunts again, unconvinced.
I set aside what little pride I still possess. “I just… I really need this job. Please. Give me a chance.”
He sets down the glass like he’s got the weight of the world sitting on his shoulders. When he looks up, his expression is full of regretful surrender. Which can only mean…
He holds up a menacing finger. “Onechance.”
I practically squeak with glee.
“You screw up, you’re out. No severance.”
“Thank you, sir—Isaac!” I correct quickly. “You won’t regret it. I promise.”
He glares at me. “Are you even old enough to work in a bar?”
“I’m twenty-one.”
Minus three.
“Uh huh.” His mouth presses into a stern line, as if he knows I’m lying.
“Look, if you need to see my ID…” My fingers tremble a bit as I reach for the tattered wallet in the side pocket of my backpack. The fake driver’s license tucked inside isn’t perfect, but I’m praying it’s good enough to pass Isaac’s inspection. The date next to my laminated picture proudly proclaims I’m twenty-one, not barely eighteen. It also says my last name is Wilkes and that I was born in the fine state of Oklahoma.
I’m not overly fond of lying, but I’m also not naive enough to believe it’s never necessary. Survival trumps ethical scruples.
His hand slices the air, stilling my motions. “We’ll sort out the paperwork later.”
I let the bag fall back to my side.
“You free to start now?” he grunts again.
“Well, I—”
“Great. Dotty called out sick,” he cuts me off, turns, and starts walking. “Come on, cupcake. Let’s get you a uniform.”
“My name isFelicity!” I call after him, but he’s already disappeared through a swinging set of doors, into the back room. He either doesn’t hear me or doesn’t believe a response is mandatory, because there’s no answer except for the slight squeaking of hinges in the otherwise silent bar. With a deep sigh, I clutch my guitar case a bit more firmly and hustle after him, toward the back room of The Nightingale.