felicity
“This is supposedto be a vodkatonic, not a vodka soda.” The blonde pushes the tumbler at me, her cherry-red lips pursed in distaste. The expression on her face suggests my IQ ranks somewhere in the single digit range.
“Also, I asked for a jack and coke with lemon,” her friend chimes in. “These green ones are calledlimes, honey.”
Gritting my teeth in a bracing smile, I grab their glasses off the high top and place them on my tray. “So sorry about that, y’all. I’ll be back in just a second.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” I hear one of them snicker as I walk away. “It took so long to get our last drinks, I think she might be barrel-aging the whiskey herself.”
The fake smile falters on my lips.
It’s been six hours since I started this job, but it feels like an eternity. Feet aching, I make my way back to the bar to replace the messed up drink order. I hear Carly at the mic introducing the next act, but I don’t spare a glance in her direction. Every hour like clockwork a fresh performer has taken the stage at The Nightingale, each somehow more impressive than their predecessors. Over the course of my shift I’ve seen a folksy girl with a fiddle, a trio of bonafide cowboys with fringe shirts and banjos, a Johnny Cash cover artist so convincing you’d believe in reincarnation if you heard him sing, and a fading queen of love ballads coaxed out of retirement for a one-night-only acoustic set.
The only thing they clearly have in common is talent — sheer, indescribable, undeniable talent.
Their mouths open, the music pours out… and the whole crowd goes totally silent to listen, staring with rapt attention toward the stage, shushing those who dare to speak during the sets. As the hours slip by, it gets more and more crowded, but the air of quiet reverence never changes.
Otherbars are for flirting and idle chitchat over drinks. At The Nightingale, the music isn’t a background distraction — it’s the main event.
People are packed in wall-to-wall, filling every table, sucking every molecule of air from the dark bar. We can only fit fifty or so in here at any given time, but through the hazy windows, I see a line of waiting patrons wrapped all the way around the building, hoping a table will clear out before the next artist takes the stage.
It doesn’t surprise me. If they weren’t paying me to be here, I’d be paying to get in, too.
As I wait for the bartender to mix my drinks, Adam, the shift manager, brushes past with an inventory list in hand. He’s so close I can feel the graze of his knuckles against my ass through the charcoal gray booty shorts that function as my work uniform, the scrape of his broad shoulder against the plane of my back beneath the tight-fitted black shirt, cropped to expose my stomach. In this getup, I look like a sluttier version of Sookie Stackhouse on her way to a shift at Merlotte’s, but if showing a little skin makes for better tips, I’m not complaining. I need the money too desperately to occupy any kind of moral high ground.
“Hey.” Adam’s dark blue eyes slide to mine. “Crazy night for a first shift.”
“Is it always this crowded?”
“Nah. It’s much worse on the weekends.” He grins at me, boyish and charming. He’s handsome in a homegrown, Clark Kent kind of way — square jaw, dark bronze hair, broad shoulders. Give him a cape, he could probably save the world. “Doing okay so far? Confused about anything?”
I shrug. “I’m fine.”
His eyes slide slowly down my body, lingering in a way that makes every hair on the back of my neck stand on end. “You certainly are.”
I laugh thinly, doing my best to ignore the implication in his words. I can’t afford to lose this job — especially not on my first night. Adam leans his side against the bar as his eyes finally work their way back up to mine. A half-grin tugs at his lips. I’d like to slap it off his face.
“You know…” His smile widens a shade. “Isaac usually leaves the hiring to me.”
“I didn’t know, actually.”
“I’m surprised he hired you.”
My brows lift. “Oh? Why’s that?”
“He may own the place, but I’m the one who runs things around here.” There’s a spark of anger in the depths of his eyes, extinguished so fast I barely catch it. “That includes final approval of the staff — who stays, who goes, who gets the best shifts on the schedule. Understood?”
A bolt of unease shoots through me. It’s not hard to miss his meaning.
You screw up here, I’m the one who’ll toss you out on the street.
Maybe he’s not Clark Kent at all. Beneath the charm, I’m picking up some Lex Luthor villain vibes.
“Well?” he prompts.
“Understood.”
“Good.” He pulls back, winks at me, and turns away, that carefree all-American act back in place. “I’ll see you around.”