Page 10 of Shattered Throne
"Not interested," I said. "Thank you, though."
He laughed like I'd told a joke. "Come on. Don't be like that." He leaned forward, close enough that I could smell the whiskey on his breath, the expensive cologne underneath. "I'm a generous guy. Ask anyone."
His friends snickered. One of them muttered something I didn't quite catch, but the tone was enough. I'd heard variations of it before.
‘Stuck-up witch.’
‘Playing hard to get.’
‘She'd be lucky to have him.’
I stepped back, putting more space between us. "Not interested. Do you need anything else, or are you good?"
Chuck's expression changed.
The friendly mask slipped, and underneath was something uglier. His jaw worked. His eyes went flat and cold. It was obvious he wasn't used to hearing no, and he didn't like that I’d declined. His lip curled slightly, the beginning of a sneer, and I watched his hand flex on the table like he was fighting the urge to grab me again.
"You think you're too good for me?" His voice was lower now. Not loud enough for the whole bar to hear, but loud enough. "You're a bartender in a shithole bar. You should be grateful I'm even…"
His hand shot out again. He grabbed my hip this time. His fingers pressed into the curve of it.
I froze. My body went rigid, every muscle locking into place. Fight or flight, and I couldn't do either, not without causing a scene, not without risking my job, not without…
"Chuck. Enough."
The quiet one. He was looking up now, finally, his green eyes fixed on Chuck with an expression of absolute boredom. Like this was tedious. Like Chuck was tedious.
Chuck turned, hand still on my hip. "What?"
"She said she's not interested. Leave her alone."
"Since when do you care about…"
"You're drunk. You're being a jerk. Stop."
They stared at each other. Something passed between them, some silent communication I wasn't privy to. Chuck's jaw worked. His fingers twitched against my hip.
Then he dropped his hand.
"Whatever, man." He turned back to his drink, shoulders hunched. "Just having fun."
The quiet one looked at me. His expression softened into something that might have been an apology. "Sorry about him," he said. "He's a nuisance when he's drunk."
I nodded. Didn't say thank you. I didn't need saving, and I didn't owe him gratitude for his friend being a creep. That wasn't how this worked. I walked back to the bar and didn't look at their table again.
They left around two-thirty. The quiet one opened his wallet, grabbed some cash, and left it on the table. I waited until the door swung shut behind them before going to clear the booth. Empty glasses, scattered napkins, a puddle of something sticky I didn't want to identify. Standard aftermath.
And the tip.
I stared at it. I counted it twice, certain I'd made a mistake.
A thousand dollars.
My hands trembled slightly as I gathered the bills. A thousand dollars. That was more than I made in a month at this job. More than I made in six weeks, if I was being honest about the slow nights and the lousy tippers and the reality of bartending in a place like Rosie's.
It was offensive, almost. Like he was trying to buy something. My silence about what Chuck did. My forgiveness. My... what? Admiration? Gratitude?
Rich people. All they knew how to do was throw money at things. Wave enough cash around and the problems disappeared, the awkwardness smoothed over, the consequences erased.
