Page 45 of Micah

I glance towards the door.

Good.

Almost quitting time.

Then two assholes who should've left ten minutes ago decide to linger.

Drunk.

Loud.

The kind of men who mistake kindness for invitation.

I straighten in my chair—they don’t see me.

Morons.

One of them reaches across the bar.

Hooks a finger beneath the tie of her apron.

Twirls it around his finger like he owns the damn thing.

My vision narrows.

Soon to be dead morons if he doesn’t stop touching her.

She laughs politely.

It’s her fake one.

The one she gives customers who don’t understand boundaries.

But I know enough about her now to recognize it’s not real.

I can see it in the tension in her shoulders.

The stiffness around her smile.

She's uncomfortable.

I don't fucking like it.

She eases backward.

Trying to create space.

Trying to be nice.

They don't take the hint.

“Come on, sweetheart,” one slurs.

“You know you've been flirting with us all night.”

“Yeah,” his buddy adds with a drunken grin. “You even bought us a beer.”

“I own the bar,” Sloane replies patiently. “So I buy lots of customers beers.”