DELINQUENT

FOUR

He had boasted about sleeping with a taken woman.

Fucking pig.

Jared and I lapsed into silence as I shot off curses at Jameson Neat in my head. Around us, the bar ebbed and flowed. Slow drinkers made the work easy. Speakers littered around the room forced aged rock music into my ears.

I flipped through a drink menu at the bar. Why did we even have these? No one ever looked at them. I read over each scandalously named drink, giggling to myself at the audacity of them.

Obviously not working, Jared redirected my attention to the bar. He asked me to help him take stock. He gave me a chart, column one held types of liquor by brand. Column two displayed a number, how many bottles we should have in stock at any one time. Column three was empty, I was to fill in that with how many we needed to order based on column two.

It took hours. The common labels were easy, we needed 8 bottles of Jack, 6 of Titos. The obscure stuff, Campari – was difficult to find. Despite finally having a distraction, finally being tasked with a job, my eyes never stopped wandering to Jameson Neat. Checking on his drink, checking out his damned dimple.

He got off on it. Every time I gave him a look, he was already looking at me. Smug look plastered on his face.

The people at his table changed, turning over every hour or so. He was holding meetings I realized. That was what he did here all day. He came in, ordered a drink, welcomed his guests and said sayonara just before he finished his glass. What kind of job allowed for meetings to take place in a sketchy bar?

Deliverance never got busy, not truly. It was easy for me to keep an eye on him while I waited on other tables. Really, he kept more of an eye on me. Glued on me as I darted about. Each time that I smacked grabby hands away, I swore I heard his deep chuckle.

Laugh it up.

He threw in the towel around nine, requesting his bill. I knew exactly how many refills I had given him. No need to check the tally marks jotted across my notepad.

"40 dollars," I told him.

He raised his brows. Had he thought it would be more? Less? Didn't matter. I knew how much he owed. We went fishing in his thick wallet and handed me a crisp 100-dollar bill.

"Keep the change." He said.

Without hesitation, I slid it into my apron and turned on my heel. I needed to get out of there before he could change his mind. Sixty bucks? I would take that. He could come in here and bother me every day with money like that.

The rest of the night was uneventful. I longed for the distraction of filling Jameson Neat's stupid f*****g drink. His smug face lingering in my thoughts.

Jared offered me a ride home again, I declined politely still needing the exercise.

I was glad for it. The walk home was relaxing. The cool night breeze allowed my mind to slow and focus on little things. Grass growing through a crack in the sidewalk, the flickering bulb of a lamp post, the gentle melody that poured out the window of a passing car. At my apartment, I helped myself to a turkey sandwich in bed before falling into an easy sleep.

What a life I lived.

The next morning or rather, afternoon, was much of the same. A quick shower to wake up me, followed by some dry cereal in my towel. Then I worked my way to the bedroom to get ready for work.

Checking the bar's stock last night had left my nice pair of jeans unwearable. Kneeling on the cobwebbed, sticky to the touch, floors turned the knees black with dirt. I threw them in the hamper, pulling on a skirt instead. I dusted some blush on my cheeks and clasped on my same gold necklace.

I left soon after, fully aware I would be early. It didn't matter now, halfway through the walk, I called Jared to let him know where I was. He informed me he would unlock the door and that I could let myself in. He would be setting up the kegs in the basement.

I couldn't stop the smile that crept across my face when I heard the bell on the door jingle as I went inside. Quickly, I put my purse in the office and made work of wiping down the tables.

I had finished scrubbing them clean before we were even open. I lifted myself on top of the bar, taking in the light music of the familiar radio station. The door opened and pulled me out of the headbanging lyrics. A young woman walked in wearing the same shirt I did.

I had yet to meet another employee at Deliverance. It had just been me and Jared. We were more than enough on the weekdays. I supposed Thursday would be a different story. The optimist's weekend.

I watched as she slipped into the back, ridding herself of her purse and jacket before going behind the bar.

She fished a cheap old rag from a bucket and stuffed it into her back pocket. No doubt she had the habit courtesy of Jared.

"I'm Liza." She said pulling me out of my trance.

"Mila." I smiled, "Nice to meet you." I gave her a weak wave.

"The new Carly!"

I didn't know if I liked that title. New Carly. It was worse than Not Carly. I didn't let the phrase draw an opinion of her. First impressions were hard.

Liza was cute. She had tan skin and curly hair. Unlike me, she busted out of her shirt in a way that I couldn't compete with. She would surely make good tips. I struggled for something to say, I wanted Liza to like me, I wanted a friend.

Jared made it upstairs, his presence easing the air between Liza and me. He shot her a wink. In response, she gave him the bird. Unbothered, he flipped the closed sign to open before sliding in next to her behind the bar. He joined her as she cut limes into wedges. It was the first prep work I had seen here.

The door jingled open. I jerked to look at it, surprised when disappointment filled me. I was sad to see that it wasn't Jameson Neat. What was wrong with me? The feeling dwindled as I ran my eyes up and down the intruder. He wore the same shirt as Jared and the same smug smile as Jameson Neat.

He dipped his phone into his pocket and joined the rest of the staff behind the bar.

Three bartenders. And one waitress.

Jared made the introduction. "Mila, Charlie. Charlie, Mila."

"New Carly." Charlie said, flashing me a playful finger gun.

Please do not let that nickname stick.

I waited around for work, while Jared shot off tasks to Liza and Charlie. It became clear that Charlie wasn't another bartender. No rag in his back pocket, he was a lowly bar back. Somebody to clear tables, fill ice buckets, change the kegs and occasionally mop up vomit. I saw him as a comrade in arms. He and I were the lifeblood of this place.

Jared pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, a lengthy list. He handed it to Charlie. "Get a backup of everything on here." He ordered.

Charlie went to work, searching through the cabinets I had so carefully organized the day before. I ground my teeth, trying not to be annoyed. Jared had told me I was being too meticulous. I should've listened.

It didn't take long for the bar to become a madhouse. I was sending in so many orders, shouting out drinks that Liza worked more with me then with the customers. Jared was too busy to say anything. I would definitely be giving her a good tip.

A man closed in on the bar seizing my arm, turning me to face him.

"Get me a Corona." He gurgled drunkenly. Jared leaned over the bar, fisting his hand in the man's shirt.

"You're at the bar, order from the bar. She's a waitress, she covers tables." Jared slammed a Corona down in front of him, beer foaming out the top. "On the house." He growled before shoving him away.

I mouthed 'thank you' to him. I didn't know if it was my skirt, the crowd, or just that people were more eager to drink but grabbing had turned more into molesting and with a tray full of drinks I couldn't slap them all away.

I danced around the crowd, swinging my hips to the classic rock hits. The people were shitty but I liked the work. The pace, the focus it pulled from me, it was a night of exhilarating distraction.

And I loved snatching money off tables, running credit cards, seeing my net worth grow with each passing minute. Each person, a dollar sign in my eyes.

I worked table to table collecting orders, filling them and moving to the next one. I was on a carousel, going round and round, table to table. The spinning only stopped when I met amused eyes.

"Let me guess, Jameson Neat?"