I couldn’t tell.
He sat down with a group of men at a table—all of whom had equally large bodies and were dressed in spiffy attire. They started laughing and cutting up with each other, having a gay old time. If any of them were murderers, they sure were happy about it. It didn’t seem to fit, which made me more suspicious. Sometimes we had random businessmen who came together to get their T and A on, but they weren’t as relaxed with each other. If the men were friends, they made sure to go all out with their clothing and overall style. Perhaps it was the man version of Sex and the City, but I didn’t think so.
I wanted to continue watching them, but Deena interrupted me again, asking for a pitcher of Sam and two mugs. I quickly filled the order, ran it over to Deena and returned to my place. When the resident fat ass of the joint plopped into an empty seat on my side of the bar, I had to stop myself from rolling my eyes.
“Bartender!” Lonnie blared, the sound almost as loud as an elephant call.
Wonderful. My night just kept getting better and better.
“I’m not deaf, Lonnie.” I got a warning look from Deena and toned it down. “What can I get you?”
“You always ask that.”
I was ready to say, “One Crown and Coke, coming right up,” when I realized that Lonnie was actually talking to me. Yes, he’d made requests. He’d ordered me around and made a total ass of himself in the process. He had never, however, attempted to do more treat me like a subservient employee who was hired to cater to his every whim.
My night just kept getting weirder and weirder.
“I suppose I do.” I looked at him—really looked at him—and was impressed that his standard white T-shirt was free of any stains. “Crown and Coke?”
He met my gaze and shocked me even further by saying, “Surprise me.”
It was official. The world was coming to an end. I didn’t need the dagger after all. Hell had just frozen over.
Maybe it was a test, another way to prove my fail scale could indeed go higher. I was tempted to turn to Deena for advice, but she had her own shit to handle. After mulling it over for a second I went to the back of the bar, grabbed a glass, poured in some crown and walked to the station to pour in the Coke and toss in the ice.
“Here you go,” I said as I placed the drink in front of him.
“Good choice.” He slipped me a ten and waved me off. I knew what that meant. I couldn’t fucking believe it.
Lonnie—the bastard of all shitty tipping bastards—didn't want his change back.
Once I would have been thrilled. Getting on Lonnie’s good side? Are you kidding? Working the bar was bad enough without making enemies of the regulars. Now it felt like a bad omen, like something awful was about to happen.
“Rhiannon!” Deena screamed. “I need another pitcher of Sam with four glasses!”
So much for bad omens. No man waited for his alcohol when good tits and ass were on display. Thus was the life of a bartender in a strip club.
I didn’t have time to think about deadly daggers, gorgeous men who might be killers, or Lonnie who continued to treat me with a level of respect I didn’t understand. Saturday nights were always slammed. This one wasn’t any different. When Deena got backed up, I ran drinks back and forth. I shook, poured, and stirred, taking requests that kept me on my toes. We had to have two tipsy and violent men removed from the club, but otherwise it was a normal night. Within two hours, the bar was doing last rounds, and I was covered in alcohol from a drunk who tripped on the bar and tossed his whiskey sour all over me. Not the worst night of work, but definitely not the best.
“Rhiannon.” Deena sounded exhausted as she closed the register for the evening. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”