“Okay,” she sighs, leaning her hip against the barstool. “Want to talk about last week?”
“Nope.”
“Didn’t think so.” The disappointment is evident in her tone, but that’s another thing I don’t want to get into, not today, besides it was last week—past tense. I made it through, that’s all that matters. One day at a fucking time. Story of my damned life. “Well, I can tell you’re going to be an absolute pleasure to work with today, so I’m going to leave you with Paulie and the newbie.”
About that time, Paulie comes walking into the front of the bar with a crate of clean glasses. “Thanks,” he says to Sarah, giving her a side eye and a sly smile.
“How’s everything going at Lizzie’s?” I ask, feeling the familiar twinge of pain in my chest with the mention of the cooking school next door. It’s perfect, though. The only name that would fit the establishment.
“Great,” Sarah replies. “This month has been jam-packed, especially with the added evening classes and the increase in tourists. I’m kinda shocked, actually. I didn’t think cooking in New Orleans in the heat of July would be appealing, but I guess anything that gets people out of the humidity is a selling point.”
“Good.” I nod my head, thinking. “You know, if it gets too busy and you need someone, I could always send over one of my guys.”
She sighs, standing up straight. “Well, I admit, it’s kind of a lot, especially when the classes are in session. What with keeping up with the prep work and cleaning,” she says with a sigh. “But I love it, of course, I love being so busy and I’m managing, for now.”
“I’ll gladly go over and help,” Paulie chimes in.
“Thanks, Paulie,” Sarah says with a smile. She’s got more of a soft spot for the old man than I do, and he has one for her too. “I might take you up on that offer one of these days.”
“Anytime,” he adds with a nod of his head, retreating to the back for more supplies.
“Well, I’ve got to get going. I need to shop before tonight’s class. Do you need anything?”
“A shot of whiskey,” I tell her. “But I guess I’d settle for a coffee.” Giving her my best impersonation of a puppy dog, which probably comes off more like a sad pit bull, she laughs.
“You’re on your own today.” Walking to the door, she swings it open. “I need to make sure you don’t forget how to use a coffee pot.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I growl, waving her off with a bar towel.
When I hear the front door open just a few minutes later, I call out, “Did you change your mind about the coffee,” figuring she forgot something and wanting to give her a hard time.
“Uh,” a feminine and newly familiar voice stutters, “well, actually, I did bring coffee.”
Turning, I see the new girl standing at the door with a to-go tray of coffee cups and a bag I recognize from the coffee shop on the other side of the square, Neutral Grounds.
“Pastries, too.” She offers me a warm smile and holds the bag up, but I can’t manage more than a grunt. For some reason, it pains me when people do unexpectedly nice things, maybe because I’m forced to be nice in return and that pisses me off.
She moves toward the bar, depositing the delicious smelling goods in front of me. “I guess I’ll set them here? I brought extra, in case—”
“Do I smell coffee?” Paulie asks, walking back into the bar, probably expecting to see my sister changed her mind and retrieved breakfast after all.
The new girl gives him a small smile and a wave, walking toward him with an outstretched hand. “Hi, I’m Avery.”
“Paulie,” he says with a smile.
Avery. I guess I can quit calling her new girl in my head now.
Like he’s in my fucking head, Paulie quirks an eyebrow and adds, “I guess you’re the new girl.”
“Guess I am,” she says with a light laugh. It’s not a horrible one. It’s airy and girly, much softer and prettier than we’re used to around here. And that also pisses me off. This is why I only hire men. It’s less complicated. Having a girl around makes things weird and uncomfortable and I don’t like having to worry about someone. This is a bar and things get rowdy from time to time. The last thing I want is to have to be concerned about one of my employees’ safety.
“Coffee?” she asks, holding up a cup to Paulie, who takes it with enthusiasm. “Help yourself to a pastry.” When she offers him the bag, I snatch it from her and open it to check its contents. It’s rude and I know it, but I don’t want her to think she can buy us with some coffee and donuts.
“What are these?” I ask.
“Danishes—cream cheese and cherry. Oh, and a blueberry scone.”
I snarl my disapproval. “Sounds like a bunch of girly shit, if you ask me.”
Her demeanor immediately changes—the smile fades and is quickly replaced with an arched eyebrow and pursed lips. “Well, I guess you don’t have to eat them, then.” She snatches the bag back from me and hands it to Paulie, who’s very enthusiastic about these pansy-ass pastries.
Fucking Paulie.
Fucking new girl.
Avery.
What the fuck ever.
“Before you can even start training,” I begin, deciding to get down to business and possibly weed her out early, “I’m going to need to see some identification and a social security card. You’ll also need to fill out an application.”
She looks at me for a moment and I think I might’ve won the jackpot and she’s going to hightail it out of here, realizing this is a legit establishment and we don’t employ underage teenyboppers. “Will you need a blood sample too? Or a drug test?”
Paulie snickers around his large bite of danish and I glare at him.
“Don’t be a smart ass. That’s rule number one,” I tell her, walking over to the cash register and reaching underneath to pull out an application and get her a pen. Before I make it back over to where she’s standing, she’s already pulled out a driver’s license and a social security card and slapped them on the counter.
I set the paper in front of her and she quickly starts filling it out, but stops, brushing her pale pink hair out of her face and looking up at me. “Um, I’m staying at a place a few blocks from here, but I’ll only be able to stay for a few more days. Should I put that address down for now and then give you a new one when I figure out where I’ll be after that?”
“Fine.” With her looking up at me like she is, I can’t help but notice the faint bruise that’s still under her eye and the place on her lip that’s still healing. “What happened to your face?”
With her eyes locked on mine, I see the war inside them—hesitation, indecision, and a fierceness that can’t be mistaken. Finally, she replies, “My boyfriend.”
My back stiffens with that admittance and I feel a surge of anger. She must mistake my change in appearance as something it’s not, because she starts to ramble a further explanation.
“He’s in Houston...I left him in Houston. So, you don’t have to worry about him showing up at your bar and causing problems or anything like that. I haven’t talked to him since I’ve been here, so I doubt he even cares I’m gone.”