Glass Half Full

by Rose, Katia

  “Not quite yet.” I force a grin. “I was just wondering if you wouldn’t mind settling up now. You’re free to stay and finish those beers, though.”

  Until Sam gets so frustrated he channels his inner Hulk and carries you out the door.

  “No chance of getting another one, eh, doll?” the same man asks.

  These guys are older than the usual Taverne Toulouse crowd, with stiff button-up shirts on and suit jackets thrown over their chairs. I thought I’d have to deal with more shit as a female bartender, but this is the first time a customer has ever called me ‘doll.’

  “Afraid not,” I answer, my smile getting tighter by the second. He already knows he’s not getting more beer. We did last call at midnight.

  “You can’t even grab yourself one and come join us, beautiful?”

  “Afraid not,” I repeat. “Are we paying cash or card tonight, gentlemen?”

  That puts an end to the flirting—if that grossness even counts as flirting. I eye the tip percentage on the receipts, and I’m almost tempted to give them the amount back in cash when I see how high it is.

  A big tip doesn’t mean you get to call me doll, and it certainly doesn’t mean you get to call me baby.

  It’s late, though, and while I may not have a booty call waiting for me, I’m almost as ready to get out of here as Sam.

  “Thank god,” he mutters when I return with the receipts in my hands.

  He hovers behind me as I start my tip out and only stays quiet for a minute before clearing his throat. “Hey, uh, I know we’re technically not supposed to ever have less than two people here, but these guys are heading out now, and I’ve really got to get going. I need to check on my girlfriend. She’s been feeling all weird and dizzy since this morning, and now I haven’t heard from her in a while.”

  The hint of panic in his voice makes me look up from my receipts. I notice the worry lines deepening in his face and the way he’s still bouncing on the balls of his feet.

  “I know she’s probably just sleeping or something, but she was going to tell me if she went to bed,” he continues, eyes darting to the clock. “I tried getting a hold of her best friend to see if she could go over, but she’s not answering either. I just really need to make sure she’s okay. She was so out of it when I saw her this morning.”

  His hair is sticking up from pulling on it so many times, and I don’t doubt he’s telling the truth.

  “Yeah, yeah, of course. I totally understand.”

  He is right about not being supposed to leave. We’re not allowed to have less than two people here. Ever. It’s a safety rule that I’ve heard drilled into all the new staff members more times than I can count, but the shift is practically over.

  I glance over at the table where all three men are on their feet and tipping their bottles back to down their final sips. They’ve quieted down since paying, and they do seem to be heading out. Maybe I’m just being paranoid, looking for something to get anxious about when there’s nothing there.

  It wouldn’t be the first time.

  “I can stay if you want.” Sam all but winces while making the offer.

  “You should go,” I tell him. “I’ll be fine, and I’m sure your girlfriend will be fine too, but you shouldn’t have to wait any longer.”

  “Thank you so much, Renee.” His shoulders drop with relief, and he looks close to throwing his arms around me. “I know we’d be gone soon anyway, but this is driving me crazy.”

  “Don’t worry about it. These guys will be out the door any minute, and I’ll lock up as soon as they leave.”

  Sam takes off to grab his stuff from the back, thanking me three times in a row when he returns and heads for the door. I wish him good luck and then watch as one of the men at the table, the mouthy one, shakes hands with his friends and heads for the bathroom.

  Hallelujah. They’re on the move.

  I lower my head over the pieces of paper in front of me, determined to get this tip out done as fast as possible. I get so caught up in double checking my calculations I jump in surprise when the bar’s phone rings.

  “Taverne Toulouse,” I answer. “Renee speaking.”

  “You sound really cute when you answer the phone all official like that.”

  It’s pathetic, but I actually feel my knees go a bit weak at the sound of his voice.

  “Cute?” I reply. “I was aiming for competent and professional.”

  “That too,” Dylan assures me. “I’m just calling to check on how things are going tonight. I thought you’d have closed by now. Did it get busy? Are you and Sam all right?”

  “It’s been pretty dead,” I inform him. “There were just a few diehards lingering over their beers, but they’re on their way out.”

  “The busser left, I take it? Who was on tonight? Pat?”

  “Yeah,” I reply. “We sent him off a while ago. He worked really hard. Sam just took off, and I’m almost done my tip out, so—”

  “Sam just took off?”

  I freeze at the threat in Dylan’s voice. I wasn’t going to mention Sam leaving; it’s not like I needed him here, and I didn’t want him getting in trouble, but I have a hard time keeping a handle on what I say around Dylan. I just want to tell him everything.

  “I told him he could go. He had somewhere to be, and we’re basically closed already—”

  “He had somewhere to be? He had a job to be at. He knows the two person rule. He knows how important that is. You’re telling me there are still customers in the bar and he just walked out? He left you alone?”

  “Dylan, it’s fine. Something urgent came up with his girlfriend, and it’s just three guys in here—”

  “Just three guys? I’m going to fire that asshole. I’m going to call him tonight and fire him, but first I’m coming over there and making sure you get home safe.”

  “Dylan.” I try to talk some sense into him. “Sam’s girlfriend had a medical emergency, and I am perfectly capable of closing this bar on my own. I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m not a damsel in distress. I don’t need—”

  “I know,” he interrupts. “I know that, but this is not how we work at Taverne Toulouse. You have to believe me when I say I’d do this for anyone. Hell, if Zach ended up alone on a shift at one in the morning, I’d be there. I’m the manager. It’s part of my job to make sure the staff are safe, and we have the two person rule for a reason. I’ll be there in ten minutes, okay? Please stay safe.”

  The last sentence comes out on a whisper, and I realize just how serious he is, how much this means to him.

  “Okay. I’ll see you in ten minutes.”

  I hear his breath catch on the other end of the line, like there’s something else he wants to say, but all he does is hang up. I set the receiver back in place and stand there for a moment. I know he meant what he said; he’d be here for anyone. That’s the kind of person he is. I also know his voice wouldn’t tremble like that for anyone else. That’s just for me.

  I make my way back to my tip out, glancing at the time and noting when ten minutes from now will be. I’ve just pulled up the calculator on my phone when the rap of someone’s knuckles on the bar makes my head jerk up.

  “Knock, knock, doll.”

  It’s the man who went to the bathroom. I peer past him and notice the other two are gone.

  I do my best to sound pleasant, to keep the spike of fear that shoots through me a secret. “Can I help you with something?”

  “You sure I can’t get just one more beer?”

  “Sorry, sir. We’re all closed for the night. I’m about to lock up.” I reach for the keys where they’re hanging on a hook behind the bar and lift them up where he can see them, hoping he’ll take the hint to get the hell out of here. When I lower my hand out of sight, I make sure to slide the keys between my knuckles.

  “Come on. You can have one too. Just you and me. I’d love to buy you a drink.”

  “Like I said, I’m closing now.”

  I wait for the panic
to rise up, for the situation to overwhelm me, but there’s a certain kind of clarity to this fear. The threat isn’t inside my head; it’s right here in front of me, and I need to remove it. Survival instincts start kicking in.

  “Playing hard to get, huh? Do you need me to tell you how pretty you are? You are pretty. I’ve been staring at you all night.”

  How flattering. I’m swooning where I stand.

  “You’re going to have to leave now. We’re closed.”

  He leans his forearms against the bar, bringing his face close enough for me to make out the glassiness of his eyes, the delay in the way he blinks. He’s more drunk than I thought.

  “Just one drink,” he pleads. “Just one drink with a pretty girl like you.”

  “I said no.” I speak as firmly as I can without running the risk of getting him angry. “You need to leave. Now.”

  He cocks his head to the side. “What if I don’t?”

  The tension in the room rises in frequency until it’s almost a static whine I can pick up with my ears. The hair on my arms is standing on end, and I can feel sweat start to prick the back of my neck.

  Fight or flight. Fight or flight. Fight or flight.

  I’m stuck behind a bar. There’s nowhere to fly to, but there’s also no way I want this coming down to a fight. I’m gripping the keys so hard they’ve started cutting into my skin.

  We stand locked in place like a predator and its prey. I’m so tense I flinch when the man finally throws his head back and laughs. It’s an ugly, raspy sound.

  “Only joking, doll. Only joking. Jesus Christ, you need to relax. Do yourself a favour and have that beer when I’m gone.”

  He taps the bar with his knuckles again and saunters off to the door, stumbling slightly when he stops to reach for the handle.

  “Goodnight, beautiful,” he calls over his shoulder.

  Then he’s gone.

  I only stay still for a split second before I bolt to the door and fumble with the key. My hands have started shaking so bad it takes a few tries to get it locked, and my eyes keep darting up to the street outside, waiting for him to come back. When the lock finally slides in place, I sprint back behind the bar and brace my hands on its surface, breathing hard. The adrenaline that kept me level-headed is working its way out of my system now, making me nauseous. I let my forehead drop all the way to the bar top, the coolness of the wood bringing a fraction of relief as the room continues to spin.

  He’s gone. He’s gone. You’re okay. He’s gone.

  It’s not a panic attack. I’m not that far gone, but I still let out a shriek when I hear someone knock on the front door.

  “Renee!” Dylan shouts, loud enough for me to hear him through the glass. “Renee!”

  He’s already fitting his key in the lock, and he makes it behind the bar in just a few strides after throwing the door open.

  “What happened? Are you okay? Your face is fucking...green!” he stammers. “What the hell happened?”

  He rests his hands on my shoulders, peering into my face.

  “I...He...”

  “Did someone hurt you?”

  I shake my head.

  “Oh thank god.” His shoulders sag with relief, and he drops his hands off my shoulders only to wrap his arms around me and pull me into his chest.

  I breathe in the scent of laundry soap and his skin, focusing on that alone as I press myself as hard as I can against him. He tightens his grip, surrounding me entirely, and we stand like that for a long, long time.

  When I finally lift my head, he lets me step back enough to run his hands up and down my back, repeating the motion as he asks me what happened.

  “This guy, he was...being a little creepy all night,” I admit, and Dylan’s expression darkens. “I didn’t think much of it. There have been creeps in here before, and his friends were all right. After I got off the phone with you, I thought they had all left, but it turns out he was still here. He wanted me to have a beer with him. I kept telling him to leave. He asked what I was going to do about it. Then he just laughed and left.”

  “He’s never coming in here again,” Dylan says firmly, almost menacingly. “None of them are. They’re banned, and Sam is getting a talking to.”

  “He was really scared about his girlfriend, and I told him he could go,” I protest. “I don’t want him to think—”

  “I’ll make sure he knows this is all coming from me,” Dylan assures me, “but you both should have thought to call me or Monroe as soon as he needed to take off. This isn’t about me thinking you’re a damsel in distress. We don’t leave anyone on their own here. You understand?”

  I give in and nod. Dylan softens again.

  “God, if anything had happened to you...” He cradles my face with his hands, brushing his thumbs along my cheeks. “You mean so fucking much to me, Renee.”

  A soft sound of surprise slips past my lips.

  “Was that too much?” he asks, his face creasing with worry. “I know we’re taking it slow, but...I just...The thought of you—”

  I cut off his stammering with a kiss. At first it’s slow, tender, as we seek reassurance from each other. His hands find my back again, stroking up and down in a way that’s meant to comfort but quickly starts to set me on fire. I need this. I need to burn all the fear away and feed this heat between us.

  I sweep my tongue along his lips before darting between them. He groans somewhere deep in his throat, and his hands still on my waist before gripping me tightly. The heat keeps growing as my tongue explores his mouth. I flick the tip of it against the back of his teeth, and he groans again before pulling back.

  “Renee...”

  “Harder,” I urge. “Kiss me harder.”

  “Are you sure? Maybe you should just, um, sit down, or—”

  “Dylan.” I fist my hands around the collar of his jacket. “Please. I need this. Kiss me as hard as you can.”

  He gives me a hard stare, and then he’s doing what I asked, stealing the breath from my lungs as he kisses me with more force than ever. He nearly lifts me off my feet as he backs us up against the bar, and I don’t care who’s walking by outside. The whole damn city of Montreal could be pressed up against the glass, and it wouldn’t stop me from pulling him closer. His mouth roams over my neck, across my collarbones, back up to suck on my lips before moving to my ear. The sound of his breath overwhelms me, blocks everything else out, and when his tongue traces the shell of my ear, I cry out louder than I ever have for him.

  “Jesus,” he hisses. “The sounds you make...”

  His hands are at the hem of my t-shirt, and his thumbs hook underneath it to brush the bottom of my stomach. My hips thrust up toward him of their own accord, and already I can feel a pressure inside me, a heady demand for more, more, more.

  “Your body...” Dylan pants as he speaks. “God, look at you. The things you do when I touch you...”

  “Touch me.” My voice is breathy and thin. “Please touch me.”

  His eyes roam over me, down my neck and chest to where his thumbs disappear under my shirt. He looks hungry.

  “Not like this,” he finally says, wincing like it’s painful to get the words out. “Not here. When I touch you, I’m going to do it right.”

  He steps back, letting me go.

  “Let’s, uh, let’s get you home.” He runs the back of his hand along his mouth and stares up at the ceiling, like looking down at me is going to obliterate his restraint.

  I don’t want his restraint.

  “Dylan, I don’t...I don’t want to go slow tonight.”

  He sucks in a breath.

  “I want this now. I need it.”

  “You’re just upset because of what happened,” he says gently, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. “I’m not going to be the guy who—”

  “Dylan.” I let some of my frustration slip into my voice. “Please trust me, okay? Trust that I’m saying this as an adult woman who knows what she wants and needs. I want to be with you tonigh
t. I don’t want to go home. I want to go home with you.”

  He’s standing completely still now, like he doesn’t even trust himself to breathe anymore. I’d laugh if I weren’t so exasperated.

  “Please give me tonight. We can go back to taking it slow tomorrow, if that’s what you want, but tonight...I need you tonight.”

  “You’re sure?” He’s still looking at the damn ceiling.

  “Yes, Dylan, I am very fucking sure.”

  One side of his mouth pulls up into a grin. “So fucking sassy.”

  Then he grabs my face and kisses me again, so hard I forget how to breathe.

  Sixteen

  Renee

  NOCTURNE: A poem set at night

  “So, this is me. Welcome to my humble abode.”

  Dylan flips on the entryway light. The kitchen is off to the right, and the glow from the entrance reveals a shadowy outline of the living room beyond.

  “It’s very clean in here,” I observe after kicking my shoes off and taking the few steps to the centre of the room.

  It’s very clean? Really, Renee?

  “I don’t know why I said that,” I admit. “I mean not that it isn’t clean. I just don’t know why I felt the need to tell you that. Also it’s not that I didn’t think it would be clean, but it’s um, it’s nice. It’s very nice in here.”

  Dylan follows after me, a grin taking over his face.

  “Oh yeah?” he says softly, reaching to clasp my hands in his. “That’s the opinion you’ve formed of my darkened apartment? That it’s very clean and nice?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  He chuckles.

  I don’t know where my awkwardness is coming from. The walk over here was anything but. We were practically racing each other up the sidewalk, stopping every few seconds to kiss and breaking apart to catch our breath only to take off tearing up the sidewalk again. He kissed me so hard in his building’s stairwell I was about ready to start tearing my clothes off there and then.

  We’re here now. We’ve reached the actual tearing off clothes point, and suddenly I’m hesitating.