by Rose, Katia
I put my phone away and glare at her. “Not helping.”
“Sorry. You’re so much better at this advice giving thing than me.”
“Unless it’s about clothes.”
The door to the kitchen opens, and a blast of EDM and thumping bass escapes into the night.
“It’s getting rowdy in there,” Cole announces. “You might want to check it out, Monroe.”
Roxanne and I share a concerned look before heading back inside. I leave my beer in the kitchen and make my way to the front. Up on stage, Zach’s roommate, Paige, who happens to moonlight as a DJ, is bent over her gear. She shifts in time with the beat, seemingly oblivious to the full-on mosh pit forming in front of her. People have been screaming all night, but now the sound has a wild, feral edge that it didn’t before.
I catch sight of frantic movement by the front door and realize the crowd outside has gotten tired of waiting and is now trying to push past the bouncers to get in. They’re not even real bouncers; I didn’t have the money available to hire the security a night like this needed.
Things are about to get ugly.
I spot Zach behind the bar, drenched with sweat as he pours three drinks at once and faces the stretching arms in front of him with a zombie-like stare.
“Finish those and stop serving,” I order. I raise my voice loud enough for the other bartenders and the first row of people waiting to hear. “No more drinks from here on out! Bar’s closed!”
Apparently that was the wrong move.
People immediately start yelling profanities and banging their fists on the bar. Their faces warp and twist into booze-fueled snarls, eyes hazy but still sentient enough to focus on one thing: anger. I’ve created a hoard of angry drunks.
“You heard me!” I roar as loud as I can. It’s not the first time I’ve had to cut someone off; it’s possibly the first time I’ve had to cut quite this many people off, but the principles are the same. “We have water if you need it. If not, go dance or go home!”
The few customers close enough to stand a chance of hearing me don’t seem to be in a state to process the words. I hear someone loudly refer to me as a bitch, but again, wouldn’t be the first time. I can practically feel Zach’s nervous energy radiating off him even as he stands his ground, copying my arms-crossed-feet-planted-wide bartender power stance as we face off with the crowd.
This is the moment of truth. This is when they either back off or we find ourselves dealing with an all-out riot.
A few assholes keep pounding on the bar, but by now, the message that there’s no more alcohol being served has rippled back a few rows, and the less tenacious party-goers are turning to the dance floor.
“Come on, kids,” I mutter under my breath. “Don’t make me have to call the cops.”
We’re at least twenty or thirty people over capacity. I should have put my foot down, but a few of Code Ventura’s friends showed up late, and I gave the bouncers permission to let them in. The last thing Taverne Toulouse needs right now is a health and safety violation charge.
“It’s working!” Zach shouts in my ear. “They’re giving up!”
He’s right; like sullen teenagers retreating to their bedrooms, the crowd seems to have accepted that they’re not getting what they want. A hefty portion shuffles towards the door in search of a bar that will serve them, and it’s the first time in a long time I’ve been glad to see so many customers leave.
Only they can’t leave.
A handful of my staff are forming a human barricade to keep the people on the street from bursting inside like broken water main.
“Shit.”
Zach follows where my attention has gone and immediately cries, “DeeDee!” before tensing his muscles like he’s about to hurtle himself over the bar.
I put a hand on his chest. “Easy there, cowboy. She’s fine. I need you to go cut the audio in the back and turn the house lights on. We’re shutting this party down.”
He doesn’t look happy about leaving DeeDee where she’s quite capably making up part of the front door defence team, but after a moment of indecision, he nods and follows his orders. I just hope the guy knows how to kill the sound system. There are a lot of wires back there.
I let myself out through the gate and onto the main floor, where I commence the perilous crossing to the front door. DeeDee greets me with a string of French curse words when I finally appear beside her.
“They’re cray cray!” she shouts as a guy in a tank top tilts toward us before righting himself at the last second. “Totally cray cray!”
She’s the only person I know who still says ‘cray cray.’
“We’re closing!” I call out, loud enough that I hope the bouncers can hear too. “They’re about to cut the sound. Show’s over.”
DeeDee bobs her head and then moves back a few inches, cupping her hands around her mouth.
I cover my ears in preparation. She inhales like an opera singer about to deliver a particularly difficult aria and then let’s it rip.
“YOU HEAR THAT, MOTHERFUCKERS? SHOW’S OVER. GET THE FUCK OUT.”
DeeDee and I have had many chats about how not to close a bar, but for once, I’m glad none of my lessons have ever stuck with her. The music isn’t even off yet, and I doubt a single person in here didn’t catch at least some of what she said.
Unfortunately, the warning doesn’t come quite quick enough. Just a few feet to my left, some guy punches some other guy over whatever insult he shouted before DeeDee’s grand announcement, and it’s like the whole crowd perks up to sniff the scent of violence. They’re rowdy and pissed off already; the blood dripping from the guy’s nose is like gasoline spewing over a fire.
People start pushing harder. They start yelling louder. Somebody else throws a punch, and that’s when people start running.
“Oh, shit.” Like a tidal wave has struck, I’m swept up in the throng trying to claw their way past the bouncer onto the street. “Oh, shit, shit, shit.”
* * *
“Yes, I’m the manager.”
The police officer shines a totally unnecessary flashlight in my face. We’re standing a foot away from a streetlamp, for god’s sake.
“Why are you bleeding?” he demands in a suspicious voice. I take it this is the bad cop. I resist the urge to look around for the good one and ask for them instead.
“It’s not my blood. I was helping someone who got cut on the window glass.”
He eyes the streaks of congealing crimson on my hands and the stains where I’ve wiped them on my pants. “Are you sure about that?”
He might not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but I can’t blame him for being suspicious. After making their way out onto the street, most of the people from Taverne Toulouse took off, but some of the stupider and more inebriated members of the crowd started trashing the first thing they laid eyes on.
That happened to be Julien’s property.
I’d been trying and failing to stop the hooligans from kicking in the windows when one of the kids decided to go all Hulk Smash and use his fist on the glass. He keeled over, spurting blood everywhere, and that’s when my focus shifted to making sure no one died on the pavement tonight. I guess he decided running through the city with an arm full of glass was a better fate than facing the cops because he took off with the rest of them when the cruiser pulled up.
That left just me, my battle-weary staff, and our frazzled musical entertainment here to face the fuzz.
“Lalonde, put that maudit flashlight down,” an authoritative voice calls out.
The second officer, who is hopefully the good—and smarter—cop strides over to us from where she’s been interviewing Dylan. Bad Cop sheepishly tucks the flashlight away but makes sure to shoot me a sneer right after he does.
“The statements check out,” I hear his evident superior mutter before she turns to me. “You’re the manager, yes? Does this place have exterior cameras?”
I shake my head as I run my hands up and down my a
rms. It’s far too cold to be conducting interviews outside. “Only inside the bar, I’m afraid.”
“We’ll need the footage anyway. Do you have the contact information for your property’s owner?” She pulls out a cell phone, and I’m just about to reply when a cab pulls up to the curb in front of us.
The passenger side door swings open, and Good Cop moves to intercept the man getting out. I catch one glimpse of his profile and suck in a breath before turning away.
The last thing I need is to come face to face with Julien Valois.
“Monsieur, I’m going to have to ask you to—”
“I’m the owner.” The melody of his accent is somehow still soothing despite the tension resonating in his words. “Of the building. I got an alert from my alarm system. What—Ah, merde! The windows!”
I risk allowing myself a peek, but he doesn’t even glance my way as he rushes past to assess the damage at his bar. All four panels of the front windows have been trashed, and the bottom of the door has a spider web of cracks running through the glass. Thankfully, that’s all there is to the damage; no one managed to get inside.
Julien examines what’s left of the windows, peering through the jagged holes into the darkness of the room beyond. I watch him raise his hand to brace it on the frame and then jerk back like he’s been cut. As he glares down at his fingertip, it’s all I can do not to rush forward and cradle his hand in mine, seeking a way to dull the pain, even if all I have to offer is comfort and quiet words.
Baby bird instinct, remember?
He only inspects his finger for a moment before he clenches his hand into a fist and turns back to the cops. I’ve never seen him in full business mode before, lunging like the flash of a sword through the air, all precision and speed, ready to cut straight to the point. He’s dressed in a button-down and what looks like a tailored black wool coat, despite the fact that it’s almost two in the morning. There’s no weariness in his face, only determination. More than ever, he looks like a man who gets things done.
“What happened?” His voice is steel, hard and unyielding, ready to wound if it needs to.
“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” the female cop answers. “Things got rowdy next door. We’re in the middle of getting official statements from the manager and any other witnesses. If you’d like to press charges—”
“The manager?”
Like a kid convinced of the ‘I can’t see you if you can’t see me’ rule, I turned away as soon as the cop nodded in my direction, but Julien must have pinned me down anyway. My first instinct is to tuck and roll into Taverne Toulouse, but I force myself to take a deep breath and face the music like an adult.
Although if I actually knew how to tuck and roll, I’d probably be going with that solution.
“I thought you may have met,” the cop continues. “This is—”
“Monroe.” I close the few steps of distance between us. “We’ve met.”
I can’t meet his eyes. I stare at the top button of his shirt instead.
The tension surging between us must have a fatally high voltage, but if the cop notices, she doesn’t give any hint.
“Anyway,” she goes on, “as I was saying—Lalonde! What did I tell you about the flashlight?”
Her partner in crime—or crime stopping, rather—is subjecting Code Ventura to his beam of truth and integrity. She leaves us to ourselves to go reprimand him and likely save the eyesight of one of the most promising bands in Montreal.
Now that we’re alone, the current encircling Julien and I turns into a writhing coil of live wires.
“I have to say,” he finally begins, “it makes sense.”
I move my attention from his button to his beard before forcing it all the way up to his eyes. I find him staring down at where I’m wringing my hands—the hands that are still stained with blood. His features pinch with concern that quickly grows into alarm.
“Are you all right? You’re bleeding. Did someone hurt you? We should get you bandaged. They must have—”
“I’m fine,” I cut him off. “It’s, uh, not my blood.”
“Not your blood,” he repeats.
He swallows and nods as he lets that sink in. Then he steps back and crosses his arms over his chest, seemingly to let the rest of this whole shit show sink in too. I stand there with my heart pounding, unable to speak anymore. I don’t even know what I would say if I could.
“I couldn’t figure out why you were so defensive about this place. I knew there had to be more to it,” he finally admits, raising a hand to rub his beard. “Now what I can’t figure out is why you didn’t tell me.”
“I just—We weren’t—”
I try to swallow down the lump in my throat, but it keeps rising until it chokes me. Julien’s concern returns as he watches me struggle.
“Monroe, are you all right?”
This has gone on for too long. He’s not even mad at me, and I can’t take it. He needs to know this can’t go any further. I need to make myself accept it too. For Dickens’ sake, I just got his property trashed. If this isn’t a clear warning sign for how incompatible our lives are, I don’t know what is.
I have to break this off like I’ve been meaning to all along—only I’ve chosen this exact moment to realize how much of me is going to break right along with it.
“It was never supposed to go this far,” I blurt, dropping my voice low enough that no one else can hear. “Me and you. There was never supposed to be a me and you.”
“What are you talking about?” He glances over his shoulders before stepping closer.
“I shouldn’t have gone on that date with you, and I’ve been meaning to tell you that I can’t...I can’t do this.”
He considers me for a moment. “Monroe, if this is about our jobs, we—”
“They’re not just jobs,” I interrupt, seizing on the spark that starts in me and using it to light a fire. “This is not just a job to me. This is my family.” I throw my arm out to indicate everyone scattered on the sidewalk. “This is my life. I care about this place, and you want to take it away.”
His eyebrows shoot up over his glasses. “Monroe, you’re making me sound like some kind of super villain, like an enemy. Have you been trying to seduce me to get information about all my evil plans?”
He laughs like the idea is ridiculous, but the sound fades when he notices I don’t even crack a smile.
“Vraiment? That’s really what this is to you? That date...” I watch it dawn on him. “You only agreed to come because I had something to tell you about Taverne Toulouse.”
That’s not why I agreed. That was my excuse for agreeing, but there were dozens of reasons why I wanted to spend time with this man. The velvet of his voice, the threat and promise of his hands, the way the heat of him beside me makes the needs and wants of the rest of the world lose their grip on me for once...
But telling him that isn’t going to get us anywhere.
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re lying.”
He lays the words down like a challenge, crossing his arms over his chest and inviting me to step up to the plate.
“You like me, even if you don’t want to like me, and you’re using this as a way to hide it from yourself.”
“You don’t know how I feel,” I shoot back.
“I know how you look at me.” He doesn’t move, but somehow he seems to get closer. “I know how your voice gets a little bit faster and a little higher pitched every time we touch. I know that when you kissed my cheek, what you really wanted was to—”
“I was drunk.”
For the first time, he looks like I’ve managed to wound him. A moment of heavy silence passes before he responds.
“Prove me wrong.” Now he does step closer. “Prove me wrong, Monroe. Look at me and tell me you don’t want more.”
“I...”
I catch a hint of his scent, all leather and spice like the air in his apartment, and my body screams for more, demands it w
ith the insistence of a princess throwing a tantrum. Even my heart speaks up somewhere deep inside me, beats out its want and its longing in a flutter that travels all the way up to my throat.
Only my head offers the words I need to say to him.
“Even if I did want more, it wouldn’t matter. We’re competitors. We are enemies. Everything I want is in direct opposition to what you want. Our jobs—”
“Forget about the jobs. Forget them for just one second.”
I know how difficult it is for him to say that, how much he’s laying on the line for me, and it’s just makes this even harder.
“I can’t.” I steel myself against the temptation to do otherwise. “I can’t, and neither can you. Your job, everything you’ve built, everything you want to build...It’s your life. You told me yourself. You already chose it over me that night at your apartment.”
I’m grasping at straws here to try to prove my point. I expect him to argue back, but his spine stiffens, and his features twist like he’s wracked with a surge of pain. The expression is gone in a second, shuttered behind that steely exterior he put on moments before. He’s not the man I know anymore. He’s locked that person away. He’s all business now.
“Maybe you’re right.” The words are clipped. “Maybe this was a mistake.”
He turns away, putting a few long strides of distance between us. I watch as he pulls his phone out and jabs at the screen before bringing it up to his ear. He paces the sidewalk, barking orders into the phone. His gaze only flicks to me once, and it’s like he sees straight through me, like there really was no him and me after all.
Eleven
Julien
BODY: The physical impression of a wine on the palate, often described in terms of heaviness or lightness
The shower pounds into the muscles of my neck and shoulders, a steady blast that’s usually enough to ease some of the tension I’ve built up over the day. I wait for the knots to loosen, but if anything, they just coil up even tighter.