by Lucy Score
It wasn’t there for nostalgia. It served as a reminder that no matter how good things were in the moment, they were bound to get worse until that once bright, shiny future was unrecognizable.
Waylon deflated on a sigh, pancaking onto his bed.
“You and me both,” I told him.
I dropped into the chair behind the desk and fired up my computer, ready to rule my empire.
Social media ad campaigns for Whiskey Clipper and Honky Tonk topped my list of things to do today. I’d been avoiding them long enough because they annoyed me. Growth disguised as change was, unfortunately, a necessary evil.
Perversely, I shuffled the ads to the bottom of my stack and tackled the schedule at Honky Tonk for the next two weeks. There was a hole. I rubbed the back of my neck and dialed Fi.
“What’s up, boss?” she asked. Someone grunted obscenely next to her.
“Where are you?”
“Family Jiu-Jitsu. I just threw Roger over my shoulder and he’s looking for his kidneys.”
Fi’s family was a shaken cocktail of weird. But they all seemed to like life better that way.
“My condolences to Roger’s kidneys. Why is there a hole in the server schedule?”
“Chrissie quit last week. Remember?”
I vaguely remembered a server with a face and hair scurrying out of my way every time I stepped out of my office.
“Why’d she quit?”
“You scared the shit out of her. Called her a tray-dropping gold digger and told her to give up on marrying rich because even rich guys want their beers cold.”
It rang a bell. Vaguely.
I grunted. “So who’s replacing her?”
“I already hired a new girl. She starts tonight.”
“Does she have experience or is this another Crystal?”
“Chrissie,” Fi corrected. “And unless you want to start doing your own hiring, I suggest you gracefully back down and tell me I’ve been doing a kick-ass job and you trust my instincts.”
I yanked the phone away from my ear when Fi let out an ear-splitting “Hi-ya!”
“You’ve been doing a kick-ass job, and I trust your instincts,” I muttered.
“That’s a good boy. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to put my son on his ass in front of his crush.”
“Try not to splatter too much blood. It’s a bitch to clean up.”
Waylon let out a snore from the floor. I penciled in “New Girl” on the empty shifts and jumped into some vendor payments and other bullshit paperwork.
Both Whiskey Clipper and Honky Tonk were showing consistent growth. And two of the three apartments rented for additional income. I was pleased with the numbers. It meant that I’d managed to do the impossible and turn dumb luck into an actual solid future. Between the businesses and my investments, I’d taken a windfall and built upon it.
It was a good feeling even after a sleepless night. With nothing left to do, I reluctantly called up Facebook. Advertising was one kind of evil, but advertising that required you to have a social media presence that opened you up to millions of pain-in-the-ass strangers? That was straight-up bullshit.
I bet Naomi was on Facebook. She probably liked it too.
My fingers casually typed Naomi Witt into the search bar before the sane, rational part of me could hit the brakes.
“Huh.”
Waylon lifted his head quizzically.
“Just checking on our neighbor. Making sure she’s not into Amway sales or running a long con as a pretend twin,” I told him.
Satisfied that I would save him from whatever threats social media held, Waylon fell back to sleep with a rumbling snore.
The woman obviously had never heard of privacy settings. There was a lot of her to get to know on social media. Pictures from work, vacations, family holidays. All without Tina, I noted. She ran 5ks for good causes and raised funds for neighbor’s vet bills. And she lived in a nice-looking house at least twice the size of the cottage.
She went to high school and college reunions and looked damn good doing it.
Throwback pictures proved my theory that she’d been a cheerleader. And someone on the yearbook committee had been a fan since it seemed like her entire senior year had been dedicated to her. I blinked at the handful of pictures of Naomi and Tina. The twin thing was undeniable. So was the fact that, beneath the surface, they were very different women.
I was already invested. There was no pulling me out of the online stalking rabbit hole. Especially not when the only other things I had to do were boring.
So I dug further.
Tina Witt fell off the digital plane of existence after high school graduation. She didn’t smile in her cap and gown. Certainly not next to young, fresh Naomi with her honor cords.
She’d already had an arrest record by then. Yet there was Naomi, an arm around her sister’s waist beaming wide enough for the two of them. I was willing to bet money that she’d done what she could to be the good one. To be the low-maintenance kid. The one who didn’t cause their parents sleepless nights.
I wondered how much living she’d missed out on wasting all that time being good.
I followed the Tina line a little deeper, discovering a trail on Pennsylvania District Magistrate court cases and then again in New Jersey and Maryland. DUIs, possession, skipping out on rent. She’d done time about twelve years ago. Not much, but enough to have made a point. Enough to have her becoming a mother less than a year later and steering clear of the cops.
I went back to Naomi’s Facebook and stopped on a family picture from her teenage years. Tina scowling, with her arms crossed next to her sister as their parents beamed behind them. I didn’t know what went on behind closed doors. But I did know that sometimes a bad seed was just a bad seed. No matter what field it was planted in, no matter how it was tended, some just came up rotten.
A glance at the clock reminded me I only had a little time before my two o’clock. Which meant I should get back to the ad campaigns.
But unlike Naomi, I didn’t like worrying about what I “should” do. I typed her name into a search engine and had immediate regrets.
Warner Dennison III and Naomi Witt announce their engagement.
This Dennison guy looked like the kind of asshole who hung out on golf courses and always had a story to top everyone else’s. Sure, he was Vice President of Whatever. But it was at a company with his last name on it. I doubted that he’d earned his fancy title. Judging from her face this morning, this Warner suit had never taken a piss in the great outdoors.
Naomi looked heart-stoppingly gorgeous, not to mention happy, in the formal photo. Which for some stupid reason annoyed me. What did I care if she was into men who ironed their pants? My next-door neighbor was no longer any of my damn business. I’d found her and Way a place to stay. Anything that happened from here on out was her own problem.
I closed out of the window on my screen. Naomi Witt no longer existed to me. I felt good about that.
My phone buzzed on the desk, and Waylon’s head popped up.
“Yeah?” I answered.
“Vernon’s here. Want me to get him started?” Jeremiah offered.
“Get him a whiskey. I’m on my way out.”
“Will do.”
“There he is!” Vernon Quigg called when I returned to the shop. The retired Marine was six feet tall, seventy years old, and the proud owner of an impeccable walrus moustache.
I was the only person allowed near the ’stache with scissors. It was both an honor and an annoyance, seeing as how the man loved nothing more than fresh gossip.
“Afternoon, Vernon,” I said, clipping the cape around his neck.
“Heard about you and Not Tina throwin’ down in Café Rev yesterday,” he said gleefully. “Sounds like those twins are carbon copies of each other.”
“I heard that she’s the complete opposite of her sister,” Stasia said, plopping down in the empty chair next to my station.
I reached for my comb and
gritted my teeth.
“I heard there’s a warrant out for Tina and Not Tina helped her escape,” said Doris Bacon, owner of Bacon Stables, a farm with a reputation for turning out champion horseflesh.
Fuck me.
ELEVEN
BOSS FROM HELL
Naomi
I accepted the leather and denim apron Sherry “Fi” Fiasco handed me and tied it around my waist.
“Shirt looks good,” Sherry said, giving my Honky Tonk v-neck an approving nod.
“Thanks,” I said and tugged nervously at the hem. The shirt was tight and showed more cleavage than I was used to accentuating. But, per my research at the library, ladies with their “girls” showing tended to make higher tips.
Honky Tonk felt like a country bar that had a brief but satisfying affair with a glitzy speakeasy. I liked the “fancy cowboy” vibe.
“This here’s Maxine, and she’ll be training you on the POS,” Fi said, plucking the lollipop out of her mouth. “It’s also how you clock in and out and order your own meals. Here’s your pin number.” She handed over a sticky note with 6969 scrawled across it in Sharpie.
Nice.
“Hi,” I said to Maxine. She had dark skin dusted with glitter over her enviable cheekbones and modest cleavage. Her hair was cut short and left to curl tightly in tiny magenta coils.
“Call me Max,” she insisted. “You ever sling drinks before?”
I shook my head. “I worked in HR until two days ago.”
I gave her points for not rolling her eyes at me. I wouldn’t want to train me either.
“But I learn fast,” I assured her.
“Well, you’re gonna have to since we’re short-handed tonight. So unless you suck, I’ll be pushing you out of the nest early.”
“I’ll do my best not to suck,” I promised.
“You do that. We’ll start with the drinks for my eight-top.”
“We’ve got two drafts of Bud,” Maxine began, fingers flying over the screen. Her glittery nails hypnotized me with their speed.
I was nervous but highly motivated. My bank had told me it would take up to a week for me to receive my replacement debit and credit cards. And Waylay had already polished off the entire box of Pop-Tarts. If I wanted to keep my niece in groceries, I was going to have to be the best damn server this town had ever seen.
“Then you hit send, and the printer at the bar spits out the order. Same for food, only it goes straight to the kitchen,” Max explained.
“Got it.”
“Great. Here’s the next one. Your turn.”
I only fumbled twice and earned a “good enough” nod from my trainer.
“Let’s get those tips flowing. I hope your feet are prepared,” Maxine said with a quick grin.
I blew out a breath and followed her into the crowd.
My feet hurt. I was hours behind on my water intake. And I was really tired of explaining that I wasn’t Tina. Especially since that seemed to have earned me the nickname Not Tina.
Silver the bartender said something that I missed as I wearily unloaded glasses at the service bar.
“What?” I yelled over the music.
“Hangin’ in there?” she repeated louder this time.
“I think so.” Max had given me two tables of “understanding regulars” to handle on my own, and so far no one besides me was wearing beer or complaining about how long it took to get their brisket nachos, so I felt like I was doing an adequate job.
I felt like I’d walked ten miles just going between the bar and the tables.
Most of the patrons seemed like regulars. They knew each other’s names and drink orders and razzed each other over sports rivalries.
The kitchen staff was nice enough. And while Silver wasn’t exactly friendly, she was a pro pulling pints with both hands while taking a to-go order over the phone.
I admired her efficiency.
I’d just dropped off a fresh round of drinks when I realized I’d spent the last few hours not thinking about…well, anything. I hadn’t had time to worry about Waylay at Liza’s or about the four emails from Warner I hadn’t opened. And the small roll of cash in my apron made me forget all about my thieving sister and my overdrawn accounts.
I also hadn’t given my hot, grumpy, urinating neighbor a passing thought.
That’s when I lost my focus and walked smack into a solid wall of chest under a black t-shirt.
“Pardon me,” I said, slapping a hand to the muscley obstacle to stay upright.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
Not. Again.
“Are you kidding me?” I squeaked, looking up to find Knox scowling at me.
“What are you doing here, Naomi?”
“I’m checking Santa’s Naughty List. What does it look like I’m doing? I’m working. Now get out of my way, or I’ll hit you with my tray and I’ve had a lot of espresso today. I could get you on the floor in three or four whacks.”
He didn’t respond verbally. Probably because he was too busy taking me by the arm and dragging me out into the hallway. He stormed past the restrooms and the kitchen door and opened the next door with a well-placed boot.
“Evenin’, Knox,” Fi said, without looking up from her monitors.
“What the fuck is this?” he snapped.
Sherry spared him a glance. “This?” she repeated blandly.
He pulled me farther into the room. “This,” he said again.
“This is Naomi. A human person who is halfway into her first shift,” Sherry said, going back to her monitors.
“Don’t want her working here, Fi.”
I’d had enough of the pissed off at the world in general and me in particular routine. I yanked my arm free and whacked him in the chest with my tray.
Sherry looked up again, her mouth falling open.
“I don’t care if you don’t want me working here, Viking. Fi hired me. I’m here. Now, unless you have a reason for detaining me at a job I desperately need, you blond Oscar the Grouch, I suggest you take up your hiring concerns with this establishment’s management.”
“I am this establishment’s management,” he snarled.
Great. Of course he was management. I’d hit my new boss with a tray.
“I wouldn’t have taken this job if I’d known you managed this place,” I bit out.
“Now you know. Get out.”
“Knox,” Sherry sighed wearily. “We needed a replacement for the server you scared off with all your scowling and Oscar the Grouching.”
He pointed a threatening finger in her direction. “I’m not letting you make that a thing. Call What’s Her Name and get her to unquit.”
Sherry leaned back and crossed her arms. “If you can tell me her name, I’ll call her up right now.”
Knox muttered a curse.
“That’s what I thought,” she said smugly. “Now, who makes the hiring decisions around here?”
“I don’t give a shit if it’s the damn Pope,” he growled. “She’s not working here. I don’t want her around.”
Deciding I had nothing to lose, I hit him again with the tray. “Listen, Viking. I don’t know what your problem is with me. Whatever narcissistic delusional roller coaster you’re on, I’m not here to ruin your life. I’m trying to earn back some of the money my sister stole from me, and until the bank unfreezes my account, I’m not letting you or anyone else stand in the way of Waylay’s Pop-Tarts.”
“Unless you want to take her tables for her, boss, I’m siding with Naomi,” Sherry said.
Knox’s eyes glowed with icy fire. “Fuck. Fine. One shift. You make one mistake. Get one complaint and your ass is gone.”
“Your magnanimity won’t be forgotten. I’ve got tables waiting.”
“One mistake,” he called after me.
I flipped him off over my shoulder and stormed into the hall.
“Get rid of her, Fi. I’m not working with some uppity, needy pain in the ass.” His words carried to me outside the door. My chee
ks flamed.
An uppity, needy pain in the ass. So that’s what the gorgeous, bad-tempered Knox Morgan saw when he looked at me.
I kept it together, pushing all thoughts of my stupid boss out of my mind and putting my full attention into getting the right drinks to the right people, busing tables for turnover, and being helpful wherever I could.
I squeezed in the shortest dinner break in the history of dinner breaks, sneaking a pit stop at the bathroom and a few bites of a spectacularly good grilled chicken salad from Milford in the kitchen. Then made a beeline for the bar, where Silver was pouring a stream of liquor into a cocktail shaker with one hand and opening a beer bottle with the other.
Her hair was buzzed short, leaving nothing to distract from the dramatic smoky eye makeup and tiny eyebrow ring. The sleeves of her black blazer were rolled up, and she wore a striped tie loose over a Honky Tonk tank. She was androgynously attractive in a way that made me feel like an eighth-grader with a crush on the cool girl.
“Silver, do you mind if I use the phone to check in with my babysitter?” I asked over the thump of the music.
She jerked her head toward the phone between the two tap systems, and I took that as approval.
I checked my watch and dialed the cottage’s number. Liza answered on the third ring.
“We ordered pizza stead of eatin’ that mound of veggies you left us,” she said over the blare of the TV on her end.
“Are those gunshots?” I asked, plugging my ear with a finger so I could hear her over the musical stylings of country singer Mickey Guyton on my end.
“Can you believe she’s never seen The Usual Suspects?” Liza scoffed.
“Liza!”
“Relax. We’re just shooting real guns in the house, not watching R-rated movies.”
“Liza!”
“You’re right—your aunt really is wound tighter than a necktie on Friday,” Liza said, presumably to my big-mouthed niece. “Everything’s fine. Way helped me in the garden. We ate pizza and now we’re watching a PG-13, edited-for-TV action movie. Sylvester Stallone just called someone a poop head.”