PEYTON
I parkin the employee lot behind Roar and survey the other parked cars. Most everyone is already here. Including Micah.
Great.
I really should talk to Ani about switching some of my days. Micah and Gina, the other manager, draft the staff schedule, but I would love at least one shift without Micah in the picture. A reprieve from his constant stares and assholism. If I talk to Ani, though, she will blather until my ears bleed and probe me harder than an alien abduction.
So, that is a no go.
Guess I just suck it up like a good cookie. Doesn’t mean I should make his life easy, though.
Walking through the back door, I stash my purse in the employee lounge, clock in, then head to the bar. No sign of Micah yet. Good. If I’m lucky, he is in the storage room or doing paperwork in the office.
Without the worry of bumping into Micah, I get to work on my prep. I cut citrus and fill the bar condiment boxes. Stash the extras in the fridge beneath the counter. Next, I replenish the napkin stacks, drink umbrellas, and straws. Finally, I double-check the glassware is clean, wipe the counters down again, and scan the liquor bottles and keg levels.
Recently, Wednesday and Thursday nights have grown in popularity. After work gatherings hosted by local businesses or special events with larger parties keep the drinks flowing and the music booming. Fewer bodies and chatter, but still a busy night. My favorite weekday perk; the bar also closes hours earlier. And the tips are still great. Different populous, different mindset, different tipping standards. Of course, Friday and Saturday always bring in the masses and flood the tip jar. But I love the weekday vibe.
Tonight—and any other Wednesday without scheduled events—is Woman Crush Wednesday. Cliché, I know. Basically, it’s ladies’ night with an updated name. On ladies’ night, we serve fruity drinks at half price.
Half price drinks equals lots of ladies soothing their workday with colorful, alcoholic beverages. Lots of ladies drinking and de-stressing equals hefty tips. Works in my favor.
The overhead lights flip off and the colorful lights come on. Music pumps out of the speakers. Not the same music we play on the weekend, but still upbeat and catchy. Moments later, Micah appears from the back and unlocks the front door.
He seems different today.
I shake off the thought as a flock of women storm the bar. Time to whip up some magic.
Five thousand nine hundred and a bazillion fruity drinks later and I am officially beat. One more hour until the door locks. Hallelujah. Then, I can clean up, drive home, and sleep until noon.
Micah joins me and Adam behind the bar. He fills drink orders, cleans glasses and restocks the napkins and fruit. He moves behind the bar as if this is his job, not managing the rest of us. Oddly, he doesn’t look my way. Not once. Considering we never go one shift without snapping at each other, I question what parallel universe we landed in. Because silent-and-closed-off Micah is just… weird.
Maybe something happened with his family or a close friend. I peek down the bar, give him a brief once-over, and hope he doesn’t notice.
He doesn’t look sad or angry. No downturned lips or eyes. No slumped shoulders and hunched back. He just looks… blah. Meh. Like his emotions took a hiatus.
Does it make me a dick if I want to stir the pot? Provoke him a little for my own pleasure. Probably. But work isn’t the same if Micah and I aren’t going at it like alley cats. And his boring side makes the night drag out.
“Hey, Micky,” I shout over the music. His spine stiffens and I know I hit the mark. Sweet relief.
He rolls his eyes and turns to face me. “What is it?”
His words have no punch to them. Although I hear the annoyance in his tone, the usual sting is missing. Part of me wants to drop it. Give up and call it a wash. But the feisty side of me says hell no. I like feisty me more.
“Your cat die or something? You get your period today? Take a break, I got this handled.”
The muscles in his jaw tighten as he grinds his teeth. Inch by inch, his face stains red. His nostrils flare. But he takes slow, measured breaths and lets his frustration or anger with me pass.
Challenge accepted.
“Best watch what you say to me. Seeing as I’m your boss.”
Ooh, he wants to play the boss card now. Game on. “Actually, you aren’t technically my boss. Ani and Sean are my bosses. You just do everyone else’s job plus paperwork and count money.”
This pisses him off. The red resurfaces, and he turns his back to me briefly.
What’s the matter? Does little Micah not know how to keep his feelings in check? Poor little baby.
He faces me again and steps forward until we are a foot apart. This close, I see the heat from his cheeks has trailed down his neck and onto his upper chest. Smell the woodsy amber scent of his cologne. Hear how hard he grinds his molars and resists speaking, the words dangling on the tip of his tongue.
But I want to coax every word from his lips. Want to hear the hatred and anger. The desire and lust.
I am no idiot. Micah Reed may hide parts of himself from others, but I have known him a long time. Longer than he has known me. For years, I watched Micah from a distance. Saw who he was when everyone was looking. But I also saw who he was when he thought no one was nearby.
Micah is an asshole and a manwhore. Nothing changes that truth. History cannot be erased. It is what it is.
But he is also a big brother and protector. A loner, when his posse isn’t around. Although he humiliated me in high school, I still crushed on him. Still followed him when no one paid attention. Still got a glimpse of the guy behind the facade.
My stalker ways faded when Micah graduated and I still had a year left. Senior year was the best year of high school. No more Triple M and no more Micah Reed. The lack of harassment was a nice reprieve. But I hated that I missed seeing Micah every day. I hated that I wondered what he was doing out in the world.