Birthday Girl

For some reason, the judgement I dealt Cam for her clothes doesn’t transfer to Jordan, even though she’s a few years younger. Dressed in dark blue jeans shorts, low on the hip and high on the thigh, they’re not cut off but rolled up, and her loose, black T-shirt shows off her stomach and hangs off one shoulder. Her hair hangs down her back in big, loose curls, and her eyes are rimmed in dark liner and dark eye shadow, making the midnight blue in her eyes pop like a stream of moonligt on a night sea.

I wonder if she’s wearing her Chucks again, but that would mean getting past her legs, and I’m having a hard time doing that, so I keep my gaze averted and continue working on the car.

Guilt rips through me. She’s Cole’s. He kisses her. He holds her. He makes her smile. It’s not my place to have any opinions about her, especially territorial ones like where she bartends or how she dresses. I just still keep feeling like I did in the theater. She’s a young woman I met and had fun talking to, and no one else had anything to do with it. Part of me keeps feeling like I knew her first, even though I know I didn’t.

“I have a double shift today,” she says, and I guess she’s talking to me, “so I’ll get off late, but I have my key.”

I nod and refit the cap, not looking at anyone.

There’s a short silence before she starts to move away. “Okay, see you both later,” she says.

“Thanks for the help today, sugar,” Dutch calls out to her.

He raises his arm high and waves at the girls, and I hear some giggles before the car takes off. I keep going with what I’m doing, not thinking about how unsafe that area of town is at night or the perk of working behind a bar is that customers can’t get their hands on her, which is nice. Her job is great, actually. It’s better money than she’ll make at Burger King or being a telemarketer. She and Cole will be out of the house in no time.

But no wonder that asshole Mick is trying to get her to work at The Hook. For Christ’s sake. Done all up like she is tonight? Men pay a lot of money for young and hot, but even more for young and hot farmer’s daughter.

I’m unscrewing, cleaning, and refastening the caps when I realize my hand is aching, and the muscles are tired. I stop and stand up straight, cracking my knuckles.

But then I see Dutch watching me out of the corner of my eye, and I look over at him, meeting his stare.

“What?” I ask.

Why is he staring at me?

But he just gives me a small smile and shakes his head. “Nothing.”

Jordan

“Can I have a Fuzzy Navel?”

I glance over and see April Lester standing at the bar between Grady Jones and Rich Hensburg and staring at me expectantly. I nod and finish stacking the rocks glasses I’d just washed, then reach over and grab the bottle of Schnapps.

“So, you coming home with me yet?” Rich asks April, giving her a skeptical little scowl.

Grady chuckles softly, while I smile to myself. April just turns away, looking annoyed.

All these people are regulars. April usually doesn’t go home alone, and everyone knows it. Rich only half jokes to save face when she constantly refuses him, though. Old, it seems, is her only hard limit. Anyone else is fair game. It doesn’t hurt for him to keep trying, I guess. Might get lucky one of these nights.

Not that I begrudge her. What do I know? She’s a good customer, and she tips well, after all. I just can’t help but keep an eye on her when Cole is around. I’ve seen her go after married men, so someone’s boyfriend certainly won’t faze her.

I finish pouring the orange juice and set out a napkin before placing the drink on top of it. She grabs a straw and takes her glass. “Thank you,” she sing-songs and immediately turns around, taking a sip as she walks back to her booth.

I watch her go and see her slide in with two other men I’ve seen around before.

Sometimes she makes me think of my mom. I’m not sure why, they look nothing alike. My mom was a blonde—is a blonde—and April is a brunette. Hair so dark brown it almost looks black.

But they’d be around the same age. April has to be pushing forty and dresses like I remember my mom dressing. Short skirts, billowy, silk tank tops, jewelry, and six-inch heels.

Like Cam. My sister inherited my mom’s sexy style.

I wonder if my mom has settled down with someone or if she still needs that freedom she craved so much when I was seven. I don’t miss her. I barely remember her. But I do still wonder about her.

Reaching behind me, I mark a tally on April’s tab for her drink and grab a towel to finish drying the glasses.

But then the front door swings open and a voice booms, “Shit, it’s dead in here.”

I look up, the hair on my arms instantly standing on end. My boyfriend enters with a few of his friends in tow, but it’s the all-too-familiar voice leading the pack that makes my skin crawl.