under the weight of the tray as I stare down at the empty table in disbelief. Not that I’m used to big tips around here, but this is just plain insulting. It’s enough to make me chuck the whole tray across the bar and walk out. Instead, I drop it in my apron because it’s twenty-five cents closer to not being evicted.
There’s a familiar squeak of sneakers behind me, and Violet’s chin appears over my shoulder. “Nice. Only 2,399 more cheap asses and you’re there.”
I groan. “Not helping.”
“I know you’ll think of something,” she encourages me, her dark-painted lips splitting into a forced grin.
“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” I grumble, moving to the next table. It’s the same discussion we have every month. We come down to the wire, and Violet ends up compromising whatever morals she has left so I don’t have to.
Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
Violet follows me, leaning over the back of a wooden chair. “There are other options,” she says, casually. “Reg still wants—”
“No!” I wince at how sharp the word sounds. Sighing, I swipe the back of my hand across my forehead. “Look, Vi, I know you’re trying to help, but I’d rather starve.”
Violet takes a few jerky steps away from the table and bites her lip.
Damn it.
I hate Reggie for this. I glare at the bearded man currently sitting in a corner booth across from yet another pretty blonde. I can smell her desperation all the way over here. She can’t be a day older than seventeen. A definite runaway. Still innocent for now, but once she signs on the dotted line that will change. She thinks she’s interviewing to be a bar waitress, but then Reggie will make her an offer.
Flashing Violet an apologetic smile, I set the tray down and grab her hand. “Hey, look at me.” I give her hand a squeeze. “Remember, we can’t drown in the rain…”
“…if we run from the storm,” she finishes, glancing up at me. “Do you still believe that?”
I wish I could tell her I did. I wish I could tell her the G-Spot isn’t just a brothel in a cocktail dress. I wish life didn’t keep kicking us in the teeth over and over.
I wish I could tell her I didn’t consider drowning to be the better option.
So, I give her the only answer I can. “I believe in you, Violet DeLuca.”
She nods again, this time without biting her lip. That’s good enough for me. The last few years have been hard enough. The last thing either of us need are empty promises and false hope.
Two days later, I’m pacing behind the bar while staring holes in the neon rimmed clock hanging on the wall. I’ve been here five hours, and all I have to show for it is a five-dollar bill, six ones, and a cocktail napkin containing a phone number along with an anatomically correct drawing depicting what would happen should I call it.
Same shit, different day.
Violet shuffles in behind me and nods to a table on the other side of the room. “Hey, isn’t that the new girl Reggie hired?”
I follow her gaze to where a young blonde sits nervously watching the door. The same one who sat here interviewing in a threadbare T-shirt is now in designer clothes, chewing her lip.
Damn it.
“Looks like she got a promotion,” I note, stifling a yawn.
Our conversation is interrupted as Maggie slams her tray down on the bar. “Two Bud Drafts and a Long Island.”
“I’ve got the beers.” Grabbing two freshly washed mugs, I tip one underneath the tap while Violet leans against the counter, leisurely scrolling through her phone. “You plan on making that Long Island today?”
She waves me off with a flick of her wrist. “In a minute.”
Switching out mugs, I pull the tap and raise an eyebrow. “Interesting reading?”
Turning her phone around, she taps a black-painted fingernail on the screen. “Have you seen this shit? The Romanov estate is offering a million dollars to anyone who finds that missing heiress.”
I shake my head. “They should let that little girl rest in peace.”
“So, you think she’s dead?” she asks, an impish grin tugging at her mouth. “Are you saying you don’t buy into all the conspiracy theories?”
“Ahem!” We both turn as Maggie gestures toward the two beers sitting on her tray and then glares at Violet.
“Oh, put your tampon back in, Margaret,” she snaps, snatching a bottle of gin off the shelf. “I’m on it.”