I look up to see his ugly, bald head reflecting the fluorescent lighting off his metal plate. He hunkers down at the bar and folds his chunky, liver-spotted hands with dirty nails.
I freeze behind the bar.
He grunts. He grunts at me again.
I stare at him, unable to process the translation. Grunt means, what? Yes? No? Soup?
What am I supposed to do?
The possibilities flutter in chaotic loops because my loathing is so spectacular, I can't even process simple actions or needs. In my mind, his grunt incites a slow, painful death with my bare hands.
I gawk for a few moments, fishing for the right words to fill in the gaps before he grunts again and glowers at the tap, then back at me. He frowns so deep, the sides of his lips could melt onto the bartop.
Right. Beer. Grunt means beer.
With shaking hands, I pull the lever until the golden cold liquid and froth cascades over my fingertips.
Thank the Lady, he leaves me alone in my quiet panic.
Simon's jaunty stroll carries him from the kitchen, an apple ensnared by four fingers, a knife in the other. In a few fluid strokes, he cuts the apple and hands a slice to me.
"How's your day, Kiddo?"
I accept the apple with a single bursting laugh—one shallow, superficial, and nervous spurt of noise. I'm coiled up, ready to spring on the next person who comes near me.
***
As the afternoon passes into night and before I can look at my PAHLM twice, it's almost closing time. No one has bothered me so far. Simple orders. Reasonable requests. No one thinks to bring up the topic that has me so ignited. Maybe they can smell the lighter fluid on my breath.
For the rest of the night, I pour beer, serve food, and watch everyone leave more satisfied than when they arrived.
Of course, the last person to close the bar is Warren, still sipping on his last call. His eyes focus at the bottom of his mug as the beer slowly disappears.
Since I've already cleaned the mugs, all that's left is locking the Junk Juice cabinets for the night.
Kai saunters in.
I screech to a halt with my hands on the keypad to the cabinet. The simmering turmoil in my gut pauses.
He slides onto the stool next to Warren.
My innards erupt in flutters. An unfamiliar desire rises in my belly. I shake off the tension from before.
"Is it too late for a drink?" He leans forward on his elbows and grins.
"I need to scan your ID," I rib him nervously. The kid, while built and battle-ready, still is the unfortunate subject of drinking-age restrictions.
"Lucky for you, I just turned twenty one." He taps on his PAHLM to activate his identification.
"I was only kidding."
Warren makes some sort of snarling noise into his beer. Squinting at him, I hope he'll regale this encounter with his worthless son. Thinks he owns me, does he?
That ignition fluid sitting in my belly finds its spark. New flames lick at my skin, and everything prickles hot. I barely conceal my grin.
I pour Kai a shot of Junk Juice. The stink of the black-and-purple hootch hits me after uncorking. This particular bottle has been sitting unordered for weeks now. The only hard stuff the URE can produce, it's perfect for the battle-scarred soldiers who find their solace at the bottom of a tiny cup of the liquid ashes. It smells like battery acid and tastes like it, too.
"On the house." I wink for good measure. Oh, Good Heap, I hope my attempt at flirting is cuter than it feels. My guess is maybe it looks like twitching from the sting of debris flung into my eye. But the fire on my skin makes me believe it's sultry and super hot.
He pulls back the shot without hesitation. The flinch is lost in his stone features.
Oh, the kid is handsome.
In the recesses of my mind, I wonder if he's been paired for the HHP yet.
"You get off soon?"
Warren's glare pierces through me.
"Yeah, in like ten minutes. What did you have in mind?" I clear the glass and ignore the old man.
He can tell his son whatever the hell he wants. I am going to have at least one good time before this whole blistered life is shredded to pieces.