Making the Cut (3 page)

AVERY

The tattooed asshole behind me had reminded me no less than half a dozen times he wanted a Rum and Coke. As empty as the bar was, he could easily see I was taking the order of two nice gentlemen who sat at the end of the bar and ordered bottles of beer. I reached into the cooler for the beers and simultaneously pulled the opener from the back pocket of my jeans.

“Rum and Coke. Coming right up,” I hollered over my shoulder.

I opened two Budweiser’s, slid them along the side of the bar, and nodded my head toward the two gentlemen who had ordered them. They appeared to be brothers at minimum; potentially twins. Magically, the two bottles slid to a stop directly in front of them. I clenched my fist, pumped it forward slightly and pulled it toward my hip sharply.

Yes!

Doing my job and doing it well satisfied me to no end. I loved sliding shit along the bar and having it land where I planned. Dumb little things seemed to provide me the satisfaction I needed to convince myself I was doing a good job. My competitive nature probably fueled the need for measuring my success, but I desperately needed to know I was succeeding at whatever it was I decided to attempt. Without having a goal and reaching it, I’d go completely insane.

Rum and Coke, behind me.

I reached for the rum with one hand and a glass with the other. After scooping the glass through the ice bin, I poured a long shot into the glass and shot a splash of coke on top.

“There you go, Rum and Coke,” I said as I handed the man standing at the bar behind me his drink.

Blonde haired guy at the end of the bar.

He had a…

Gin and Tonic.

I turned toward the opposite end of the bar, pointed toward the blonde man, and grinned, “You alright on that Gin and Tonic?”

He mouthed the words
, I’m good
as he nodded his head, raised his half-full glass, and smiled. I smiled in return, reached for the bar towel, and began wiping down the end of the bar. I scanned the bar. A typical Tuesday night, slow as fuck. Six people certainly weren’t many to try and keep happy.

“You didn’t measure the shot,” a voice from behind me said flatly.

I turned around. Mr. Rum and Coke stood at the bar with his glass held at chest height. It appeared he hadn’t so much as tasted the drink. I made note of a faint tattoo on his neck I hadn’t seen before. It looked like some serious garage work or maybe something he got in prison. It looked like someone had taken a ballpoint pen and scribbled over a word they didn’t want anyone to read.

Nice tattoo, douchebag.

“Nope, sure didn’t. You know why?” I snapped.

He shrugged.

I smiled and began to wipe down the bar which separated us, “If I’d have measured it, you’d have about
half
the Rum I gave you.
Taste it
. And I’ll be sure to measure your next one, how’s that?”

He raised the glass and tipped it to his mouth. After a small sip, his eyes closed and he shook his head.

“Damn,
that’s
a Rum and Coke,” he said as he raised his glass. 

I smiled, winked, and lifted the towel from the bar, “I’ll measure the next one.”

Working at a bar as a college senior was far more entertaining than anything else I had ever done for work. I had grown up in the small town of Marietta, Ohio, and a volleyball scholarship brought me to Kansas to attend college at Southwestern College in Winfield. Winfield was a shitty little town which reminded me too much of Marietta, so I opted to find a job twenty-five miles north, in the city of Wichita. Roughly half a million people provided a reasonably diverse group of patrons for the bar, and while I worked there I was learning a lot about dealing with people. The bar was small, and seated fifty-two people according to the card the Fire Marshall required we post above the door. A long bar with a return on each end seated twelve total; five high tops, and five booths at four apiece provided the seating. I controlled the music selection, and generally listened to indie rock on Pandora. No juke box, and no dancing, just great drinks and salty bar food. A cook and a dishwasher got off work at midnight, and I worked until two am. Weekends added a second employee, who worked as a waitress and bartender.

I suppose some small town girls would naturally be drawn to
other
small towns, but having grown up in a town of 14,000 people caused me to yearn for more. Living in a small town, to me, seemed counterproductive. I needed significant change in my surroundings to feel as if I had succeeded. A big city was drastically different from what I was used to growing up, and
change
was something I saw as an improvement. My overly religious Baptist parents would rather have me living in a cave, but given the ability to make my own decisions, I’d probably move to Wichita when I graduated.

A few more weeks, and I would be on my own. I couldn’t wait. My best friend and roommate Sloan was on the volleyball team, a senior, and would graduate with me. We’d talked about being roommates after college, and if things went the way we had planned we would both move to Wichita and live together; easing the financial burden of trying to live alone. She worked with me
a
t the bar mostly on the weekends, and we were a force to reckon with. She at a little more than six feet tall and me at 5’-11”, together we looked like two Amazon women. Men either had a love for tall women, or seemed to hate them. I always thought men were intimidated by my height, but none would ever admit it. Sloan was a little more conservative than I was, but she provided me balance and acted as the angel on the opposite shoulder of my naturally active devil.

My strict parents attempted to raise me as a conservative girl who abided by the rules and regulations they shoved down my throat. It obviously backfired, because I was a little more adventurous than any of the other girls I met in college. Taking risks and having fun was part of my nature. Having Sloan keep me in check was something I probably needed. Without her, I’d make far more shitty decisions without a doubt. 

“I’m headed home, Avery. Thanks. What did I have, I can’t remember?” Ryan asked.

I turned toward the register and pressed my finger against the screen. After jockeying through the various screens and finding his order, I pressed the
total
button. After the receipt belched out the bottom, I looked down at the total.

“Let’s see, you had two Jack and Coke’s and a grilled chicken with fries, Ryan. Looks like twenty-three bucks with tax,” I said as I printed the ticket and handed it to him.

“Well, here’s thirty. Thanks, I’ll see you tomorrow,” he sighed as he tossed the money on the counter.

I nodded my head, smiled, and waved as I scooped up the money and receipt. Ryan was a regular at the bar, and always ordered Jack and Coke. He was overly nice, but had never hit on me or even said anything alluding to the fact he was interested in me. I always respected him for that, because he was married and had children. Although he had indicated his dissatisfaction with his marriage, he made clear he had no intention of cheating on her. He did, however, come into the bar almost nightly to unwind before he went home.

To me, men were a strange guilty pleasure, and never a necessity. I
wanted
a man, but my desire, as far as men went, was different than almost anyone I had ever met. If a man asked me out on a date, I wasn’t interested. I wanted a challenge, and if someone was willing to take me on a date without any work on
my
end, I wasn’t interested. I wanted what I couldn’t have. I desired a man who wouldn’t give me the time of day naturally; or at least at first, and I wanted to
earn
my way into his mind, heart, and life. If a man appeared to be a challenge, I wanted to try my luck at impossibility; and through my cunning ways, good looks, and competitive nature win him over.

For my first three years at Southwestern, a professor was on my to-do list. He was in his late thirties, single, and soooo hot. He had no idea I was even alive. I dressed provocatively, ditched the bra, and bent over a thousand times in front of him. I tried the naïve schoolgirl act, the innocent religious girl, the
I’m an old soul
routine, and even sat popping my gum as I twisted my hair in my index finger for countless hours as I batted my eyelashes at him.

I got absolutely nothing in return.

After my third year of beating my head against the wall, I learned he was gay.

Overall, I considered it a win, because he wasn’t
technically
available. It continued to bother me, as
not
having him wasn’t an easy loss for me. I even considered trying to make him go straight, but Sloan talked some sense into me. She was right, there was no way I could win that battle.

“Hey, motherfucker, watch where you’re walking…”

I turned to face the voice I heard behind me.

Mr. Rum and Coke.

At the end of the bar a hallway led to the restrooms. Two men stood at the opening of the hallway. Apparently Rum and Coke had collided with one of the Budweiser twins, and was challenging him on his ability to find the way to his barstool without bumping into him. One thing I didn’t stand for on my shift was fighting. My parents worried about me being a bartender at a bar in a city the size of Wichita, and especially working alone. I didn’t really worry about it at all. I wasn’t big enough to fight men, but I certainly wasn’t afraid to break up a fight.

Additionally, I had a false sense of security.

Immediately after taking the job as a bartender, I applied for a concealed weapons permit, took the course, and obtained one. Now, I carried a 9mm Glock in my purse, and I wasn’t afraid to use it if I needed to. Using it to settle a dispute in the bar was out of the question, but I made me
feel
more secure. Ultimately, if I ever needed it, I had it as an option.

“You bumped into
me
,” the Budweiser twin responded.

Rum and Coke arched his back and clenched his fist. As he blinked his eyes and stared, probably attempting to clear his mind enough to speak legibly, the second twin slipped off the edge of the stool and stepped beside his double.

“Oh, you gonna get your buddy to jump in, huh? Well, I tell you
what
,” Rum and Coke howled.

He unclenched his fist and reached for his back pocket.

You motherfucker, don’t you dare.

As I stepped toward the end of the bar, and my purse, he pulled a knife from his pocket and began swinging it toward the two men.

“What the fuck!” the first twin screeched.

The second twin began stepping backward, away from Rum and Coke. As he slowly stepped rearward, his brother followed, and the knife wielding tattooed idiot was right behind them. I reached for my purse, and rested my hand on the Glock.

“Put the knife up, sir,” I hollered over the bar.

Rum and Coke glanced my direction and immediately turned back to face the two men.

“You fucking bumped me on purpose, you big dumb fuck. Do you know who I am? I’ll fuck you up,” he growled.

I’m sure you were a bad ass in county jail, but seriously?

You’re a douche.

“Sir, put the knife up, come on. Drinks are on the house. Just put up the knife,” I said calmly.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Gin and Tonic and my Hamburger and water come up to the side of the bar to watch the fight.

Fucking people.

“Listen. I’m going to guess, and this is just a wild assed guess, that you’re on parole or probation. Put the knife in your pocket and leave, your drink is on me. If you don’t, I’m going to call the cops. They’ll be here in about sixty seconds; the sub-station is all of half a mile from here. You don’t want the cops in here questioning you, do you?”

He gazed my direction and alternated glances between me and the Budweiser twins. To be honest, I had grown to have minimal respect for cops. Every time I turned around, there was one on the television who had shot someone or choked someone to death for no real reason.
Because I’m a cop and it’s within my rights
, in my opinion didn’t make it
right
.
Protect and Serve
wasn’t necessarily the motto anymore. Although he didn’t need to know it, the last thing I wanted was a bar full of cops.

“Fucking bitch,” he grunted as he folded the knife and pushed it into his pocket.

Fucking bitch who makes a bad-ass Rum and Coke, thank you.

“Pussies,” he hissed as he walked past the twins.

Yes!

Another win for Avery.

As he grumbled to himself and stepped toward the rear exit, I sighed and released my pistol. I wouldn’t have shot him for being in a bar fight, but the gun gave me a little more courage than normal. I sighed, smiled at the twins, and shrugged my shoulders. As I raised my hand in the air in my own little imaginary victory pose, I swung the bar towel in a circle and shouted a celebration of sorts for having ended the little disagreement without any bloodshed.