Mending Michael (2 page)

HOLLY

Donny's Bar and Grill is now almost empty, considering it's near midnight on Sunday night. The only patrons left are Rose, me, and a couple of guys sitting at the bar. Griffin and Cali are long gone, and the cook is in the kitchen cleaning. Donny is straightening up behind the bar, his mouth turned down in a grimace.

"I feel bad for him," Rose says. "He looks sad."

"Mad is more like it," I tell her, cleaning off our table and bringing our glasses to Donny to save him the trouble.

"Thanks, Holly." Donny sighs, taking the glasses from my hands.

"Rough night?" I ask him.

Rose walks up and slides my purse over my shoulder.

"Lost my best waitress and my only other bartender in one day."

"What? I thought Mick just took off for the night." I say.

"He quit?" Rose asks.

"Well he had some serious issues come up. Not sure when he'll be back." For as huge and tough as Donny is, he's apparently about to cry.

"You crying, Don?" I ask, "'Cause it's not that bad. I'm sure you'll find..."

"It's not that, Holly. Mick's my cousin, and...he and his sister are going through some serious shit right now. Just hate to hear it, that's all."

"So you don't need a new waitress or anything?" Rose asks him while I roll my eyes.

"Rose," I snap quietly.

"Oh, I definitely need a waitress. Why? You want the job?" Donny asks Rose.

"No, my dancing schedule's too tight, but Holly, here, needs one."

"Rose," I warn again.

"That true, Holly? 'Cause the job is yours if you want it. I don't even care if you have experience. That's how desperate I am."

I don't really want to work. My free time is highly valuable to me. It's my shopping time, my latte-drinking time, my friend time. Getting a job would severely put a halt to that time.

But I take in Donny's desperation and recall Rose's words about getting out from my father's control, and before I realize it, I open my mouth and blurt, "Sure. When do I start?"

If Donny could jump across the bar, I swear, he would have. Then he would have hugged me. I can almost feel how tight that hug would have been. "Oh, Holly, thank you so much. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Did I say thank you?"

"Yes, Don. When should I be here?" I ask, very reluctantly.

"Can you be here at four tomorrow?"

I sigh, regretting my decision already. Four in the afternoon is definitely my shopping time, considering all my classes are in the morning. I am nostalgic for my free time and I haven’t even started work yet.

But if Rose is right, maybe I'll gain much more than shopping time—like the freedom to choose my own life path.

**

I never had a job.

Ever.

So I'm not surprised that my stomach is rumbling. My father tells me I'm inept. Always. Yet he pushes me to succeed in a field where I don't fit in at all. Math geeks and intellectual dudes are at such a different academic rank than I am that I hear the snickers the moment I walk into class. As if we were in the seventh grade.

Rose is an education major, and I'm so jealous that her parents let her major in   a field that won’t necessarily produce great financial rewards. If my parents had allowed me to major in anything of my liking, I'd have chosen music. I dream about music day and night. Me on the piano. Or playing the guitar. Playing trumpet in the school band again. But that's all I do. Dream. Because although I was made to take piano lessons as a child and allowed to play trumpet in the middle school and high school bands, my father demanded that once I hit college, "tinkering with my instruments" would be a thing of the past. "Time to put away childish things," he'd say. So unless I am home alone in Soho, which is pretty rare these days, I don't play music. In fact, not one of my new college friends even knows I'm an awesome musician.

Then again, what would I do as a music major? I love playing, but I couldn't make a living performing unless I hit it big in a band or something. Which is not a goal of mine. Would I really want to
teach
music either? Music is special, because it's something I do for me. Something I
did
for me. It's not like I'd want a career in it. And therein lies the problem—I have no direction. Nothing to counter my father's demand. So, I'm stuck as a Finance major.
Finance Schminance.

"Holly, you're here." Donny states the obvious when I walk through his place at four o'clock Monday afternoon.

"Yup," I respond less than enthusiastically.

"Having second thoughts?" Donny's twisted face tells me he's worried.

"No second thoughts, Don. Just not overly excited to be serving people." This is only a partial truth. Donny doesn't need to know that most of my apprehension comes from the fact that I'm scared I'll mess up.

"Eh. It's actually fun, Holly." He shrugs, handing me a black apron and waving me behind the bar.

After about a half an hour of being shown the ropes during the slow four o'clock hour, Donny tells me I'm ready to take my first customer. Fortunately, it's Griffin and his best friend Joey. Though I'm still nervous with the shift in dynamics, at least if I mess up, it's only Griffin, one of my best friends.

"So, rich boy, looks like the tables have turned since yesterday." Joking around is my best way through this gig.

"I see that, rich girl. How in hell did that happen?"

"I felt bad for Donny. He looked like he was about to cry last night."

"And since when do you care about other people's feelings?"

I know Griffin means this as a joke, but I don't like it. I do care about other people. I just don't tell them so. "What can I get you, Griff?" I ignore his comment altogether.

"I'll have the bacon burger and an Apple Orchard."

"Apple Orchard? I think that girlfriend of yours is turning you into a wuss."

"Just get me what I ordered."

"What'll it be, Joe?" I ask Griffin's friend slash fellow Hunter Hill student slash local mechanic, whose face has been behind the menu the whole time.

He closes his menu and says, "Plain burger with fries and a Sam Adams."

"Awesome. I'll be back with your drinks in a minute."

Turning from my first customers, I sigh. I absolutely hate this job.

But the rest of the night flies by without incident, and by midnight, I'm sitting on a bar stool and taking off my Steve Madden heels to rub my sore feet.

"You might want to think about purchasing a good pair of sneakers for this job," Donny suggests.

"Never," I tell him.

He chuckles. "By the way, tomorrow you'll be working with Mick. He was able to sort out some shit, so..." Donny trails off.

"Need me for anything else?"

"Nah, Holly. Good job tonight, and thanks for your help. See you tomorrow? I hope?" he asks, unsure if I'll be back.

"Yeah. You'll see me tomorrow."

Donny audibly sighs. "Whew."

I get in my white Mercedes E350 Cabriolet and lower my roof for my six minute drive back to the dorms, the clear midnight sky waking me from my bar-induced sleepiness.

MICK

After the events of the past forty-eight hours, seeing Holly Buchanan behind the bar is the last thing I need right now. We've barely said two words to each other since the first time she came into the bar three years ago. With fake identification. Then when I refused to serve her alcohol, she had the nerve to badmouth me. I didn't need lip from her eighteen year-old ass then, and if she's behind the counter because she's replacing Casey, I refuse to deal with her sassy remarks now.

"Mick," Donny catches me staring at his new employee from the corner of the front of the bar. "Good to see you."

"She taking Casey's place?" I ask, lifting my chin in Holly's direction.

"Yeah. Gave her the job Sunday night. She started last night."

I feel my body tense as I keep from swearing out loud. "And she couldn't wear a decent pair of shoes?"

Donny laughs. "Well I told her she should invest in some sneakers, but she wouldn't hear of it."

"She'll break her ankle," I say with conviction, ready to make a wager with anyone who'd disagree with me.

"You don't like her, Mick?" Donny asks, his knitted eyebrows letting me know he's worried.

"Not particularly. No."

"She's nice. Funny." He pats me on the shoulder. "Get to know her. I bet you change your mind."

"Not likely."

When Holly moves closer, a clean load of glassware in her arms, she barely glances my way before taking a clean towel to them and drying them off.

"Never mind her," Donny whispers as I enter behind the bar and grab my apron. "Were you able to bail out Charity?"

"Didn't need to. Luke let her go."

"What about Kenna? You still have her?" he asks, hanging up the clean glasses that Holly just dried.

"Mick," she greets me, frowning, when I'm finally close enough for her to acknowledge me.

"Holiday." I call her by her given name, the one I assumed was another false identity when she presented me with her license on her twenty-first birthday.

I silently chuckle when she rolls her eyes at me.

Turning my attention back to Donny, I tell him Kenna is still staying with me.

"Then where is she now?"

With a defeated sigh, I say, "Lara has her."

"Lara?" he asks, incredulous. "What the fuck, man. What're you bringing her back in your life for?"

I grab a rag and start wiping down the clean bar top. "What choice do I have? I can't bring her here," I stop wiping and look at him. "And there's no fucking way Charity's getting her back."

"So you dumped her at your ex's?"

"I didn't dump Kenna, Don. I actually worked out a schedule with Lara. I'm paying her."

"I need a Beck's on tap and a rum and coke. Please." Holly gives me the order, adding the please as an afterthought.

Flipping the Beck's lever, I add, to Donny, "Besides, Kenna loves Lara. And if it makes Kenna more comfortable while her mother wastes her life away, then I'll do what I have to do."

"But Lara, Mick," Donny says, as I hand Holly her orders. "She fucked you up bad. What if..."

"I'll handle it, Don." I make sure my tone tells my cousin I'm done with the subject. I don't need to rehash the second night my world came crashing down on me. I'm too busy trying to keep Kenna's world from crashing down on her.

"Fine," he says with resignation. "You good here?" He unties his apron.

"Yeah, I'm good."

"'Kay." Don hangs up his apron and lifts the access panel to walk out from behind the bar.

"Uh, Don." I call.

He turns around.

"I can't start 'til six now."

"What?"

I cringe, hating the fact that I'm cutting two hours a day from my time, and making my cousin work two extra hours a day. "Lara doesn't get home from work until quarter to six. So...I'm sorry. She took off early today, since, y’know, I hadn’t had a chance to tell you yet."

He sighs, but he smiles anyway. "It's okay. I'll cover." He shuts the panel. "See you tomorrow."

Holly hits me up with five more orders. "I have a table of ten now, so do you need me to write it down?" she asks innocently enough.

"Only if you're not going to remember it," I tell her.

"I'm going to remember my order, I just thought you'd want me to have it written down in case while you were making the drinks, you'd forget."

"I suggest you worry about your own job and leave mine to me."

She lets out a humph and takes the tray with the five drinks. But I don't take my eyes off of her when she turns to go to her table. Instead, I suck in a small breath at the sight of her tight ass in her short red shorts.

Fuck.

HOLLY

Mick Ross is such an ass. Silently cursing him with half a dozen different expletives to explain the ass he is, I wipe down an empty table before approaching my table of ten.

He's always been a jerk. From the first time I tried to get served at his bar, he let me know exactly how he felt about me—he detested me. As if I were the only one ever to use fake id.

"What can I get for you all?" I ask of the table after tossing the dish cloth and washing my hands behind the bar. After each guest gives me their drink order, I repeat it out loud to assure I'd remember it. When I receive the last order, I excuse myself and give the order to Mick—verbally.

"Two Long-Island Iced Teas, one Mojito, one Sex on the Beach, one Tequila Sunrise, one Malibu Bay Breeze, one Malibu Sea Breeze, Two Chocolate Martinis, and one Three Fifty Seven Magnum."

Before I'm finished rattling off the list, Mick is already mixing drinks. His lips are closed tight and I know it's bothering him that I remembered the order without error.

"I can list them again if you didn't catch them all," I add, my self-satisfaction warming my face.

His eyes glance in my direction, but he doesn't lift his head. "I got it," he says, his voice clipped, his body rigid.

At first, I am pleased with my smugness, but then I catch a subtle change in his facial expression. By the way his left cheek suddenly sucks in, I figure he's biting it on the inside. A sign he's not as cocky as he lets the outside world think he is.

So now I feel bad.

I put the last drink on my tray, I turn to serve the table, and I hear behind me, "Don't trip."

Well now I don't feel bad anymore.

If I weren't balancing a tray of filled glasses in my hands, I would flip him off. My original opinion of Mick Ross is back—he's an ass.

Which is why even though he is gorgeous, I never really looked his way. And he's probably the first jerk I
haven't
attracted. Most guys that I think are douche canoes end up charming their way into my life—a major flaw in my personality, I suppose. But since Mick doesn't seem to be remotely attracted to me, I won't have to worry about him.