Mending Michael (3 page)

MICK

She's good. As much as I hate to admit it, she took a bar order from ten people and got it right. She's still a smart-ass though.

"I got another order, Mick," Holly smirks, so proud of herself. "You ready for it?"

"Just give me the damn order and forgo your little comments," I snap, but when she quirks her mouth and raises her eyebrows in mock offense, I have to hold back a smile. I won't give her the satisfaction of knowing she made me smile.

"I need an Amaretto Sour, a vodka and O.J., and a Stella Artois."

I'm done with the first drink by the time she says Stella Artois. I lift the cap off the beer, finish the Screwdriver, and place it all on the bar in less than thirty seconds. This college chick needs to know I don't fool around behind the bar.

"Impressive," she says with a wink.

"Go serve your customers," I tell her. Is she flirting? Being sarcastic? Who the hell knows? But when she turns around to bring the drinks to the table, I let a tiny smile touch my lips. Her ass is fine. Too bad there's a wicked little girl attached to it.

Holly's hot little body has me mesmerized a second too long, because when she turns to leave her table, she catches me staring at her. She responds with a wink, and when she saunters toward her next table, I swear she adds an extra shake in her walk.

College girls.

Queen's "Best Friend" plays from my phone. Lara. I hadn't changed the ring tone since we broke our engagement. I hadn't thought of changing it, since until yesterday, we never had a reason to call each other. I'd forgotten I had our song set as her ring tone.

"Lara," I answer right away. "Is Kenna all right?"

"Calm down. She's fine. And by that, I mean she's physically uninjured."

"What's that supposed to mean? Is she okay?" I suddenly feel the blood racing through my veins.

"She had a little temper tantrum, and now she won't stop crying."

"Okay. Put her on."

Kenna is screaming so loudly, I can barely hear Lara talking to her.

"She won't come to the phone, Mick. Can you come home?"

"Sure. I'll just leave the bar with nobody here to fill in." I hear the sarcasm in my own voice, but it's my defense mechanism. How the hell am I supposed to take care of a three year old and hold down this job?

Lara sighs on the other end.

"Give me a little bit. I'll come get her."

I hang up with Lara and toss my phone across the bar. I love Kenna, but as it is, I had to take a temporary leave from school to watch her during the day. I can't up and quit my job too. I'd have no way to pay my bills.

"Everything okay?" Holly places her empty tray on the bar and hops up on one of the stools.

"Don't you have orders to take?" I say rudely, obviously displacing my anger.

"Not from you I don't. No." She stares at me intently, waiting for my reaction.

I give her none.

She glares a few seconds longer, then hops off her stool, murmuring "asswipe" as she stalks away.

"Bitch," I mutter under my breath.

Though my intention was to say it soft enough for her not to hear, her middle finger flipping up above her shoulder as her back is to me tells me otherwise.

Ignoring Holly's gesture, but not her ass, I call Donny.

"What's up?" he asks after the first ring.

"Kenna's acting up. You think you can come down?"

"You know, you should just have Lara watch her from your apartment, then you'll just have to travel two flights of stairs. And you can come back right away," Donny suggests.

"I mentioned that to Lara, but she said she needs to be home after work. I don't know. It'd be fucking easier if she watched her at my apartment, but..."

"No problem. I'm takin' a shit right now. Put Holly behind the bar until I come down."

Donny lives above his bar. I live above Donny.

"Holly?" I ask, my jaw dropping at the suggestion. Since Holly turns around at the sound of her name, I turn and face the opposite direction so she can't read my lips. "No fucking way. She just started."

"She knows her drinks, Mick. As a customer, she'd order a different one every night."

"Doesn't mean she knows how to mix them."

"Mick. You gotta go home? Then do what I say. I'll be down in thirty minutes."

"It takes a half an hour for you to take a shit?"

I'm answered with silence. Donny hangs up on me.

When I turn back to face the bar, and the customers, Holly is sitting on the bar stool, elbows on the bar top, her hands folded in front of her. "Just so you know," she starts, "when you turn your back on someone you’re talking about so they don't hear what you're saying about them, you may also want to lower your voice. Just sayin'."

Damnit. "Mind your fucking business next time."

"Talk softly enough so I can."

Nothing. I have nothing witty to respond with, so, like an ass, I stand there staring at her.

"I can only help you out if you ask me, Mick. Until then, you're on your own." She spins on her stool and hops off, clearly waiting for me to ask her to help me by tending bar.

I sigh, defeated, resigned to the fact that I have to ask Holly Buchanan for a favor.

Fuck me.

"Holly." My call is apprehensive.

"Yes?" Her answer—sweet as saccharine and very aggravating.

"Can you come here for a second?" I start gnawing at the inside of my cheek, something I do every time I feel like I'm losing control of a situation.

"Why of course, Mick. What can I do for you?"

I take a deep breath and count to three. And try to remain unaffected. "Like I said before, lose the snide remarks." I'm proud of myself, my voice stays steady.

"Am I being snide? I'm sorry."

"Cut the shit, Holiday. I need you to cover the bar for a bit. Donny will be down to take over, so you'd only need to handle a few drinks at most. Think you can handle that?" I say in one breath, careful to not lose my temper with her.

"Sure," she responds...sincerely? I don't believe it.

I wait for the clincher, but it doesn't come. Shrugging it off, I say, "Thanks. I should be back later."

Untying my apron, I toss it over the sink and leave for Lara's house, hoping my niece has calmed down.

HOLLY

I serve exactly three drinks before Donny comes down, and it's an hour and a half later when Mick walks back into the bar, his facial expression all serious.

"She okay?" Donny asks him.

Mick just nods, walks behind the bar, and puts his apron back on. "She's sleeping now. I left her there." His shoulders drop, he shakes his head, and then I watch him pour himself a jigger of vodka and down it all in one gulp. "It wasn't easy," he tells Donny.

"Sorry, Mick." Donny hangs up his apron. "Hopefully it'll get easier."

"Yeah, thanks for covering."

"No problem," he says to Mick and walks out from behind the bar. Donny's hand then lands on my shoulder. "Thanks for holding down the fort until I got here, Holly."

Behind the bar, Mick routinely wipes down the top, even though I saw Donny wipe it down not ten minutes ago.

"You got a kid?" I ask, placing a tray of dirty glasses on the bar.

Mick looks at me for five seconds, probably wondering if I'm even worth his breath, before answering. "It's my sister's kid. Watching her for a while." His words are clipped.

His eyes appear different. Softer. Not that I'm one for noticing emotions in people, God knows, but I actually think I see pain lurking behind his nearly black eyes.

"Babysitting? Then why are you here? I've never babysat before, but I'm pretty sure you need to be in the same house as the kid."

His expression still grave, he purses his lips.

Inwardly, I shrink back in embarrassment. I touched upon something sensitive. "I'm sorry," I offer sincerely. "I'll mind my own business."

My ego is a little bit deflated when he gives a curt nod and walks away. But I deserve it. I have been rather bratty where Mick is concerned. And it's not like I'm the world's best confidant anyway. I am emotionally distant, and I can understand why my friendships never reach that deeper level. It's one hundred percent my fault. However, lately, there's been this pull in my chest every time my friends are in some kind of drama and I'm left out of the loop. I don't blame them for not confiding in me. Admittedly, I've knocked a friend down a peg a time or two whenever they'd boo-hooed over something emotionally painful. "Suck it up," I'd offer as advice—not great, I know. But that's all that was offered to me in the past, so that's all I've learned. The first time I didn't make the cheerleading squad and all my girlfriends had, my father told me to "Suck it up, it's just a bunch of frilly girls seeking popularity." Or the time Drew Williams, my first real boyfriend, broke up with me to date Sarah Larken, my mother said, "Get over it, it's not like you were actually in love." How did she know if I was or wasn't in love? My feelings have always been undermined, so I've learned to undermine any type of emotion—mine an
d
everyone else's.

But recently, I notice a change. Maybe Rose's sugary-sweet nature is getting to me. Or Griffin's willingness to jump in and help anyone and everyone. Or Cali's ability to be kind to people, even in the midst of adversity. Thinking about it,
I really suck.
What I contribute to the world is one hundred percent superficial. Unless I'm playing my music. That's where all those missing emotions go. Sitting at the piano, my eyes closed, my fingers gently sweeping over the keys, I'm a different person—passionate, exhilarated, confident. Without pretending to be so. And maybe since I don't have my music anymore, my emotions are finding their way to the surface another way. Oh boy.

MICK

She had only asked a simple question. But it was her snide babysitting remark that had pissed me off. Looking at her, without ever having the disadvantage of actually hearing her speak, I would think she was a sweet girl. Her straight reddish brown hair, dark innocent eyes, and flawless olive complexion give her a wholesome look that makes me feel things. I admit it. I may be a bartender who drinks a bit too much, and I may have a rough exterior, but I've always been attracted to the good girls. The girls who possessed refinement and dignity.

When Holly walked into Donny's three years ago, I fell in love with her physical beauty. I knew she was young, I could see it in her eyes. But the elegant way in which she glided into the bar and slid effortlessly onto the stool, she portrayed someone with much more maturity. Audrey Hepburn comes to mind when I think of the first time I laid eyes on Holly.

But then she tried to sweet talk her way into getting served illegally. "What?" she feigned innocence, her palm spread flat against her chest, a false titter escaping her lips. "Really? You think I look young. Why that is so sweet of you." She chuckled again and handed me her id. Karen Schneider. Born January 15, 1985. Yeah. Like I would believe she was twenty-six years old. Even with the refined way in which she carried herself, there was no way she could be twenty-six.

Handing her back her phony id, I refused her request for a rum and coke. Instead, I poured her a coke, minus the rum, and told her to save the act for someone who couldn't see through her bullshit.

The words that came out of her mouth were anything but sweet, innocent,
or
refined. From that day on, I was so disappointed that her personality didn't match her appearance that I couldn't even talk to her civilly anymore. I know, it was totally unfair of me. But I couldn’t help it. Still can’t. Why she had that kind of effect on me, I don't really know. It's not as if she were the only one ever to hand me phony identification. It was as if I had pegged her for "the one" the minute she graced the bar and then deflated my dream—all within a matter of sixty seconds. Crazy. I know. And now that she's working here, I'm finding it difficult to get past my initial impression.

It was one thing when I watched her over the years from the distance between the bar and her usual table. There was no need to interact with her before; she never sat at the bar, so Casey always took her order. I could just admire her from afar without listening to her smart-ass mouth. Now that I work with her, I'm treated to that special bratty way in which she yaks regularly.

I could have responded to her more kindly when she'd asked if I had a kid. Maybe then she wouldn't have bothered with the babysitting quip. But I can't help myself around Holiday Buchanan—such a corny name—she just brings out the worst in me.

I grab the bottle of Grey Goose, pour myself another jigger, and let its warmth coat my throat and esophagus. It feels too good going down, so I have another.

"Drinking all the profits?"

If I could jump across the bar, I'd choke her. Holly just doesn't know when to quit. I reach for her wrist and yank her forward.

"Ow," she whispers, her expression confused.

"I'm not telling you again," I whisper so no one can hear. "Mind your own fucking business."

Her warm brown eyes widen. She swallows something in her throat. I've scared her. Good. Maybe she'll quit her sarcastic bullshit.

I release her wrist, and she drops back, casting her eyes down where I held her tight. She winces and walks away.

I pound the bar top and walk outside by the back dumpster. Kicking the bottom step that leads to Donny's apartment, I curse myself for touching Holly like that. I have to stop letting her get to me. It is not like me to overreact, but around Holly, I can't seem to help myself.

Five minutes later, I'm back inside, and Holly is mixing two drinks.

"I got it from here," I say quietly. "Thanks."

She hands me the shaker and says, "Two martinis," then walks out from behind the bar.

That Audrey Hepburn way in which she carries herself is gone. In its place is a slump-shouldered shadow of herself. Somehow, I can't believe that my grabbing her wrist would have such a dramatic effect on her—she's too in control of herself.

When Holly comes to me with the next order, she twists her bottom lip as if she's biting it from the inside, and she doesn't look me in the eye. Her brown eyes stare somewhere behind me when she says, "One seltzer with lime and one Sam Adams."

"Tap or bottle?"

"Bottle," she answers, her voice monotone, missing that bite that usually accompanies her words.

Without taking my eyes off of her, I slide the drinks across the bar. She takes them and walks away, not once looking me in the eyes.

The rest of the night goes pretty much the same. I was actually hoping her friends would come in to snap her back into place, but they didn't, so after the last customer leaves, and Tom is finished cleaning in the kitchen, it's just Holly and me. While I'm washing glasses in the bar sink, my eyes keep finding their way back to Holly, who's wiping down the tables.

"Holly," I cough, in an attempt to clear my throat of the apology I'm trying to spit out.

Her hand freezes at the sound of her name, but she doesn't look my way.

"I'm sorry."

She turns toward me, her brown eyes suspicious.

"I shouldn't have touched you like that. I'm sorry."

Her lip does that thing again, like she's biting the inside of it, and I laugh.

"What's so funny?" she asks, the snap almost audible in her question.

"You're nervous."

"Yeah, right."

"Yeah you are."

She shakes her head and holds her palms up, questioning what the hell I'm talking about.

"You bite the inside of your lip."

Her hand shoots to her mouth.

"I bite the inside of my cheek when I'm worried or nervous." I shrug. "Just figured that's why you do it too."

Holly nods, then goes back to wiping down the table.

For two seconds.

In five bouncy steps, her palms are flat on the bar and she's a few inches taller.

"Standing on the foot rail?"

"You know, that wasn't very nice of you before."

"That's why I apologized," I deadpan.

"It's just another form of bullying. I didn't like it."

Sighing, I try again. "I'm sorry. I'm not big on apologies, so I suggest you accept it, before I take it back."

"Don't do it again." Holly's serious.

"I won't."