Mending Michael Page 3

  "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.

  8

  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 and 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.

  9

  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."

  10

  HOLLY

  So the douche nugget knows how to apologize.

  And he knows I bite the inside of my mouth when I'm nervous. Why does he know that? Unless he doesn't detest me as much as he lets on.

  When he'd grabbed me by the wrist though, I thought for sure that he must really hold a lot of resentment towards me. I wanted to quit right then and there. He's hated me since the day I walked in here about three years ago. But I don't want him to hate me. Working with him, I thought, would make us friends...at least compatible co-workers. That comment about him drinking all the profits was meant to be a joke, but then, without warning, he was across the bar, grabbing hold of my wrist like he wanted to break it.

  And now he apologizes? And makes small talk? Mick Ross is definitely difficult to figure out.

  All of a sudden there's a thud at the back door, then a slam. Some drunk lady trips into the second doorway and stumbles into a table.

  "Uh...we're closed," I say to her.

  "Where is she, Michael?" the girl slurs, her bony hand slides over the side of her short black hair, as if she has a headache and she just now realized that it hurts.

  Michael?

  Mick eyes her up and down, but otherwise he ignores the woman and returns to the glassware behind the bar.

  The girl bumbles closer to the bar and slams a stool forward.

  "Whoa, lady," I chide. "Calm down."

  "Mind your own fucking business," she orders, using Mick's favorite line.

  Snapping my head in Mick's direction, I say, "Friend of yours?"

  He gives me a lop-sided smirk—he either thinks I'm funny or being a prick. Most likely the latter.

  "I said mind your own fucking business," the girl repeats.

  "Charity. That's enough." Mick finally acknowledges her.

  "Where's Kenna?" she says.

  "None of your fucking business." These people really have to find a better comeback.

  "Damn fuck it's my business. She's my kid, Michael. Not yours."

  "And you're not getting her back 'til you get help," Mick says quietly, calmly.

  She jams the chair up against the bar again. "I want her back, Michael," she yells, practically sobbing. "She's my baby." Climbing onto the stool, she slips on the bottom rung but rights herself and kneels on it, launching herself across the bar, aiming for Mick.

  "Whoa," I yell simultaneous to Mick's, "Shit, Charity," as he catches her by the armpits and falls back against a Glenfiddich mirror.

  "Fuck," he says as the mirror crashes to the floor. He pushes Charity back and tells her to get out of his fucking bar or he'll call the police.

  "You won't call the cops," she challenges.

  "Watch me." He picks up the phone beneath the bar and starts dialing.

  "No. No," she cries, and using the bar top as her guide, she backs out from behind the bar. "Just give her back, Michael. Please." By the crackling of her voice, Charity sounds desperate.

  "Get to rehab and we'll talk." Mick barely raises his voice above a whisper, and he definitely doesn't look at Charity while he talks.

  "I can't go back there. Please don't make me," she pleads to his crouching back while he's sweeping shards of glass into a dustpan.

  "You know the deal, Charity." He doesn't look at her still. "You don't go back to rehab, I file for permanent custody."

  Charity falls back into a nearby chair and shakes her head. "Oh my God," she cries.

  "Charity." A soft-spoken, clean-cut looking man walks in through the back door.

  "Luke?" Mick questions the short blond guy.

  Luke runs his hand over Charity's arm and says to Mick, "I brought her here, Mick. She was trying to hitch a ride to see you, so I just brought her here."

  "She's fucked up. Why would..."

  Luke holds up his hand to halt Mick. An ironic air of authority tumbles off this stout man.

  "I wanted her to arrive here safely. That's all. My chief phoned me when we first got here. Needed to take the call." Luke looks behind the bar and sees the mess. "Charity?"

  "Yeah," Mick mumbles.

  "I'm sorry, Mick. I should have made her wait for me, but I didn't see the harm. I'm sorry."

  "Don't bring her back. Please. You wanna help? Get her to rehab." Mick ends his plea and returns to cleaning up the broken glass.

  Luke walks a sobbing Charity out and I watch Mick pour himself a scotch-sized glass of vodka and toss it back. Then I watch him pour another.

  "Whoa there, Cowboy. Don't you need to be driving home or something?"

  I'm treated to that all-too-familiar glare. When he opens his mouth to speak, I blurt, "I know. Mind my own fucking business."

  He chokes back a grumble, but the corner of his mouth quirks.

  "Just sayin'." I scoff and reset the stools so they are aligned evenly in front of the bar.

  "I live upstairs," Mick says so quietly I almost miss it.

  "Oh. Then by all means, drink away."

  He chugs another, then says, "But I have to pick up my niece."

  I immediately stop straightening up the chairs in the bar and reprimand him. "You are not going to put a kid in your car."

  "I'm not. I'm putting her in my sister's car."

  "The girl who was just here?"

  "Yeah."

  "You're a fucking lunatic. You can't drive drunk with a kid in your car. You've got, like, what, almost a gallon of vodka in you?"

  Mick stills, finally letting it sink in. He runs a hand through that thick dark hair of his and starts kicking inanimate objects behind the bar.

  Meanwhile, I start making a pot of coffee. When he realizes what I'm doing, he says, "What the hell? What are you doing?"

  First I look at the coffee machine, then I look at Mick. "Making
a pot of coffee?" I say rather sarcastically.

  "We're supposed to be cleaning up, not making more of a mess."

  "Well, duh." Duh? Really? "I thought it'd sober you up."

  Mick shakes his head.

  I turn the coffee pot on.

  "Coffee doesn't sober you up," he snaps, his voice sharp and angry.

  "Well then you'll be good and wide-awake when you're giving me directions to your niece's house."

  "I'll do no such thing. You think I'm gonna let you pick up my three year-old niece? You don't even know what she looks like." He finishes washing the last glass and begins putting them away. "You'll probably end up kidnapping the wrong kid and get yourself arrested."

  "I wasn't going to go without you, you jerk. I was going to drive you there."

  "Oh." His face turns a little red, but he turns away from me.

  "Did I embarrass you?" I mock.

  "Shut up."

  While pouring two mugs of coffee, I think about Mick Ross and wonder what he is really all about. There has to be something more that lies beneath his gruff and cool exterior. Then, without invitation, my thoughts go to physically lying beneath Mick and wondering what he must be like in the bedroom—cool, indifferent, angry? Or could he be the total opposite of what he's like in the bar. Warm, sensitive, sensual?

  It's when I'm imagining Mick's assaulting lips on my neck that I feel a cool wet sensation crawling over my hand.

  "Holly," Mick calls out.

  Shit, the milk. "Oh geez." I quickly wipe up the milk I was pouring into my mug and give him the cup with no milk.

  "I don't take mine black."

  "A thank you would have been nice." As I'm pouring the milk, I continue, "I assumed you took your coffee black. You know, because of your sweet demeanor and all."

  When I hear him sigh and see him close his eyes, I think, He's kind of cute when he's exasperated. Of course, I don't tell him so.

  About an hour later, I'm done mopping the floor, and Mick's done cleaning up behind the bar.

  "I can't believe you made me mop the floor," I tell him while he sets the alarm before we leave.