“How many tequilas?” I asked, pointing down the line of my bar at the smiling faces beaming up at me.

Every single one of them put their hands up.

Thursday nights were a lot of fun to work. Our tequila shots were on special, as were our appetizers and beer, so almost all of our regulars showed up to partake in a night of drinking and eating. My favorite patrons always parked themselves at the bar, and I’d spend the entirety of my shift shooting the shit with them.

Which was exactly what I needed in order to get my mind off of Zach and his return to Houston.

Big Al waggled his eyebrows at me as I passed him his shot. “You going to do one with us or not?”

“No.” I laughed. “I’m working!”

“We all know who your boss is, Jo. Come on. Live a little. Have a drink with us. One little shot won’t hurt.”

The others at the bar joined in, goading me into pouring myself a shot glass full to the brim with tequila. I passed out lime wedges, and a couple of people claimed salt shakers. I lifted my shot above my head. “Cheers!”

“Cheers!” they all cried back.

Together, we tossed back our shots. The grimacing faces and winces made me chuckle as I wiped my rag across the bar. As I collected the shot glasses, Rosie popped in behind the bar. She grabbed her grenadine and coke, which I had already prepared for her, and convinced me to pour her a shot as well. She crouched down behind the bar to take it and smiled up at me as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Thanks,” she said. “This will help me put up with those young guys at table six. They’re so annoying and think they are too cool for school.”

“Too cool for school?” I asked quizzically. “Are people still saying that?”

“People maybe not. But I am.” Rosie grinned. She chased her shot down with a few mouthfuls of her favorite drink and got to her feet. “I’m gonna go let my tables know that the kitchen closes soon. Want me to put in an order for you with Moe?”

Moe was our chef who stopped cooking at exactly nine-thirty every night. If you missed his cut off by even thirty seconds, he would turn you down.

I glanced at the clock behind the bar. “I could do with some fries, maybe?”

“Sure thing. Want to share some fried pickles with me, too?” Rosie walked out from behind the bar.

I nodded and turned my attention back to my customers. I went about mixing and pouring more drinks and laughing with them as we teased Big Al about his soon to be Santa Claus beard. He stroked his long whitening whiskers and chuckled, sounding very much the way I imagined Saint Nick might when he laughed.

About half an hour later, Rosie and I were picking at the remaining fries and deep-fried pickles in red baskets behind the bar. A lot of people had cleared out, and the evening was winding down nicely. Five people still sat at the bar, sipping their drinks and chatting amongst themselves, and I was happy to stand and talk with my friend in between topping up drinks.

Then Brett walked in the front doors and made a beeline to the stool at the middle of my bar. His steps were staggered, and his balance was off. He was hammered, and watching him try to get on the stool was painful. When he finally righted himself, he clutched the edge of the bar and gave me a crooked, drunken grin. “Hey, good lookin’,” he drawled, winking at me. “Fix me a drink, will you?”

This was a recipe for disaster. Brett was well past the point where he should have stopped drinking. If nights like this ever happened, they were more likely to happen on a Thursday because Sam was at my brother’s. Brett would sit at home alone and drink his ass off, and then when he got lonely, he’d go off somewhere. Normally, he wouldn’t come to my work, but it seemed that tonight, luck wasn’t on my side.

Ever since I’d made the dancing comment the night before, he’d been off and more possessive than usual. I should have kept my mouth shut. He probably wouldn’t be sitting in front of me, half sliding off his stool, if I’d never said anything.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“Surprise me, baby.”

“You sure you don’t just want a glass of ice water? Maybe sober up a bit before—”

“Did I say I wanted water?” he asked, his voice darkening. “I said fix me a drink.”

I leaned in close and dropped my voice to a whisper so the others at the bar couldn’t overhear. They were already shooting us curious and concerned looks. My cheeks were starting to burn with embarrassment. “Brett, this is my workplace. You can’t come in here and drink your ass off. Please. Just have a glass of water. There are more beers in the fridge at home you can drink when we—”

“No there ain’t,” he slurred. “I finished them. Now pour me one, woman.”

Deciding it wasn’t worth the fight, I did as he said. I poured him a beer and passed it to him, then moved along to help my other customers. I had no interest in trying to talk to him right now. He would be completely unreasonable and irritable.

Rosie seemed to have the same idea because she walked out from behind the bar and busied herself with chatting with customers at their tables and sweeping. Nobody liked to stick around when Brett was already too many beers in. He got nasty, and his temper wasn’t something to mess around with.

As I helped customers, I could hear him muttering under his breath. “Thinks she can say no to me. Pfft. Woman has no clue who she’s talking to. Stupid. Don’t she know who I am? Don’t she see all I do for her? All I asked is for a damn drink and she says ‘no,’ like she’s better than me. Bitch.”

His commentary cleared my bar out in less than eight minutes.

“Where’d all your paying folk go, babe?” Brett asked, splaying his hands flat on the bar as the last few people slipped out of the bar shortly before eleven thirty.

Rosie glanced up and rolled her eyes as she finished sweeping behind the bar. I took my apron off and looked Brett in the eyes. “The bar is closed. But most of them left because of you.”

“Because of me?” he asked, feigning innocence and pressing a hand to his chest. “What did I do that made them all piss off early on you?”

I put my hands on my hips and arched an eyebrow involuntarily. “Brett, seriously? You can’t show up hear totally plastered and think my customers will want to stick around. This isn’t that kind of place. People come here to have a few casual drinks with friends. They’re not looking to get shitfaced.”

“Then they don’t sound like the kind of people worth having around here, babe.” He swayed around on his stool and slumped forward, cupping his cheeks in his hands. “They sound like cheap bastards. Guys like me spend money in a place like this. That’s what you need more of.”

If there were more men like Brett in my bar, he’d never let me come to work out of insane jealousy. There was no point in saying that out loud. “This is my dad’s place. He doesn’t want the pub to turn into a rowdy hang out. It’s casual and simple. And I want to keep it that way.”

“Boring.” Brett waved his hand and then slid forward farther along the bar. He was minutes from passing out. All around his eyes had turned a bright pink and so had his nose.

“We’ll talk about this in the morning,” I said.

“Why? It’s already sorted. You’re just making a big deal out of nothing.”

“Like I said. We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

Brett muttered something unintelligible under his breath and laid his hands down flat on the bar. He rested his cheek upon the back of his hand and closed his eyes. His breathing evened out, and he passed out on my bar.

How fucking humiliating.

Rosie didn’t say anything as we continued cleaning up. I was insanely grateful for that. I didn’t think I could endure a conversation about how bad he was for me right now. I just wanted to get the hell out of there.

When we were done, I shook Brett awake. He came to, slung an arm over my shoulder, and stumbled along beside me until we got to the truck. I helped him climb into the passenger side, where he promptly tilted his head back against the headrest and passed out again. I walked around the hood, got behind the wheel, and drove us straight home with the radio playing soft country rock. Brett began to snore softly when we were five minutes from home.

After I parked in the driveway, I went around and opened his door. I shook him gently, but he didn’t stir.

“Really, Brett? How much did you drink for crying out loud?” I shook him more vigorously until he came to with a grunt.

He wiped the saliva from the corners of his mouth and stumbled out of the truck, clutching at my shoulders to stay on his feet. I steadied him by the elbows and kicked the passenger door closed and then walked him to the front door. Once again, he had forgotten to turn on the light, so I fumbled in the dark to get my key in the lock.

“Hurry up,” Brett grumbled. “I’m fucking tired.”

“I’m trying, but I can’t see. If you’d turned the light on, it wouldn’t be—”

“Oh, whatever,” he said, pushing himself up off my shoulders to lean against the side of the house instead. “What’s with you and this damn light?”

“Forget it.”

I got the door open, and he pushed his way inside ahead of me. I took off my shoes, and he started down the hall. As I closed and locked the front door and flicked on the outside light to deter anyone who might want to poke around the property, he turned back to me and mumbled my name.

“What?” I asked, facing him and pressing my shoulder blades to the door.

“Are you mad at me, baby?”

Yes. I’m always mad at you. “No.”

“You sure?” He came back to me and took my hands to rub his thumbs over the backs of them. “You seem upset.”

“No, Brett. I’m just tired. I had a long shift.”

“Then come to bed with me. I can make you feel better.”

The thought of Brett crushing me on our bed with his weight as he tried to fuck me was not an appealing one. “You go lie down. I need to make something to eat quickly. I’m starving.”

“Okay, baby. Don’t take too long. The kid’s gone. We have the place to ourselves.” Brett kissed me, and I stood still in his grasp. His tongue slipped between my lips, and I was overwhelmed by the taste of beer. He slapped my ass before turning and heading to the bedroom.

When I walked by the open door, he was facedown in the middle of the bed, splayed wide like a starfish. His snoring started before I even reached the kitchen to grab a glass of water.

I stood with my back to the sink and drank. I wasn’t hungry. In fact, I was quite full from the fries and pickles, but lying down with him made me feel uneasy, ill. He repulsed me when he was drunk.

I pulled extra pillows and blankets from the hallway closet and brought them to the couch before brushing my teeth and hair and changing into my sleeping shirt and a pair of booty shorts. I climbed under the blankets on the sofa and laid on my side, curling in on myself as my ears were assaulted by Brett’s loudening snores in the bedroom.

I wondered dimly what things would be like without him.

That thought brought me down an agonizing road of “what ifs.” What if I had someone who showed up to my work and partook in the fun with me and my customers? What if I had someone who made me feel worthy of love? What if I had someone who left the front light on for me?

I sighed and nuzzled my cheek deeper into my pillow.

What if I was with Zach instead of Brett? Would things be different?

Would things be better?