Mending Michael (5 page)

HOLLY

The tenderness in the way Mick holds his niece, and the deliberate change in F-words when he tells me to mind my own business, softens my feelings towards the hot-as-hell jerkhead. There's a person beneath the prick that I think I may want to get to know.

"I can help you bring her up," I offer, Kenna's Rapunzel backpack already slung on my arm.

Dark brown eyes pierce through me briefly while Mick's dimple dips in again. "No," he says firmly, readjusting his niece on his hip and sliding her backpack off my arm. "I got it from here."

I can't help the disappointment that washes over me. I'm not ready to say goodnight to Mick, though I have no idea why—it's way frigging late. "Okay then," I say, for lack of a better response.

There are words stuck on his tongue, I'm sure of it, because his face is tight, and his stance is awkward. But then, his neck dips in a single nod, and he turns to go in through the bar's side door. From over his shoulder, I hear, "Thanks for the ride."

"No problem," I say under my breath, since he shut the door before I even had a chance to respond.

Then I wonder why my new co-worker is so hot and cold with me.

***

In my dorm room, Rose is fast asleep. But by the time I kick off my heels, drag myself to my dresser, pull out my pajamas, and plop on my bed to rub my aching feet, Rose wakes up.

"Are you going to be working this late every night?" she asks, her voice raspy from sleep, her eyelids barely open.

"I hate working, Rose," I whine, as I knead the bottom of my poor foot. "Why did I ever let you talk me into this?"

Snapping on her bedside lamp, Rose sits up and sighs. "I'm sorry, Holl. I just wanted you to feel independent. You should quit if you're not happy. I'm really sorry."

I shrug, too tired to respond. Without changing into my pajamas, or even brushing my teeth, I slip under the covers, grateful to my mother for buying me 1500 count Egyptian cotton sheets—the aching in my legs slowly dissipating as I melt into my comfortable bed.

As soon as I close my eyes, they're open again, the morning sun peeking in through the dusty blinds. "Didn't I just go to bed?"

"Pretty much." Rose's voice is too bouncy for this early in the morning.

"Shit. What time?" I ask, turning over and flipping my pillow to its cool side.

"Seven-fifty."

Jumping to my knees, and bringing my pillow with me, I sit back on my heels. "Why'd I ever agree to work?" I say groggily, regretfully.

"You gonna make it in ten minutes?"

"No. I'm failing investment anyway."

I drop my chin to my chest, my head being too damn heavy to hold up.

"'Kay. See ya for coffee at ten?"

"Yup," I say, flopping back face down on my bed and tucking my pillow beneath me.

Wasn't I doing fine before this job thing? Is it really so bad to be dependent on my father?

Rose may have left minutes ago for class, but I still hear her voice telling me I should learn to be independent. And prove to my father that I
can
make choices that are good for me.

"Oh, shut the hell up, Rose," I say into my pillow.

The campus Starbuck's is roaring with early-ass chattering. Before lugging alcohol from table to table until early morning,
I
was one of those chipper coffee drinkers, having coffee just to be social. Today, however, coffee is a necessity, and according to my swollen feet, so is buying a pair of sneakers.

"Holly," Griffin calls from our usual table. "You're late."

"No shit." To the boy behind the counter, I say, "Latte with an extra shot."

"So Holly, liking your independence so far?" Braden jokes, obviously recognizing my grumpiness.

Too tired to react, I take the seat between Griffin and Rose and cup my coffee with two hands like it's my lifeline.

"I'm sorry, Holl," Rose says again.

"No biggie. I'm a big girl. I didn't
have to
take the job."

"So you
want
to keep your job at the bar?" Rose asks, both hope and apology stuck somewhere in her words.

"No." I shake my head, sip my coffee, and think about it a moment. "But you're right." Turning to Rose, I manage a very sleepy smile, "I do need my own money."

The tension in Rose's small muscular shoulders relaxes.

"By the way, great tank top," I tell her. "Pink looks good on you."

"Thanks. American Eagle."

"Holly, you work
every
night?"

"Just for now, Brade. Donny is hiring another waitress, so I'll only have to work four nights."

"What nights?" Griffin asks.

"My choice, but only one weekend night. Friday
or
Saturday. Not both. I need some kind of weekend."

"Yeah," he agrees. "Well, I gotta go. Told Cal I'd meet her after her class."

"You coming back?" Braden asks.

"No. We have the afternoon off, so we're meeting Nate for lunch."

"Say hi to that sexy brother of yours," I tell him.

"He
is
cute," Rose says.

"You guys are ridiculous," Braden tells us. "By the way, how you getting along with Mick? He's not the
friendliest
guy around."

"That's an understatement. At least it's only four nights a week with him."

"Why don't you just look for another job?" Rose, in her pretty pink, giving me more suggestions.

"Uh, Rose? Let me do my own thinking from now on."

"Ouch."

"Kidding. Not really. Anyway, why don't you guys come in tonight so I have someone to talk to when it's slow?"

"I have rehearsal tonight, Holl, I'm sorry."

"Braden?" I plead, needing my friends around while I work with Mick the prick. I laugh to myself.

"Not sure," he says. "I have this stupid end of the year report due in economy. I really gotta work on it."

"You both suck," I say, joking, but not really.

MICK

It's a light night for customers, but it's still pissing me off that Holly's been in the back on a personal call for nearly fifteen minutes. The girl has got no sense of work ethic.

"Hey," Donny calls from the back door. "Need your help."

As I approach the back entrance, I try hard not to look in the direction of where Holly is taking her phone call, but I fail, and I do. She's sitting with her neck bent, phone in one hand at her ear, her other hand wiping beneath her eyes.

"Mick," Donny calls again.

"Coming."

Outside, Donny is hoisting a huge keyboard up the back steps.

"What the hell?"

"Thought I'd have some live entertainment," he laughs.

Grabbing one end, I say, "You know how to play?"

"No. You do though."

Immediately, I put my side of the keyboard down, say no, and walk back inside the bar.

"Shit. I'm kidding. Fuck, Mick."

Without feeling guilty about leaving Donny to figure out how to get that monstrosity into the bar, I wipe down the already clean counter.

"He's such an ass," I hear Holly say, her words wet and soggy.

When I look up, she's got the other end of the keyboard and is backing into the barroom.

"What the hell?" I throw the rag down and go take the end from Holly.

"Oooh. Don't think a little girl like me can lift heavy things?"

Ignoring her snippy, yet accurate, observation, I carry the keyboard to where Donny directs me and place it next to the jukebox at the back right corner of the room.

"What's up, man? I was only joking. I know you don't play in front of people."

"I don't play. Period."

Donny holds up his hands, palms out, "I get it."

"So what's the keyboard for?" Holly asks.

Donny answers. "I got this for a good deal from a friend. Thought I'd have some live entertainment for the slow nights."

"Oh. Cool," she says, straightening it out and plugging it in. A pretty sound flows out of the speaker when the fingers on her right hand dance across the top octave.

"You play?" Donny asks.

"I dabble." Holly winks at me, but when she turns, her arm lifts toward her face, as if she's running her fingers across her eyes again.

Tension between Holly and me is thick throughout the night, and I'm not even sure why. My mood has sucked since this morning, but it had nothing to do with Holly and everything to do with Kenna and my situation with her. So when Holly came in tonight, sullen and cranky, it just made things between us uncomfortable.

So now, after everyone has said goodnight, and we are the only two left in the place, besides the country band singing from inside the jukebox, the tension is as stiff as a shot of straight whiskey.

When she accidentally bumps into me behind the bar, I grab her by the wrist to stop her from walking by. In return, I receive the death glare. Immediately, I open my hand to release her thin wrist.

But I cannot muster up an apology, and instead, blurt, "What's your problem tonight?" in a not-so-compassionate tone.

Her dark brown eyes continue their piercing stare, but this time, she adds, "None of your fucking business."

"Touche," I say, feeling the corners of my mouth tilt into a smile, contradicting my annoyance with her.

My remark has us both fighting back a grin—her by sucking in her lips, me by turning my head away from her.

By the time I turn back, she's returned to flipping chairs onto the tables, and I've lost my irritation with her. Choking on my reluctance, I clear my throat and ask, "Are you...okay?"

She stops mid-flip, the chair in the air, but doesn't turn around.

"Yeah, I'm talking to you."

Resuming her chair-flipping, she says, "I'm fine."

But I know she's not.

Because I'm not well-trained in the social graces, I stumble with what to say next.

"Uh, well, was it something
I
did?" I hear myself ask, but I can't be sure I asked the question out loud.

Though when Holly turns around, by the way her eyebrows sit far above where they usually do, I venture to guess that I did. While looking at her with my own eyebrows raised, I shrug. Does she really want me to ask again?

Her left shoulder lifts before she sighs and steps toward me, finally pulling out a bar stool and sitting.

Her heart-shaped face stares back at me, while her chin rests on her fist. "No. It's nothing you did." When she drops her eyes to the bar top, she starts drawing imaginary figures with her fingers. "My father's making me come home for the summer."

"And you don't want to." I reiterate what she doesn't say.

Without lifting her head, her eyes find me again, "No shit."

I shake my head and roll my eyes. "Must you always be so snide?"

"Maybe," she responds, leaning back and running her hand through the side of her hair, reactivating the scent of whatever product she used this morning to style her hair with. It smells like strawberry syrup.

Shaking off the distraction of Holly's sweet scent, I try another tactic in an effort to make nice with my co-worker. I pull out the Malibu coconut rum, take the cranberry and pineapple juices out of the fridge, and make her a Malibu Bay breeze—the first drink she ordered when she turned twenty-one and handed me
legal
identification, just over a year ago.

The rattle of the ice when I slide the drink toward her wakes her from her thoughts. "What's this?" she asks, lightly cupping the glass.

"A drink," I say.

"Thank you, Captain Obvious."

"It's for you," I say quietly, looking her in the eyes, amazed at the golden sparkles that flicker amongst the dark brown.

My breath catches when she realizes I'm not just looking at her awaiting a reaction. I'm staring at her with an intensity I don't mean to reveal.

So, averting my eyes, I finish up behind the bar while she drinks her Bay Breeze.

"Malibu," she comments. "I
love
this drink."

"I know," I whisper, avoiding her eyes.

"You know?"

"It's what you ordered on your twenty-first birthday," I say, embarrassed about telling her what I'd never forgotten.

Her eyebrows raise in question.

"If I'm not mistaken, you just had your twenty-second."

She stopped drinking mid-sip. Not the first time I've stopped her in her tracks tonight.

"I
did
just turn twenty-two. How'd you..."

"I'm good with dates," I lie, hiding the fact that, though she's intolerable most times, I've been drawn to her from the beginning.

Her smile right now is infectious, and even though I see sadness in her sparkling brown eyes, I smile back. "So...about going home for the summer, why don't you want to?"

"He has an internship lined up for me at his office, but I don't want it." She shakes her head and fingers the condensation on her glass. "I'm failing my investment analysis class and my corporate risk management class, how the hell does he expect me to do well on Wall Street? Even if it is just an internship, I'll just embarrass myself and him... and I hate the finance world..." Holly trails off and sips her Malibu.

"You can't just tell your father you don't want to?" I ask, but I know all too well the difficulties in dealing with a headstrong father.

"Have you ever said no to a dictator?"

"That bad, huh?"

She nods and continues sipping.

"You're twenty-two though, Holly. Can't you make your own decisions?"

The sparkles in her eyes dim and begin to bubble, but she pushes her half-empty glass towards me and gets up. "We better finish up here," she says, pushing in the stool. "Don't you have a toddler to retrieve?"

Before I can respond, Holly's disappeared into the utility room, conveniently avoiding whatever it is that has her so upset. While she mops the floor, and I shine the stainless steel behind the bar, the tension is back. But this time, I realize, the friction doesn't lie between us—it's whatever is going on in her life.