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We were almost at the counter, so I stopped and put a hand on her shoulder. “Lisa, I mean this with the least amount of snark possible. That unbuttered piece of white bread was born pissed off. It can’t get any worse.”
The chanting picked up in volume suddenly, filling the tent with the crowd’s demands.
“Beer girl, beer girl, beer girl!”
Lisa groaned an unintelligible string of curses and zoomed off for the back rooms, presumably to fret and try to come up with a damage control plan. Or she was shredding my paycheck.
I met Kappa Dick at the counter where his buddies had crowded around him and were slapping the table in time with their chanting. He stacked six full beer steins on the black tray, which in its own right would be heavy and unwieldy, and then to a roar of approval from his minions, stacked another four on top of those, balancing them precariously. He looked up at me with a twitch of his eyebrow before stacking a third layer—two more beer steins on his ten, making twelve in total.
The room went nuts, cheering him on and encouraging him to lift the tray without spilling any of the artisan brew. He had sixty pounds on that tray at least, and with two hands, he hefted the loaded tray, spilling some of the liquid out of the top tier of his tower, but managed to get his arms under it. Staggering a bit, he teetered over to the nearest table.
The occupants of the table clapped and whistled, pulling all the steins off the tray for him so he didn’t lose his balance and topple over. Then he looked over at me and flipped me the bird.
“I love this day,” Dylan said with undisguised savagery next to me. “It’s a good day. Really. It’s like Christmas.”
Beth had gone behind the counter and started lining up beer steins, her features equally appreciative and amused. “You sure about this? They’re going to be really mad.”
“I hope so,” I answered cheerily.
The tent started up the chanting again, egging me on with shouts of, “Beer girl, beer girl, beer girl!” Beth lined up thirteen full mugs, the froth sloshing over the rims. As the excitement in the tent reached a fever pitch, drawing a crowd from outside where ticket holders taste-tested artisan brews, I lined up the first six mugs.
“Beer girl, beer girl, beer girl!”
I turned all the handles inward, making a beer stein flower with bubbly petals and joined handles for a center. With a wrist as thin as mine, it was easy to slip it between two of the mugs and then grab all six handles with my long fingers. Beth helped to stack the next six on top in the same configuration.
Beer girl, beer girl, beer girl!
I grasped the second tier of six handles with my right hand, adjusting and making sure my grip was tight.
Beer girl, beer girl, beer girl!
Beth met my eyes over the tower of glass. “You ready?”
“Give me the last one,” I grinned.
“No fucking way!” one of the asshole’s friends shouted from somewhere to my right.
Beth stacked the last stein right in the middle of the second layer, wedging it firmly in the space between the six glasses. “Thanks, Beth,” I winked.
When I lifted them off the counter, to be fair, my muscles fairly screamed in protest at the weight. But with the mugs pressed together and balanced back against my body, it was all too easy to lift them, swing around, and then breeze straight past the collection of entitled frat babies who looked on in stunned horror. The sweet, slightly nauseating smell of beer right up against my face filled my nose as I sashayed through the crowd.
The tent went absolutely feral. Clapping, shouting, whistling, and roars of approval followed me as I smirked my way across the enormous, green-patterned tent. I made sure to go all the way to the furthest table before depositing the beers to the customers. “They’re on him,” I said with a tilt of my head to the loser behind me.
When I turned to face him, he met my gaze with silent, shaking fury. I flashed him my teeth and flipped him off. “Pay for my beers, bitch.”
You owe me a beer.”
I flipped my butterfly knife around idly, staring at the trembling hand I had pinned down on the beat-up card table. “Is that in place of your commission, or did I forget your birthday? On second thought, I don’t even know your birthday.”
“And you don’t care, I know,” my realtor droned. “No, you owe me a beer because I found you a property.”
The man sitting at the table across from me sniveled and whined, fighting against the hold I had on his wrist. I flicked the knife up and then down, spinning it around the back of my hand so only the unsharpened swedge made contact with the leather of my glove. I let him see the wink of a perfectly sharpened edge a few times as I performed my theatrics with half my brain. The other half was on the possibility that I might have found a home. The prospect seeped into my desert-dry heart like a sprinkle of rain. I didn’t make a habit of letting emotions dictate my decisions, but in this case, I allowed the weakness. Home. What a concept.
“I’m a little busy. This better be good.”
“Oh, it’s good.”
“Please,” Terry whined, his fingers trembling so hard, they tapped out a beat on the rickety card table. His fingernails were starting to turn purple from the pressure I’d been putting on the appendage. I couldn’t help but think they were taking on the appearance of half-cooked sausage links. It matched the rest of him, with his skin that sweat like hot sausage casing and his bald, shiny head he so proudly posted on social media boards as a “friendly mentor” for the youth.
