Page 3 of Smoke

I sigh as I shove a steaming hot, foil-wrapped burger into his calloused hands. “For the road. Stay safe out there, Marv. Ain’t no amount of liquor worth dying over. You get held up, let them have it all. That’s what these big corporations have insurance for.”

He nods. “Thanks, honey, but they’re hitting the small businesses just the same. Anyhow, you be careful too. No offense to your daddy, but not even holy water’s gonna keep these thieves away.”

I hold up the bat I have stashed behind my bar. “Don’t you worry, Marv. I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time.”

He chuckles. “I feel sorry for the schmuck who gets on your bad side.”

If he only knew the truth. That dark cloud returns, but I disassociate like usual. “Yeah, better not. My fuse is getting shorter and shorter these days.”

He thanks me again for the burger before heading back out to his rig. It’s one of the few newer looking ones parked out there. The rest of my vendors tend to pull up in semis that look like they’re being held together with duct tape. Times are tough and people are cutting corners. The increase in prices isn’t helping either.

I’m met with an onslaught of cheers when I drag out a case of Lavender Heights ale from the back. It’s been on order for weeks with no estimated delivery date in sight. My regulars were threatening to go track it down themselves. It ain’t cheap, so not having it was killing my bottom line.

“All right, relax,” I tell them. I set three down on the bar with chilled pint glasses for Hal and his buddies. They come every Wednesday after church. Only in a town like ours do people go to church on more than just Sundays. They drive straight here, pulling up at 10:55 am on the dot, five minutes before I open.

I’d love to open the doors earlier to get more of that breakfast crowd, but my daddy would have my head. You can’t let grown men choose between God and liquor, Cherry. They’ll choose the devil’s drink every time. I hear his voice in my head again, reminding me anytime I bring it up. One of the drawbacks of being the preacher’s daughter. So, I agreed to open later, lest I interfere with his random midweek services.

And don’t even get me started on Sundays. I’m not allowed to open at all. That’s the Lord’s day, Cherry. Honestly, I’m not too mad at it. It forces me to take at least one day off. God knows I’d work all seven if I could.

It’s a miracle he didn’t disown me for buying the bar to begin with. But I’m all he’s got in this world, and no one else is gonna wipe his ass when he’s too old to do it himself. It took some getting used to. Having an arcade and a small food menu helped soften the blow. But he loves to remind me every chance he gets that I’ve got one foot in heaven and one in hell.

“Hey, Cherry, give us three cheeseburgers and a big bowl of those famous cheese fries,” Hal orders.

“And extra ketchup or this one will hog it all for himself,” Jerry chides.

I chuckle and nod, used to their abrasiveness. It’s not that they’re rude, it’s just the way we talk to each other around here. It’s casual and lived in. No need to fuss with formalities. We’re all here to live and get by just the same.

“Coming right up.” I jog to the back and throw a few hamburger patties onto the grill before dumping a bag of pre-cut fries into the hot oil basket.

Level Up is a simple place. It’s small and outdated, but I keep it clean and running. I can’t afford to hire anyone, so I do it all myself. I was lucky enough to find my grill and fryer at an auction for a good price. There’s also a decent walk-in freezer to store product. It’s not much, but at least it’s all mine.

I paid off the loan when I turned twenty-one with the money from my momma’s life insurance policy. My daddy had put it in a trust for me when I was a kid. He was hesitant to give me it at first. He wanted me to use it for college or trade school. But Level Up has always been my dream. And he knows that. Besides, once he saw that college was gonna cost a whole lot more than a shitty dive bar in Crimson Valley, he conceded real quick.

As for the land it’s on, it comes pretty cheap. We’re in an old strip mall owned by some company that doesn’t even have an office here. So, I don’t have to worry about any landlords crawling up my ass. I send them their check every month and they don’t bother me.

I load the plates on a push cart and roll it out to them at the bar. “You cheating at cards again, Hal?”

He scowls at me while Jerry and Abe laugh. “You know he is, Miss Cherry,” Abe quips.

I take care of another regular at the other end of the bar, a college girl, little younger than me, who posts up in the corner reading every weekend. Today, her eyes are glued to a worn copy of Jane Eyre. The plastic’s even still on it from the old Crimson Library that burned down.

I set her usual down in front of her—a bowl of cheese fries, ranch dressing, and a glass of white wine to wash it all down with. “Here ya go, Lila. Holler if you need anything else.”

“Thanks Cherry.” She smiles warmly. It’s customers like her who keep me afloat.

I laugh and joke around with Hal and his buddies as I cut up the rest of my bar fruit for the day. Limes for gin and tonics, lemon twists for the occasional martini order, and my namesake, luscious red cherries. See I don’t buy the cheap kind that dye the inside of your stomach. No, I order the fancy ones from Italy. I gotta have at least one bougie element to class up the place.

As I drop the fruit into their respective trays, a hint of chrome catches my eye through the front window. Wow, what a fucking beauty. With its shiny rims, glossy black paint, and roaring dual exhaust, I watch as it slides into the parking spot next to mine.

I squint through the glass, battling with the glare to try and get a look at who’s behind the wheel. When the driver’s door swings open, a man gets halfway out and leans against the frame.

My stomach flips.

No fucking way.

“You all right, Cherry? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Hal and his buddies snicker.

“That’s because I fucking have.” I move from behind the bar to the window and peer out to get a closer look. I gotta make sure my eyes aren’t playing tricks on me.