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One
Dani
It’s amazing how different a bar feels once all the crowds are gone. Only an hour ago, King’s was so packed I couldn’t hear myself think. The thump of dozens of boots against the floorboards rattled through my bones, and the air was thick with sweat, booze and summer heat. Country music wailed from the speakers up high on the rafters, interrupted now and then with heavier rock classics. Everyone shouted to be heard.
Now, you could hear a pin drop. If a moth flapped through here, attracted by the lights, its tiny little wings would stir up a breeze.
It’s just me, the heavy silence, and my boss. Kingston Holt.
We’re locking up together, like every Saturday night. This quiet is more oppressive than the earlier racket, somehow.
Charlene told me that whenshelocks up with Kingston on Tuesdays and Thursdays, she keeps the music on and sings and dances around the tables as she cleans. Don’t know how she could ever be so bold with our surly boss, but the thought of her dancing just for him makes my insides go all scrunchy.
Does he roll his eyes at her?
Or does he like it?
Ugh. How did she get so brave?
If I ever tried something like that… well, I can’t even imagine it. Can’t imagine breaking the routine the boss and I have settled into over the last six months since I started working here. It’s always the same, every week without fail.
First, Kingston spreads out his bookkeeping stuff on top of the bar, right at the end where I make sure to wipe down first. Then he pores over the numbers for the night, forehead creased as he works, the golden light from the lamp above him bringing out the deep tan on his forearms.
His shoulders strain against his black button-down shirt—rolled to the elbows, like always—and his dark hair gets messier as the night goes on, his hands tugging on it absentmindedly.
Now and then, his pencil stops scratching, and my mouth goes dry. Because I know that if I look up from whatever I’m doing—loading and unloading the dishwasher for the millionth time, probably, or scrubbing down tables, or mopping the floors—he’ll be watching me with those coal pit eyes.
Staring. Assessing.
Measuring me up like a bug to be pinned to a cork board.
Goosebumps prickle over my bare arms, but I keep scrubbing in silence, pretending I don’t feel his eyes on me.
This here’s why my Mama was so set against me tending bar at King’s. She’s a die hard fusspot, it’s true, but this time there was a kernel of truth in all her flapping.
“That man is dangerous, Danielle,”she hissed at me, over and over, but I took the job anyway, even knowing what I know. Whateveryoneknows.
Kingston Holt is not to be trifled with.
Ever.
He’s frowning down at his books again, so it’s safe to steal a glimpse. I hide behind the fall of my dark hair, peering at him between the strands as I unload the dishwasher again, the glasses hot and sparkly-clean in my hands. They clink softly as I place them on the shelves.
My boss glares at his books like he could bully them into submission—and in fairness, if anyone could scare an inanimate object, it’s him. His nose is crooked from being broken at least twice, and there’s a pale scar running through one thick eyebrow. Intricate tattoos weave across his skin under his shirt, wrapping around his forearms and peeking out from behind his collar.
And most of all, he’sbig.Kingston Holt fills up a room and then some. He’s nothing but hardness—all muscle, sinew and bone. Square jawed and glowering.
Swallowing hard, I look back to my task, plucking out the last clean glass then starting to fill the tray up again with the dirties crowded on the bar. I’ve done this so many times, I don’t have to think at all.
Some nights I have dreams about loading and unloading this dishwasher. That’s the whole dream, too. No aliens or ax murderers to spice things up. Just the rhythmic task, this never-ending cycle, until my lower back aches and my palms are scorched from handling all that hot glass. As if I didn’t get enough while awake.
“Drink some water,” Kingston rumbles when I’m done with the glasses. Only the mopping and the tables are left, but this order is part of our routine too. I nod and crouch down to rummage in my bag under the bar, pulling out my stainless steel water bottle, and chug three mouthfuls of lukewarm, metallic water.
Like hell am I gonna dirty up one of the King’s glasses again. Those puppies aredone.
When I clear my throat and stand up, I move too fast and all the blood rushes to my head. Gripping the edge of the bar, I sway in my black sneakers. White spots flash before my eyes.
“Danielle?” Kingston says. His voice is so low, it’s like on a whole other register. His hand hovers above the pages, pencil gripped tight.
