Chapter 5

The sink or swim analogy turned out to be prophetically appropriate, because, similarly to swimming, I am terrible at bartending.

I confused a mojito with a mai tai—but that could happen to anyone, right?

Right?

I ran out of limes and had to go steal some from Riley. I got beer all over my jeans when I spilled one on the counter. The only reason the guy wasn't pissed is because he got a free drink out of it and then was distracted looking down my shirt when I had to lean over the bar to clean it up. Actually, it's Bex's shirt. I don't own any tank tops this small.

I'm tired of smiling. I'm tired of being asked when I get off later. Three out of four times that question is accompanied by an extra off-putting eyebrow wiggle.

Bex told me to be flirty—it gets you better tips—but to also hold my ground and not take shit. I'm supposed to signal one of the bouncers, Dan or Mark, if anyone gets unmanageable.

"How're you doing?" Bex asks, carrying a fresh bin of limes to my station.

I give her an unconvincing thumbs up.

"It takes a little while to get the hang of it. You're doing great," she says, then immediately turns and starts taking drink orders.

"Hey. You there." A guy in a jacket and thinning hair snaps at me. Literally, snaps his fingers to get my attention.

I keep a big smile plastered on my face. "Hi there. What can I get you?"

"Finally. I've been waiting here for ten minutes."

"Yeah. It's busy here on a Saturday night." I shrug and offer a little giggle to lighten the mood.

He rolls his eyes. "Whatever, sweetheart. Can I just get a fucking beer?"

"Sure. What kind do you want?"

"I don't care. Whatever you have on tap that's not too hoppy."

Fuck.

"Um. The Sam Adams Summer Ale is pretty popular?—"

"I ask for not hoppy and she's offering me an IPA. Un-fucking-believable." He looks over and around me to the other end of the bar and raises his voice. "Can I get some help from someone who actually knows what they're doing?"

"Is there a problem over here?" Bex asks, her customer service voice extra on point and the dimple in her left cheek on full display.

"Yeah." He throws up his hands. "A bartender who doesn't know the first thing about beer."

My throat might as well be full of cotton as I try to swallow.

"Just give me whatever lager you have on tap," the man sneers.

Bex nods over to me. "The Boston," she says, then turns back to him. "It's her first week. Giver her a break."

"Maybe hire someone who isn't an idiot, then. Or learn how to train them."

My blood is coursing fast and hard through my body. I pause filling the beer glass to search through the crowd for a bouncer. Luckily, Mark is standing between me and the dance floor and we make brief eye contact.

I put up three fingers, our signal that we need assistance, and he strides toward me immediately.

When I glance back at Bex, she has both hands planted on the bar, eyes deadlocked on the guy. "How about you go have a time out and think? Come back when you can act like a big boy with manners."

The guy scoffs, blinking dumbly for a moment before he can speak. "You can't talk to me like that. I'm the customer."

"You're not anymore. I'm not serving you."

"You can't do that."

"We reserve the right to not serve assholes," Bex says, smile still in place but a different kind of smile altogether.

He turns a shade of purple I've never seen before. Just as he opens his mouth, Mark taps him on the shoulder.

"Sounds like you've been told to leave," Mark says with a bored expression. "I can assist you with that if you need it."

The man goes to retort, but promptly thinks better of it when he sees Mark's arms crossed over his chest, his biceps the circumference of basketballs.

"You know what, just forget it. See if I ever come to this bar again." He storms off and Mark follows him out.

Bex yells after them, "And the Sam Adams is a wheat ale, not an IPA, dumbass."

I'm shaking, the adrenaline subsiding, heat replaced by ice cold sweats.

Before I realize what's happened, the glass I've just filled with beer slips and crashes to the floor. Liquid splashes on our feet and legs. Jagged shards of glass spread everywhere.

I forgot I'd been holding it.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" I look around for something, I don't know what—I can't remember where any of the towels are.

My eyelids sting and my vision blurs and I'm breathing too fast.

"It's okay, it happens," Bex says.

Riley rushes over. "Don't move. Let me get the dustpan and clean up this glass."

"I'm sorry," is all I can say. Hot tears hit both my cheeks.

"Don't worry about it. It's not a big deal," Bex reassures me with a smile.

Riley comes out and starts sweeping up the glass along with one of the barbacks who's ready with a mop.

"How about you go take one of your breaks? Go get some fresh air. We'll take care of this," Bex says with a nod.

I look around the crowded bar. People are standing around, gawking, restless, waiting to be served. "Are you sure?"

"We've got this," Riley says.

"Take however long you need," Bex adds.

I push out the back door into the darkness of the alley behind the bar. A singular fixture splashes yellow light across the brick building. Traffic buzzes in the distance.

And I finally let out the sob I've been holding in.

The air is cool against my skin. It's the first week of June, but not quite summer. I'm thankful for it. The breeze feels nice as it dries my tears.

"Hey."

His voice makes me jump and turn abruptly. I recognized it instantly, but it's still surprising to see him standing there by the door. Noah.

He's dressed all in black. The solitary light casts harsh shadows across his face giving him an eerily similar look to the skull tattooed on his throat.

I wipe my eyes with my wrists. "Oh. Hi."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. I saw you come out here and I just wanted to make sure you're okay. And, I don't know, I didn't like the idea of you being out here alone, in the alley at midnight."

"You're right. I should probably go back inside now. Thank you, but I'm okay." I muster the best smile I can.

He steps closer, lowering his head, brows knitted together. "Are you sure?"

Guess that smile was unconvincing.

Another tear slips down my face. Damnit.

"Yes. No." An unhinged little giggle escapes my throat. "I don't think I'm cut out to be a bartender."

He reaches over and brushes his thumb across my cheek, catching my last tear. My chest tightens at the contact.

"I think you were doing all right," he says quietly.

My stomach drops realizing he witnessed my catastrophe.

"I don't want to go back in there," I say, my voice quivering an embarrassing amount.

We're somehow even closer. I look up at him and a chill twists its way down my limbs.

"Then don't," he says.

"I can't. I kind of need this job, and Bex stuck her neck out for me, and?—"

"Bex will be fine, and you can find another job. Something you'll like better."

I don't know what to say, so instead of saying anything I just start crying harder.

"Shh." Noah's deep tone is low and before I know it, he's pulled me against him, fingers in my hair holding my head to his chest.

And I cry, I cry into Noah Dixon's chest like a little baby, and I don't know if I'm more embarrassed or relieved. But it feels good. He feels good. Solid.

After a few minutes, the tears subside.

Noah strokes my hair. "Would you want to come work for me instead?"

"What?" I look up at him.

He's staring intensely down at me. Mouth fixed. No hint of laughter or joking. "I've been looking for a second person to work the front desk for a while. Taryn's been taking more and more clients."

I'm not sure how to respond. "You're offering me a job?"

"If you want it, yes."

So, I'm starting a new job.

Again.

Is it a bad idea to be working for the man who was the subject of all my sexual awakening fantasies through puberty? Probably, yes.

Should I stop staring at him from across the shop as he's tattooing and focus on what Taryn is saying? Also, probably, yes.

But the way the muscles in his back move and the way his triceps flex as he works is mesmerizing. The line of his thick neck, covered in tattoos—the way they highlight the sharp angle of his jaw, the way he's deep in concentration, such a stern expression, and yet his mouth is still softly downturned—it's all too much.

Taryn tucks a lock of bright blue hair behind her ear and sighs. "I'm going to go get a coffee, then I have someone coming in for a bridge piercing." She looks at me with half-lidded eyes and a blank expression. "If someone walks in, maybe stop staring at the boss long enough to help them?"

My face goes hot. And knowing she can see the color in my cheeks makes it worse.

"I wasn't?—"

She rolls her eyes. "Bet." Then walks out the door, the little bell clanking against the glass.

"Don't let Taryn intimidate you," a guy in a red muscle tank says, elbows on the counter, leaning over as he steals a pen from me.

He's one of the tattoo artists but we haven't met yet.

"She's kind of a bitch to everyone. Until you get to know her. I mean, she's still a bitch after you get to know her, too, but—" He scratches behind his ear where his hair is buzzed and squints an eye. "I forgot where I was going with that. I'm Anthony, by the way."

He reaches over the counter, and I shake his hand.

"Olivia—or Livvy. Everyone calls me Livvy, except for my mother."

"That's a pretty name for a pretty girl."

I laugh it off like a joke, but he doesn't laugh with me. Still shaking my hand and staring at me unblinkingly.

"Thanks," I say, ending the handshake.

"Shouldn't you be working?" Noah's low voice pulls my attention away, but his dark gaze is fixed on Anthony.

Anthony shrugs with a light-hearted grin. "Hey, I was just waiting on my next client."

"Go wait somewhere else."

"You got it, boss." He gives me a sly wink. "Later, Livvy."

Anthony walks back to his station and then Noah's eyes are on me, dark and sunken in shadow, they almost look black.

"Feel free to tell Anthony to fuck off if he's bothering you." His voice is rougher than normal when he says it, his mouth set in a hard line.

"Oh no, he wasn't bothering me."

Noah's scowl deepens. "I was wondering if you could help me with something. A project." His expression is unchanging.

"Sure. What kind of project?"

He hands me an iPad I hadn't noticed he was holding until right now, then comes around to sit next to me. "I haven't had the time to update my digital portfolio in a while." He opens his current portfolio of work and then a second folder filled with hundreds of photos. "I was wondering if you could replace some of the older ones with my newer work. It needs to show my range in styles and subjects, but not be too overwhelming for new clients to look through."

"Yeah, I can do that."

I start scrolling through the photo album, pretending my ears aren't getting warm from his nearness and the scent of his cologne.

"Noah, these are so good. All of them are fantastic. This is actually going to be challenging," I say with a light laugh.

His eyes soften and his lips part so subtly it's barely noticeable.

"Seriously, the drawing skills needed for some of these is amazing."

"Thanks," he says, rubbing the back of his head, his little smirk growing.

"I mean it. Half the people in my fine arts program didn't have talent like this."

"You studied fine arts?" He tilts his head as he leans in even closer, a lopsided grin playing on his lips.

"Oh, um, yes?"

"Yes?" He chuckles. "What kind of art do you do? What medium?"

"I mostly focused on oil painting, oil pastels, charcoal drawing."

"Now I really want to see in that sketchbook."

Heat blossoms in my cheeks, and I really wish it would stop doing that already.

If he notices, he doesn't say anything. But he has to notice because he's looking right at me, not even sitting a foot away. He twists one of the rings on his fingers.

"Do you have a favorite painting?" he asks.

His eyes are like the night sky.

"Livvy?"

Shit. His question, right. Stop being awkward as fuck, Livvy.

"I don't have a favorite one, no. I love so many. But the most famous one I like is The Kiss by Gustav Klimt. It's in Vienna. I'd love to go see it one day. Do you have a favorite painting or piece of art?"

Great, now I'm rambling. Is my face getting hotter? Fuck.

He shakes his head. "No. But now I feel like I need to figure that out." He chuckles.

Before he has a chance to ask me anything else and add to what is certainly my beet-red complexion, I pick up the iPad and start scrolling. "What's your favorite tattoo you've done?"

"Hm." He runs a tattooed finger along his sharp jaw. "Probably this half sleeve I did a few months back. I'll show you." He takes the iPad and swipes to the right spot in the gallery then hands it back.

It's a forest of black trees with twisted roots exposed. But on closer look, the shapes and shadows of the gnarled tree roots form eerie skulls.

"That is gorgeous. And creepy. I love it."

He laughs, a low rumble in his chest. "Thanks, it was a fun piece."

His arm brushes mine as he scrolls through more pictures, showing me the ones he's most proud of, telling me stories of past clients—both funny and horrific.

Slowly, everyone else trickles out of the shop but I've barely noticed the time passing. I can't believe it's already eleven at night. I could listen to him talk for hours.

"What's your least favorite thing you've tattooed?" I ask.

He groans. "Probably any pinup I've ever done. I dread those."

"Why?" I see a couple on the screen. "These look good."

"I don't want anything I do to be good. I want it to be great. It's the whole body proportions and the perfect position. It's never exactly right. Even when I trace a reference, any slight tweak or change in lighting can throw it off. They're the bane of my tattooing existence. In fact, I have a pin-up scheduled next week. I'm dreading the fuck out of it."

"Anatomy can be challenging. The most helpful thing I found for figure drawing is using real life models. I had a class where almost the whole semester was devoted to drawing live, nude models."

He raises an eyebrow, and a silly little laugh escapes my lips. I should stop talking.

"That sounds…interesting," he says with a devilish grin.

"It was really only weird the first twenty minutes or so, then you sort of forget there's a naked person in front of you, and you're just focused on the drawing and the form. It's really the best way to learn—drawing the same position from slightly different angles, figuring out how people sit and lean and slouch."

"Always nude?" he asks.

"Yeah. Clothes hide too much. You need to be able to see the musculature and things like where the hip bone sits in relation to the spine."

I glance at him and he's watching me, his cheek leaning against his hand. Those eyes surrounded by dark lashes are pulling me in again.

"So, I should find some nude models? Got it," he says with a grin. "Maybe that should be my new pick-up line at the bar."

I smile and nod, but at the same time, a knot forms in my stomach. I hate it. Even just the mention of it as a joke. Was he joking? He was probably joking. Hopefully.

I'm being stupid, I know. He's been with women, obviously. And he's seen them naked. But the idea of him seeking out someone new—of drawing them—irks me. Even though it's irrational.

"I'll pose for you." The words are out of my mouth before I even think them.

What are you doing, Livvy?

He looks at me, a tiny crease between his brows. Blood is rocketing through my veins.

"Really?" he asks.

"Yeah. Why not?"

Why not? What the actual fuck, Livvy?

He licks his bottom lip and there's silence for a beat. Then another. Oh my god what did I do?

"Okay," he says, low. "When were you thinking?"

I want to scream, I wasn't thinking! But instead, I say, as cooly as possible, "When's the next night we both have off?"

He stills, mouth slightly open. Me too, Noah. Me too.

"Uh, Thursday, I think," he says.

"Thursday, then," I say.

"All right," he says, nodding.

And we just kind of look at each other and he's so beautiful and I think I'm going to throw up.

The chime of the bell breaks the stillness in the air.

We look toward the door at the same time, not expecting anyone this late on a Monday night. In fact, we should have locked up half an hour ago.

Mark, the bouncer from the bar, walks in, giving me a small smile and a wave.

"The fuck?" Noah mutters under his breath.

"Oh!" Right. Shoot! I completely forgot. "Hi," I say, standing up.

Noah stands with me, that crease between his brows deepening.

"Hey, you ready?" Mark asks.

"Yep."

Noah leans in and whispers, "What's going on?"

"He's picking me up for a date."

Mark had shyly come up to me Saturday after I said I was quitting and asked for my number.

"A date?" Noah checks the time. "Isn't it a little late for a date? On a Monday?"

I glance at my phone. It's eleven-thirty. Exactly when he said he'd swing by after his shift at the bar.

I shrug. "It's late, but we both work at night, so that's how it worked out."

It's almost like a shadow passes over Noah's face, the way his expression darkens.

"What are you even going to do at eleven-thirty on a first date?"

"What's with all the questions?" I peek over at Mark, who's still standing by the door, shifting onto the balls of his feet and looking around the shop. "Hey, sorry, I'll be right there!" I call over to him.

I lower my voice. "He's going to cook me some food at his place," I say to Noah.

"You're going to his place?" he hisses.

I cross my arms.

"Sorry," he says. "It's just—it's just that I want you to be safe. I feel protective over you. It's hard not to see you as that little girl I first met."

Ouch.

"I'm not a little girl. I can take care of myself," I say, trying not to dwell on how much that sentence sounds like something a defiant child would say.

"You're right. You're an adult. I know that. I'm sorry."

I pick up my bag from under the desk and move toward Mark but as I pass Noah, he grabs my arm. Not hard, but firm enough to stop me in my tracks.

He leans down, his breath at my cheek and lips at my ear. "Call me. If you need anything. For any reason. Any time. Got it? I gave you my number, right?" He looks into my eyes, his face all angles and hard lines.

I'm not breathing. I nod. "Okay," I say as I exhale.

He lets go of my arm.

Mark holds the door open for me, and as I walk out, I look back over my shoulder to where Noah is still watching me. The intensity in his stare makes me shiver.