1. At The Bar, Everything Is Fine

ONE

AT THE BAR, EVERYTHING IS FINE

A Bar Song (Tipsy), Shaboozey

Roe, Twenty Four Years Old

There’s a bachelor party tonight. Those are known to drain my fucking soul but fill my pocket. They’re fun for everyone, except for the bartenders trying to keep up with demands. Especially when we get misogynist assholes from out of town who want to see “ Real Cowgirls”. If I had a dollar for every man who comes in here telling me to “ride them” or to “show them what I’m good for,” I would be a millionaire by now.

Baker Oaks is a small town, but since it’s so close to three big cities, we get plenty of people wanting to live the Nashville experience outside of Tennessee. They think they can get away with a cheaper version of Nashville in this small town in Florida but that’s not really it. Yes, Saddlers is a country bar offering line dance classes for free every Saturday. Yes, a lot of people dress up like cowgirls and cowboys. But this town is nothing like Nashville and they’re usually in for a surprise when they come. Some like it better, the family feel and all, and some? Well, they act all pissed when a five-foot-four blonde bartender kicks them out of the bar for calling her staff names.

I truly don’t hate it here; even though I rant about things I don’t like, I’ve come to love this place. Baker became my home eight years ago when I moved here to live with Grandma. Even after she died, I didn’t have it in me to start over somewhere else. So, I just stayed. I love this crazy little town. All the quirks and people make it the place to be.

It just annoys me when the big crowd comes in looking for something they won’t find here. This is not a cowboy town nor a bull rider’s hang-out spot. Just a small southern town with all the charm.

The bar area is crowded as usual, leaving me hardly enough space to lay out drinks. Some people are pushing in, trying to get closer, and I’m two seconds away from standing on the damn bar and telling everyone to chill or they can get out. And seeing as I own this bitch, I can do whatever I want. Including telling people to watch their tone and the way they behave.

I could sit in the back and handle the business side of owning a bar but what’s the fun in that? I can pay someone to do that, and I can be out here using one of my many talents: pairing people with a drink that will change their lives. Sometimes I think that, in another life, I was a witch. Because the way I can pinpoint who needs a dry martini and who needs a Coors Light is unmatched. Or so I’ve been told.

I scan the bar to make sure everyone is being served when I see a guy sitting by the corner without a drink in front of him. He doesn’t seem to have a sense of urgency to order, but his eyes are roaming around the room with an unknown purpose. Heavy eyelids and an intense stare. Maybe he isn’t looking for something, but someone. The matching shirts and the pats on the back from the other obnoxious men let me know for sure that he’s part of this bachelor party.

The shirts say, ‘I’m with stupid’ and the groom has one that says, “I’m stupidly in love.” So cheesy. They all look young, maybe late twenties or early thirties. They all seem to be having the time of their lives—except homeboy at the bar.

He’s sitting there looking ready to kill someone or just bored to death. The black t-shirt fits him perfectly and digs into his tattooed arms, showing his muscles. Oh, what a beautiful canvas he is. What I would give to get my hands on his skin and add more ink to that masterpiece. I can’t tell from far how the designs were made but I can tell he has good taste. His chest is broad, and with how much of himself hovers over the table, I would bet good money he’s over six feet tall. He has dark hair and piercing whiskey-colored eyes that are currently watching me ogle him. Fucking great.

I walk toward him, tucking my comfort rag on the back pocket of my jean shorts. And yes, I have a comfort rag because sometimes you have to hold on to the things that are constant in your life. I place both hands on the bar right in front of him but before I can ask him anything he says, “Enjoying the view?” with a smug smirk that I want to erase right off his face.

“Nah, I was just wondering why you look so damn miserable. Got dumped and now have to celebrate your buddy getting married?” I nod toward the group of guys who caught the end of my sentence and are shouting behind him. Children, men are children. If it wasn’t for how much I like dick, I would swear them off. They’re all the same, and something tells me this guy is nothing different.

“Not dumped, just annoyed nobody has gotten my order yet. Why don’t you be a doll and bring me a drink?”

“Change that doll for Roe and I might,” I snap back, already annoyed at this man. “I’m not sure how men treat women where you’re from but out here, we save the pet names for actual relationships. What do you want, sunshine?” I ask sarcastically.

“How about a Miller Light?” he asks, taking the edge off his words.

Miller Light? I did not picture this guy drinking that at all. Usually broody men with square jaws, intense stares, and the whole mysterious vibe this guy is showing ask for liquor, not a beer. My usual beer customers are the ones who are either too young to know what they want, or your typical man who comes to the bar before going home. Instead of asking him if he’s sure about it, I just shrug it off and say, “Coming right up.”

I walk toward my tap and fill a cup with beer, spilling some everywhere because, even after years of pouring beer, I still make a mess. Before turning back to him, I get an idea. I pour some whiskey—good Old Rip Van Winkle— on the rocks in two short glasses.

Placing both drinks in front of him and looking him dead in the eyes, I chime, “Here, why don’t you drink some whiskey, like a man?” and drink one of the glasses in one gulp. “On the house.” I wink at him and walk the opposite way, leaving the other one for him to enjoy.