Another Night
1031 Words
I made my way through the back room, weaving between cases of alcohol stacked haphazardly against the walls. The familiar scent of liquor and stale wood filled the air, grounding me in a way I didn’t expect. The dim glow of the bar beyond, the steady hum of conversation and bursts of laughter, settled something uneasy in my chest.
For a moment, just a moment, I could pretend everything was normal.
Tony stood behind the bar, his keen eyes flicking over me the second I stepped into the light. He didn’t say anything—he never did when I showed up looking like this. Words wouldn’t fix me. Instead, he pulled me into a quick, firm hug, his touch rough but warm.
“Have a good night,” he murmured, slipping yesterday’s tips into my hand. His voice was gruff, but the weight behind it was something softer.
Then, quieter, “Call me if you need anything.”
I knew what he meant. His tired, knowing eyes said everything he wouldn’t out loud. Tony wasn’t just my boss—he was the closest thing I had to a real protector.
I forced my best fake smile, nodding even though we both knew I wouldn’t call. “I will.”
The moment my lips stretched, pain shot through my busted lip, making me flinch. I quickly masked it, hoping he didn’t notice.
He did. But, like always, he let it go.
I tucked the money into my pocket and turned toward the bar, ready to drown myself in work and let the night blur everything else away.
The day went by in a blur of drink orders, muffled conversations, and the steady hum of music playing from the old jukebox in the corner. The usual crowd came in—blue-collar workers, tired office employees, and regulars who spent their afternoons drowning their week’s worth of troubles in cheap whiskey and draft beer.
No one paid much attention to me, and I liked it that way.
I moved through the motions, pouring drinks, wiping down the bar, pocketing tips without thinking too much about it. The routine was familiar, almost comforting. Here, I wasn’t Shawn’s punching bag. I wasn’t the girl trapped in a cycle she couldn’t escape. I was just Shay, the bartender, the one who knew everyone’s drink order but kept to herself.
As the hours passed, I caught glimpses of the world outside. The sun dipped lower, casting streaks of orange and pink across the cityscape outside the window. For a moment, I let myself watch, let myself get lost in the beauty of it.
The night shift was coming, bringing in a different crowd, a louder one. More money, more chaos. I took a deep breath and rolled my shoulders.
Another night to get through. Another night to survive.
I wiped down the bar, scrubbing away the sticky mess left by a drunken brunette who had sloshed half her beer onto the counter. Just as I finished, I felt it—the deep, steady rumble of motorcycles vibrating through my chest.
I glanced up just in time to see a group of bikers pull into the lot right in front of the window, their engines growling before they shut them off one by one. A dozen men, clad in worn jeans and heavy motorcycle jackets, stepped through the front door. They talked among themselves, their presence commanding attention, but they didn’t seem interested in the rest of the bar. Instead, they made their way toward a few tables in the back, settling in like they’d been here a hundred times before.
And then, one of them walked toward me.
He was familiar, though I couldn’t place exactly where I’d seen him before. He had to be a few years older than me, his face lined with the kind of experience that made the faint crow’s feet by his eyes look more like battle scars than signs of age. Those blue eyes sparkled in the dim lighting, sharp and knowing, like he saw things other people missed.
He was tall and lean, but there was strength in the way he carried himself, the way his muscles pressed against his tight red T-shirt and worn-out jeans. He raked a hand through his shaggy, dirty-blond hair before stopping at the bar.
“One round of whiskey for the table, please,” he said smoothly, sliding me a card. His voice was low, steady—like he never had to raise it to be heard.
As I reached for the card, my eyes caught on something—the dark ink of a tattoo peeking out from his collar. It was just a hint, a shadow of something larger.
I couldn’t help but wonder what it was.
I quickly lined up the whiskey glasses, filling each one with smooth amber liquid before arranging them neatly on a tray. My hands moved on autopilot, but my mind was anywhere but the bar.
Before I could grab the tray, Kat swooped in, her mischievous grin already in place.
“I got it,” she teased, and before I could stop her, she playfully smacked me on the ass with her bar towel.
He chuckled, shaking his head but not seeming the least bit bothered. If anything, he looked amused.
“I got it,” I said flatly, stepping in before Kat could push it further.
She raised a brow at me but handed over the tray without argument, her smirk lingering like she knew something I didn’t.
I kept my expression neutral as I lifted the tray, but inside, my stomach tightened, a strange heat curling low in my belly. It made no sense.
I didn’t even know him.
And yet, there was something about him—something in the way he looked at me, in the effortless confidence he carried—that sent an unexpected pulse of warmth through me.
I clenched my thighs together, trying to ignore the sudden wetness between them.
I needed to get it together.
Taking a steadying breath, I turned on my heel and carried the drinks to the table, pretending I wasn’t feeling things I had no business feeling.
- Writer
