Grave Mistakes (Hellgate Guardians #1)(6)

I walk through the section of high top tables, half of them missing stools and looking more like kindling than a place anyone would want to sit for a fun night out of games and drinking. The floor is sticky under my sneakers, and I spy a spot on the wall where a signed picture of A-Rod used to be. Now there’s just a clear view of peeling paint and an empty, stained wall. Sean the Shithole probably pawned the photo, like he has most everything else in this place.

Back in this bar’s glory days, our uniforms were much more authentic and cute, rather than rundown and sleazy. The baseball bases on all the tabletops were shiny and unstained, and the bar shelves were decorated with pristine and protected signed baseballs between high-end liquor bottles. There was always a game on the flat screens, and we even had a cook who served epic ballpark food. But ever since Sean took over after his Uncle Ollie retired, he’s run this place into the ground. I hate that he ruined Ollie’s legacy.

Ollie was a damn good boss and an even better man. Smart, kind, and he treated this place with respect, including his employees and customers. I loved working for him, but as soon as Sean took over two years ago, I knew that everything that made this bar great was as good as done.

I used to like working here because it reminded me of my dad. He loved baseball. He took me to games when I was a kid, and we always gorged on hot dogs and soda while cheering from the nosebleeds. He worked in construction, so when he had a slow year and couldn’t afford tickets, he made sure we watched all the games at home together during the season. It was our thing. I still make sure I watch them every year on my own, and despite the fact that Sean has ruined Ballpark Brew, he damn well won’t ruin baseball for me.

With the rotten beer in hand, I weave past the tables and head straight for the bar. Ollie’s two pride and joys, his brewery machine and his signed baseball by Joe DiMaggio are both shoved into the corner carelessly like forgotten relics. I’m honestly surprised either is still here. I’m sure they have to be worth a pretty penny. Everything else that’s fit that criteria has up and disappeared from this place.

I go over to the end, careful to stop before I cross the barrier. Sean gets his dick in a knot if anyone goes behind the bar without his express permission while he’s back there. That’s made nights bartending here interesting to say the least.

He’s talking to a few of his prick posse, but I know he sees me, even though he ignores me completely. He’s average looking, not hard on the eyes with his ashy brown hair and brown eyes, but he’d be a hell of a lot more attractive if he weren’t such a bastard.

I do my best to put a polite smile on my face. He’s easier to deal with this way. If I ever so much as sigh or approach him with anything less than a smile, he’ll chew me up and spit me out like tobacco on a baseball field. “Hey, Sean?” I call in the friendliest tone I can manage.

He continues to talk for several seconds before deigning to turn his head to look at me. “Yeah?”

I wiggle the beer bottle in my hand. “Customer sent it back. Can I have a fresh one, please?”

Immediately, the good-natured look that was on his face from talking to his buddies drops off, and he comes stalking over. “What the fuck’s wrong with it?”

I hold it up eye-level with him so he can see the shit settled at the bottom. “I think you might’ve accidentally served some of the expired stuff that you forgot to toss out.” We both know he didn’t forget, and it sure as shit wasn’t an accident, but I have to play nice. One more night, Delta. Just one more damn night.

Unfortunately, my wording doesn’t appease him enough, because his expression grows thunderous. He takes another step forward like he wants to intimidate me. My heartbeat kicks up a notch, but I’m used to Sean’s scare tactics. He’s nothing but a fucking bully, and I learned a long time ago not to cower to his bullshit. He might get Vicky to cower, but not me. I’ll play nice and I’ll take a lot of his shit, but I’m not going to tuck tail and run. I won’t give him the satisfaction of that.

“There’s nothing wrong with that fucking beer. Now take it back to them. They can drink the shit we serve, or they can get the fuck out.”

Prime example of why the place is closing down.

I clench my teeth, my hand tightening around the bottle as I try to suppress my anger. “Sean,” I say, trying to keep my voice level and quiet enough not to disrupt the customers. “I can’t take this back to them. It’s rotten. Nobody wants to drink that. You wouldn’t drink this, so we can’t expect them to. Can you please just give me a new beer?”

For once, just fucking work with me and don’t be a dick.

He just stares at me dispassionately. “No.”

I stare at him, flabbergasted. I don’t understand this guy. At all. I’ve been dealing with this bullshit of his for years, being as accommodating as fucking possible. Unlike him, I’m loyal to Ollie’s place. I’ve always just taken whatever he dished out, pasted on fucking smiles, and dealt with him day after day for shit pay and barely-there tips. And still, after all of that effort on my part, he can’t just throw me a fucking bone on my last day of work?

I let the fake smile drop right off my face. It feels like drawing a line in the sand.

“Fine. I’ll get it for them myself. You don’t have to do a thing,” I tell him in a rare form of defiance. “I’m supposed to be bartending anyway instead of serving tables and cleaning the bathrooms.”