You're to Blame(6)
She exhales an angry lungful of air. “Char? Only my friends call me that, and we aren’t friends. Let’s not pretend like we are.” Her eyes narrow as she leans on the bar, aggressive and driven to deliver a lecture. “You haven’t even bothered to come to the hospital. He’s always defending you to everyone, and you don’t even have the decency to pop your head in to check how he’s doing or show your support to his family.” She leans away from me and crosses her arms over her chest. “You could at least tell them what happened. You were the last person to see him, right? He stormed out of my apartment and raced to you. I assume it’s your fault he’s not waking up. I hope you can live with yourself.”
Well, that fucking stings.
I shake my head, mixing Rachel’s drink and serving it, while trying to pretend Charlotte’s words don’t hurt as much as they do. Rachel glances at me, sympathy swimming in her eyes. It doesn’t dim the initial burn beneath my skin.
“Fair enough.” I nod and back away for some much-needed distance. The temptation to give her the truth, to ruin the perfect little reality she believes she lives in is too strong after her harsh words. Though I don’t know her, she deserves better.
I send Lydia to get Charlotte’s drink order, tossing my credit card at her. “Whatever they need, they can have. Put it on my card at the end of the night.”
Lydia’s gaze burns into me with a thousand unasked questions. “You sure about that? Blondie looks like she can kick ‘em back.” She slides my card into the front of her apron with the bar’s signature, neon green emblem on the front.
“I’m sure. Tell Randy to keep an eye on them, too.”
She opens her mouth to say something, but I shrug and aim my attention elsewhere, dismissing the worry in her eyes.
One thing I’ve learned is inhibition lowers with a few drinks. Girls do things they normally wouldn’t have the courage to do. Everyone else may be in a drunken haze tonight, but I’m not. My mind is straight, and I’m sober. Behind the bar, I witness the way Charlotte’s dress rides up, barely covering her ass, her lean, tanned legs exposed. A few times I have to nod to Randy to intercept a handful of guys before they get too close.
There’s no reason on God’s green Earth why I should give a fuck about what a princess like Charlotte Novak thinks. I do, though. The entire night, her words are stuck in my head, playing on loop. It’s more about the way she looks at me with such disdain that has me on edge. Her animosity is why I spend most of my shift watching her shoot back Tequila Sunrise after Tequila Sunrise. She dances all over the floor in front of the DJ stand. By the way she glances around her to see if others are watching, I’d say she isn’t comfortable.
Envy is what I saw earlier. There’s a lack of carefreeness she longs for but can’t quite reach. Who’s stifled her confidence? Why can’t she allow the world to slip away and do whatever the hell it is she wants to do?
Close to closing time, scantily clad co-eds beg for my attention. None of them look at the ink spread across my skin like Charlotte had. Intrigue and curiosity seeped through the initial irritation she had for me. They brush their fingertips over the edges of my tattoos as they pass by, hoping to rile a beast inside of me. I push them off, dismissing the advances. My concern is on the dance floor. She pulls me in and I hate myself for that.
When final call is announced, Randy calls a cab for Rachel and Charlotte, on my bill. Charlotte stumbles to the exit where he waits to escort them to their carriage for the night. Randy speaks softly to her. As she turns towards me slow and unsure, her eyes grow big and gloss over. She leaves without saying a damn word. No polite wave, or curt nod. Well, fuck you, too, then.
The smirk on Randy’s face tells me I’m in for a wrath of hell from him. He’ll eat this shit up like Thanksgiving dinner.
When the last drifter is shoved out the door, I count down my drawer. Lydia, Randy, and Derks, the owner, perch on barstools, beers in hand, finding humor in the situation.
“Just spit it out, assholes. You all want to say something, so just get it over with,” I protest, popping the top on a Bud Light. The carbonation tickles my throat, and the taste is welcomed after the night I’ve had.
“Who was the bombshell?” Derks spins his empty beer bottle on the bar.
Unlike most successful businessmen, he chooses to stick around into the late hours when he could be home. Girls fall at his feet, and he claims it has something to do with his long, blond hair, not the couple of bars and the restaurant he owns. The cocky son of a bitch is good people. He’s been on my side through a lot of shit, and I’ll always be grateful for him.
“Charlotte’s her name. She just so happens to be Jacob’s girlfriend.” I run a towel over the bar to occupy myself.
“Like Jacob, Jacob?” Lydia’s eyes widen, and her lips flatten. I nod. She snatches the rag from my hand and throws it into the sink. “She doesn’t know, does she? I mean the way she glared at you, she couldn’t possibly know.”
They wait for my answer. Frustration paints their stares red.
“Not a clue, and it’s not my place to say anything.”
It could be my place though, if I choose it to be. The idea alone is selfish, and I may be a lot of things, but I’m not that.
“What if he doesn’t wake up, then what? Is it still not your place?” Randy interrupts. He’s everyone’s protective brother, always giving advice, even when unwanted, and always putting us in our place when we need it most.