Sweet Dreams (Colorado Mountain #2)(8)

“We open at noon close at three,” she went on, walking back down the hall. “Shifts run eleven to seven with two fifteen minute breaks and half hour dinner break. Night shift is seven to three. Last call is 2:30 so you get those drinks in and you get your clean up done best you can while we got folks in the bar. You don’t wanna be hangin’ around ‘til four clearin’ and cleanin’ and I don’t wanna be payin’ you to do it. Yeah?”

“Yes,” I nodded but she wasn’t looking at me, she was leading me through the bar and taking me toward the other hall, the opening had a sign over it that said “Restrooms”.

“Anita cleans these in the mornin’ and loads ‘em up with toilet paper. We got a customer reports a bathroom problem with the toilets, you tell one of the boys. Toilet paper is in the storeroom. You might need to restock and, I’m warnin’ you, you might need to do clean up. Shit happens you would not believe in the bathroom of a bar.” She stopped in the hall between the two bathroom doors, ladies up front, gents to the rear and she turned to me. “You got a problem with that?”

“Are we talking vomit?” I asked because I had to admit, I was not a vomit person.

“Vomit, piss, shit anything a body can produce, I’ve had to clean it up.”

I felt my eyes get big and I asked, “Anything?”

“Girl, this is a biker bar. Those boys get randy, they need to get off and they don’t care much where they get them some. And girls who hang with bikers care even less.”

“Wow,” I whispered.

“So, you got a problem with that?” she repeated.

I looked at her and straightened my spine. “You can get used to anything, right?”

She stared at me a second then mumbled, “Right,” and she took me back front and showed me how to use the cash register. She finished with, “You’ll have a float in your apron and you’ll figure your own way to keep tabs on what you’re sellin’ and what’s in your apron. Me, Bubba, Dalton or Tate will cash you out, take your float and our take and do the reconcile, leavin’ you with your tips.” She gave me a hard look. “It’d be in your best interest to keep on top a’ that. It gets busy, you’ll be bustin’ your hump to earn those tips. I ain’t sayin’ any of us’ll f**k you over. I’m just sayin’ you need to look out for yourself. And you f**k up on a transaction, that’s your gig. You sell what you sell, you track it, we track it, it all don’t jive, it comes outta your tips. You won’t use the register much but you should know your way around.”

I nodded, she studied me as if thinking it wasn’t sinking in due to the fact that middle-class women were incapable of selling a beer, making change and keeping track due to their middle-class nature then she shrugged as if it was all the same to her.

She showed me the complicated, three sink procedure of how to wash glasses, where empty bottles went and told me that bartenders did most of the washing but if things were busy, the waitresses were expected to pitch in where they could. She gave me a paper with a list of drinks and snacks (they sold bags of potato chips, pork rinds and peanuts) and their prices.

“Memorize that, soon’s you can,” she ordered then crossed her arms under her tank top covered bosoms (another Harley tank, this one white with very cool silver, red and black lettering) and looked me in the eye. “We get trouble, Lauren and it isn’t infrequent like. Boys come in here, get blitzed, act stupid. Some of ‘em got knives, all of ‘em got fists. You sense trouble, you tell me, Bubba, Tate or Dalton and you stay clear.”

I wasn’t happy with the cleaning up of vomit and anything else a body can produce part of the job description but men with knives was taking it to a new level.

Though I also had to admit to some concern that she’d want me to tell her. She was four inches shorter than me and at least fifty pounds lighter. She had no business wading into a knife fight, or any fight.

I decided to focus on the latter.

“Tell you?” I asked.

“Me,” she answered.

“But, shouldn’t I get a man –?”

“I been around the block, girl, and this is my f**kin’ bar. It’s been my f**kin’ bar for five years. You think I can’t sort out trouble?”

“Um… you’re five foot five and weigh about a hundred pounds,” I informed her of a fact she likely knew (though I was being nice about the weight consider her behind and cle**age).

“I’m smart, fast but that don’t matter since I know where we keep our shotgun,” she replied. “Even wasted, men stop fightin’ quick when they got a loaded shotgun aimed at ‘em.” She pointed across the room to the wall where there were a bunch of visible pockmarks in the wood. “Buckshot. Mine. Round these parts it’s not only known that I know where the shotgun is but that I know how to use it and someone messes around in my bar, I will.”

I nodded again wondering why I was undeterred by the variety of craziness she was telling me and standing there listening to her rather than saying, “Thanks… but, um, I think I’ll just be leaving.

Instead, I said, “Okay.”

“All right,” she replied and the door opened.

We both turned to look and when I saw who came in I stopped breathing.