“Hey!” Morg raised his hands in surrender again. “Don’t shoot the messenger, Boss. She can’t carry a round card on fight nights, so we’re a little short there.”
“We’re not short there, Morg. We have four other girls totally capable of working fight nights,” I replied. The girls who danced at Tag’s also got to prance around the octagon, announcing the rounds.
“Okay. If you want to keep her, that’s cool. She’ll be back in on Thursday, just in case you wanted to have a talk with her about sexing it up a little. You know, maybe dancing with her eyes open.” Morgan was laughing again.
“Morg?”
“Yeah, Boss?”
“Go home.”
“Wh-what?” Morgan’s chuckle skittered to a halt.
“I’ll help Vince finish out the night. Go home.”
Morgan pulled on the hand towel he always kept over one shoulder and rubbed his hands nervously.
“But—” Morg attempted to argue.
“You think it’s funny to laugh at a blind girl. That kind of worries me, Morg. Makes me wonder about what kind of man I have managing my bar. See, there are two things I hate.” I held up my thumb and my pointer finger and counted them off. “Bullies and bitches. I never knew you were a bully, Morg. Now, don’t bitch, or I’ll have two reasons to fire you. Go home. And if you want to come back, you will rethink your sense of humor. You got me?” My voice was mild, my posture relaxed, but I didn’t break eye contact with my bartender, and I watched as Morgan dropped his eyes and shifted uncomfortably, as if waiting for me to change my mind. When I was silent, he threw down his towel and reached for his wallet and keys that he kept stashed beneath the bar.
“I’m old enough to be your father, Tag. Your dad was one of my best friends. You need to show me a little more respect,” Morgan huffed, all joking clearly aside.
“You’ll have to earn it, Morg. Bottom line, you’re not my father, you’re not my best friend, and I don’t owe you shit. You can come back tomorrow if you’re man enough to make some adjustments. If I don’t see you tomorrow, I’ll understand, and I’ll be looking for your replacement.”
Morgan started to argue once more, thought better of it, and shut his mouth. With his lips clamped into a hard line, his jaw clenched, and his fists tight, he walked out from behind the counter and through the bar, shoving his way out the front door, practically mowing down Amelie, who had just entered the establishment. Morg cursed and shot a look over his shoulder at me before disappearing into the darkness.
“Excuse me,” Amelie gasped, her stick clattering to the floor as curious patrons turned to stare. She hesitated briefly and then squatted down, feeling for her stick before her fingers found it and she rose gracefully. Her cheeks were slightly pink, and I wondered if she could feel the stares of those watching. She moved forward slowly allowing the stick she held to guide her to the bar. I realized belatedly that I was on duty and hurried around the counter, pulling off my jacket and rolling up my sleeves. Amelie had climbed up on a stool and was waiting patiently to be greeted. I wondered what she did when people ignored her.
“Amelie, what can I do for ya?”
“David?” she asked, her head tilting in surprise.
“Impressive. You’ve got a good ear for voices.”
“Thank you. Uh, where’s Morgan? Are you working?” She kept herself very still on her stool, not slouching or rotating in her seat like most people did. She didn’t even lean on the bar, as if she were fearful of upending something or invading someone’s space. She couldn’t know that the only other people at the bar sat at the far end, nursing beers and staring at the Spurs game above them.
“Yep. I’m filling in tonight.” I didn’t elaborate. “Can I get you something to drink?”
Amelie bit her lip and shook her head. “No. I don’t drink. I’m already blind and drinking dulls my senses, the senses I have left. Instead of relaxing me, it scares me to death.” She shrugged. “I probably sound like a little kid.”
“Nah. I understand. I don’t drink either.”
Her brows rose doubtfully. “But you work in a bar.”
“I don’t drink because I’ve never been able to figure out how to do things in moderation. See, I don’t drink. I get drunk. I’m all or nothing, all the time. Can’t do all, so I gotta do nothing,” I said conversationally, wondering at my need to reassure her. “You want something else? A soda, water, something non-alcoholic?” I changed the subject smoothly.
“I’d love a Diet Coke.”
I hopped to it and within seconds set the drink on a coaster in front of her. “Diet coke at twelve o’clock.”
She smiled at my instructions and thanked me, then eased her hand forward carefully, letting her fingers brush the cool glass, tiptoeing around it until she could grasp it and pull it toward her. She leaned over it, almost like she was smelling it, and I watched as she held her face, oddly suspended, over her drink, her nose so close to the fizzy liquid it would be submerged if she moved another inch.
“Is there a problem?” I asked.
She sat up and rubbed her nose with her right hand, still grasping the drink with her left. “No! I, um, I like the way it sounds and the way the bubbles feel against my face. I didn’t realize you were still watching me.” There was a little steel in her voice, letting me know that staring wasn’t appreciated.
“I’ll just be moving along then.” I grinned, liking the bit of sass she threw back at me.