Page 19 of Shadowed Whispers

Their laughter, bitter and mocking, fills the space between us, like acid trying to corrode the respect I’ve painstakingly earned here. I feel a surge of anger but swallow it down. I refuse to give them the satisfaction of seeing me rattled.

Leo looks between us, his brow furrowed in concern, a silent storm brewing in his eyes. Matteo’s silence hangs heavily in the air, but he glances at me, the look as quick as a shadow passing under the moonlight. There’s a fleeting moment of sympathy before it’s obscured again. Chloe and Amanda seem too self-absorbed to notice, wrapped up in their own gaudy display of superiority.

“Actually,” I start, my voice calm despite the storm raging inside, “my specialty is dealing with difficult customers. You know, the kind who think they are the center of the universe but are really just... sad.”

Chloe’s smile falters, and Amanda’s laughter dies in her throat like a candle snuffed out in the dark. They exchange a glance, unspoken words passing between them. They expected to rattle me and to claim their territory without a fight.

Leo’s dimples reappear, a silent thank you for not escalating things further. Matteo offers a slight nod, a gesture so small it might have been missed by anyone not paying attention.

“Oh my gosh, there you are!” Tori pushes her way through the crowd like a ship parting waves. “Come on, Aunt Andy is letting me take over the second floor.” She turns to me. “Friends only.”

“Then go.” I shoo them off, a dismissal as sharp as a chef’s knife. “I have patrons to serve.”

They step back, allowing the next person through. I take his drink order and fill it, glancing over at the five of them every now and again as they head for the old elevator, like watching shadows retreat into the night.

“Hey, don’t you go to Shadow Locke?” The guy draws my attention back to him. He is the last in my long line, all the students served and sipping their drinks contentedly. “You do.” He snaps his fingers, a spark of recognition in his eyes. “You were in my calculus class last year.”

I focus on him, drawing a blank. I have no idea who this guy is or how he knows me. He looks like just another nameless face in a crowd, another drop in an ocean of faces. I’ve tried to keep my head down. It’s worked for two years, and now, all of a sudden, people are paying attention to me.

I hate it.

“Do you remember me?” he asks hopefully.

I don’t. “Yeah, you sat like what, two?—”

“Three desks away.” He smiles hopefully as I ring him up.

“Tab or cash?” I flutter my eyelashes at him, a tactic I’m told will get me better tips—that and pigtails I suffer wearing while behind the bar.

“Go out with me,” he says.

“Five dollars,” I reply through a clenched smile.

He leans on the bar. “I’ll pay.” He raps his knuckles on the bar, a move likely inspired by one of those alpha men videos. “After you agree to go out with me.”

“No,” I reply, dropping the flirty bartender façade. “Pay up.”

“Come on, baby.” He leans on the counter, mimicking Leo’s earlier move.

I glance at the elevator. They are still waiting. Leo’s eyes track me, while Matteo’s gaze tracks the man, his expression unreadable.

Stop looking at me.

“It’s five dollars, asshole,” I snap.

“You can’t just fucking say yes, you cold bitch?” he seethes, leaning over the bar. He towers over me, but I don’t flinch.

I’ve been called worse.

“Five dollars,” I repeat for what feels like the third time, my voice firm yet tinged with exasperation.

He tosses his drink on me. Laughter erupts all around, save for a few wide-eyed people who turn away. Smart. I feel the sticky liquid soaking through my shirt, a cold and unpleasant sensation that clings to my skin.

Still, I don’t break. Andy will forgive me.

With a surge of adrenaline, I leap onto the counter, my movements fueled by sudden, wild energy. My Doc Martens hit the sticky bar with a resounding crack, echoing through the suddenly tense air. In one fluid motion, I grab the obnoxious guy’s head and bring it down hard onto the bar. The crunch of his nose is oddly satisfying. A dark thrill courses through me, a guilty pleasure I try not to revel in.

“Anyone want to inform this piece of shit what happens if you don’t pay?” I ask, my voice echoing in the now quiet crowd.

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