Page 9 of Devils Cut

“Tempest," Amanda says, with a grin, revealing a row of pearly white teeth in sharp contrast to her dark lipstick. "There's a spot at the end that lifts up. Lemme show you."

I follow her down the length of the wooden bar, taking in the bottles lining the shelves, each one holding the promise of liquid courage or temporary escape. When we reach the end, Amanda effortlessly lifts a section, creating an opening for me to slip through.

"Thanks," I mumble, feeling self-conscious under her watchful gaze. She hands me a worn apron, which I hastily tie around my hips. It feels like armour, even though I know it won't protect me from everything.

"Your bag can go on this hook back here," Amanda says, pointing to a small hook hidden beneath the counter.

The polished wooden bar stretches before me like a shield, and I feel a strange sense of safety behind it. The room is empty for now, but soon the patrons will start to trickle in, and I need to be prepared.

"Alright, Tempest," Amanda begins her tone all business. "Here's where we keep the alcohol." She gestures to rows of bottles neatly lined up on shelves behind the counter. "We got everything from cheap beer to top-shelf bourbon."

"Got it," I say, taking mental notes as she rattles off the names of different brands and types of spirits.

"Over here's the glass washer," Amanda continues, pointing to a machine tucked under the counter. "Just make sure you rinse the glasses first, then load 'em in. It's pretty simple. And if we run out of anything, just grab a new keg from the back."

"Alright," I nod, my hands curling into fists at my sides. I can do this – it's just pouring drinks and keeping everything clean. Nothing I haven't done before. But still, the fear lingers, like an unwanted shadow.

"Come on, I'll show you the stockroom," Amanda says, leading me through a door at the back of the bar. The smell of stale beer and old wood hits me as she flicks on the light. Shelves brimming with bottles of bourbon, whiskey, vodka, and tequila line the walls, their glass reflecting the dim light from above.

"Shit," I mutter under my breath, taking in the vast array of liquor. "You guys are stocked up."

"Yeah, we don't mess around," Amanda grins, crossing her arms over her chest. "You'll get used to it. Just remember where everything is, and you'll be fine."

"Right," I say, swallowing hard.

"Listen, Tempest," Amanda says suddenly, her voice serious. "I know this place can be intimidating, but the men who come here live under a code, and they are actually just all big teddy bears.”

"Thanks," I reply, forcing a smile onto my face. I want to believe her, but trust doesn't come easy anymore. Not after everything I've been through.

"Alright, let's get back out there," Amanda says. The bar is still empty, but it won't stay that way for long. I take one last deep breath, steeling myself for what's to come.

The bar begins to fill up with men, each one tattooed and intimidating in their own way, yet they all keep a respectful distance. I can't help but be impressed as I pour drinks, managing their orders with ease. Even the chatter among them remains light and casual – no crude comments or wandering hands like I'd experienced back home in Australia.

"Another bourbon, please," one of the men says, his voice deep and gravelly. I nod, quickly grabbing the bottle and pouring the liquid into a glass. As I hand it to him, our eyes meet briefly, and he gives me a polite nod before walking away.

"Can't believe this shit," I mutter to myself, shaking my head. This was the last place I expected to find chivalry. Maybe these guys aren't as bad as I thought.

"Hey, Tempest," Amanda calls out from the other end of the bar. "You're doing great! Keep it up!"

"Thanks," I reply, feeling a small sense of pride at being able to handle my new job without any issues.

"Alright, time for your break," Amanda says, waving me off. I wipe my hands on my apron and slip behind the bar, grabbing my phone from my bag. As I check the screen, I notice a missed call from an unfamiliar number. My heart skips a beat, wondering if it could be the real estate agent with news about my house.

"Fuck it," I think, deciding to call the number back. After a few rings, a cheerful voice answers. "Hello, this is Sarah from Greenfield Real Estate. How can I help you?"

"Hi, Sarah, it’s Tempest here," I say, trying to keep my voice steady even as my hands tremble with anticipation. "I saw that I missed a call from this number. Is there any news on my house?"

"Ah, yes! I'm happy to inform you that everything has been cleared and approved. You can pick up your keys on the 21st!" Sarah exclaims.

"Shit, that's fantastic!" I reply, unable to contain my excitement. "Thank you so much!"

"You're welcome, Tempest. Have a great day!"

"Thanks, you too." I hang up and let out a deep breath, relief washing over me. In just 2 weeks, I'll have a place of my own – a small sanctuary away from the chaos of the world outside. And for the first time in ages, I allowed myself to feel a little bit hopeful.

A grin splits my face as the realisation sinks in – only two more weeks of sleeping in my beat-up car before I can finally have a place to call my own. Two fucking weeks. That's nothing compared to the months I've already spent, curled up in the backseat, trying to block out the world.

I think about the car park I've been calling home – the one tucked away nearly out of town, mostly forgotten by everyone else. It ain't much, but it's quiet and safe, which suits me just fine. And in two short weeks, I'll be trading it in for a cold, hard floor – but at least it'll be mine.

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