Page 1 of Crash with Me

ONE

HEIDI

“What’s a pretty lady like you doing back there?”

I grit my teeth and force a smile, cringing inwardly. Years of bartending have given me ample experience dealing with overly friendly patrons. Including overly friendly fifty-somethings with bottle-dyed hair and shit-eating grins.

“Oh, you know.” I reach for the bottle of Jack and give it a three-count pour over ice. “Just doing my job.”

“I could give you a job.”

My eyes narrow, but I keep my tone neutral but not encouraging. “Oh?”

“I have an idea or two.”

Leaning forward on the bar, he strokes his mustache. The diamond in his pinky ring catches the light and flashes. My eyebrows shoot up.

A pinky ring. I swear, I’ve never seen a real life man with a pinky ring. It doesn’t fit the lumberjack/fisherman aesthetic that Alaskan men usually have. Not that I’m judging Mr. Smooth here for his pinky ring.

I’m judging him because he’s being a jackass.

“Thanks.” I give another tight-lipped, false smile. “But I like the job I have now just fine.”

He scoffs. “You’re happy being a bartender?”

“I am.”

There’s no point telling him and his condescending tone that I love a job that offers plenty of flexibility. Plus it gives my semi-extroverted self a chance to interact with people.

This weekend should be straight forward. The bride and groom paid for an open bar for this rehearsal dinner and the reception tomorrow night. But most people are ordering hard stuff on the rocks or glasses of something bubbly.

Still, people are tipping well on top of the flat fee I’m being paid by the couple up front.

Anyway, the point is, I enjoy my job. It’s fun. It keeps me flush with cash. And it gives me plenty of time and bandwidth to focus on my other passions. Like taking scenic photos and writing poetry while hiking through the bush when the semi-introverted side of me needs to decompress.

Dealing with old farts who think they’re smooth might not be my favorite part of the job, but it’s an occupational hazard I can manage.

Especially because I’ll totally talk shit about him with my friends later.

Mr. Smooth sighs mournfully and leans a little bit further over the bar. “You know, a pretty girl like you could do better.”

My jaw ticks. Okay, enough is enough. There’s a line between being polite to get a tip and protecting my peace, and my dignity. “I bet you’d love to tell me how.”

“I wouldn’t mind showing you.”

“Oh, barf, Jim.” A perky brunette in a fuchsia cocktail dress steps up to the bar at his side and wrinkles her nose. “Lines likethat might have worked when you were younger. But now that you’re old, it just makes you look like a creep.”

He scowls. “I’m not old, Stacey.”

“You’re my dad’s best friend.” She gives a deliberate blink. “You’re old enough to be my father and hers.”

“Some women like older men.”

Stacey flashes a friendly smile at me. “Do you prefer old men?”

I grin back. “Not usually.”

“See, there you have it.” She hands Jim his drink. “Now take this and go back to your duties of being my dad’s best man instead of harassing the poor bartender.”

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