It's 10pm on a Friday night and you've been working the bar since you got home from school. You've been serving the drinks, collecting glasses, clearing tables for 7 hours now and it's been 7 hours since your father hit the whiskey.
You can his feel his eyes on you constantly, assessing your every move, making sure you're not doing anything wrong or jeopardising his name or the business. It'a like knives stabbing in your back, his obsessive gaze. You try to avoid eye contact with him because you know the look he has on his face. Whenever he drinks, he's in the mood. Age really is just a number because he still sees you as his play thing, his punching bag, his slave and even though you told him to lay off you over four years ago, it never made any difference. It ended with a black eye and bruised ribs.
"There's my wee girl!"
You hear his booming voice from across the pub and you look over to see Cheryl sit next to him. Your precious baby sister. Whenever she's around him you always put up your guard and reserve some strength in case he suddenly takes his frustration out on her. You'd take a million sessions of him raping you as long as it kept her safe.
"Heya daddy."
She says and she kisses him on the cheek and perches next to him, her face contorting slightly at the smell of his cigarettes mixed with the stench of alcohol. She always saw the good in him and you always wondered why it was you that had to get raped, had to suffer the torture of him breathing on the back of your neck and stealing every bit of dignity and innocence you had.
"Look. I bought Ste with me."
She says in her cheerful voice and your Da's face falls, as does yours.
"Steven."
He says crudely as he nods, purely to get Cheryl's approval.
Fucking Steven. The boy who gets your juices flowing with one sassy look. You stare at him, how his hair is messy yet stylish, how he always wears a tracksuit which makes him look like a council rat but strangely you don't care. He looks... sexy. Rough. You don't want to be like... this. Attracted to men but you are and since you were 16 you've gone out and had your wicked way with boys that are willing just to satisfy your sexual frustration. You've tried your way with women, have gone out of town especially to sleep with them, a variety, thinking that you may be attracted to a certain type of woman. However it made no difference. So now you just hide it, repress it all.
"Alright Mr Brady."
Steven replies with his boyish grin. That fucking accent. Mr Bradehhh. It pisses you off so much, but you're annoyingly attracted to it at the same time because it sounds funny to you. You've never heard anything like it. It's sassy, elongated, incongruous to his surroundings so he stands out.
"Can I borrow a light?"
He asks and your dad looks at him in disgust. A boy of 16 smoking in front of his precious little girl. Disgraceful.
One of your Da's posy hands him some matches and your father just stares at the boy, his brows hung low and fists clenched as if he could punch him in the face, couldn't possibly have anyone of a bad influence around his little princess. Steven puts the cigarette in his mouth, lights it and inhales deeply, the smoke trickling out of his parted lips and rising to the ceiling.
"Brenda!"
Your dad barks, Cheryl and Steven both flinching, startled. You're over there in a blink of an eye, can't ever leave him waiting because his temper would fly through the roof.
"Daddy. It's Brendan. Think you've had too much to drink."
Cheryl whispers, so naive and clueless. You only wish she knew so you wouldn't have to live with this on your own, this secret. But you can't ruin her childhood too, couldn't possibly destroy this image she has created, beautiful and perfect. As far as she's concerned, the sun is shining out of your father's arse.
"Get Cheryl some water and young Steven...can have what he wants."
His voice changes when he says Steven's name but you shoot a look at the boy and he's blissfully un-aware of the bitterness in the older man's tone. Instead he is staring at you, fag still in his mouth but he's smirking, the corner of his lip upturned flirtatiously. You tilt your head and signal him to follow you and he does, trails hot on your feet as you make you way back around the bar.
"You alright Brendan?"
Brenduuun. It seriously grates on you sometimes, the accent, the pronunciation.
"Yup. What do you want?"
You ask bluntly, want to get rid of him quickly because if your dad thinks that he is distracting you from working, then you'll get a face full of fist later on.
"Beer please."
He replies, taking another drag of his cigarette and blowing the smoke in your face. Normally you would shrink away from the disgusting odour but it all of a sudden smells nice, because he has blown it at you. Not your dad. You can make out a hint of mint from where he's chewing on some gum and you melt momentarily, gaze upon his pink lips and defined bone structure and coral blue eyes but you manage to zone back in a split second later, blink hard and grit your teeth in annoyance. He's so distracting.
"You're 16. I ain't serving you a beer."
Steven sighs like he is queen bitch and you start to get impatient. You can't withstand to be in his proximity for about two minutes maximum. Who does he think he is for fuck sake?
"That's a shame. Can't you sneak me one?"
He asks and he winks at you, fucking winks. It makes you hot under the collar, goose bumps prickling your skin and a shiver shoots down your spine, erupts your synapses like a volcano. You've had enough of him, enough of this, how he's making you feel. You grab hold of a beer upon his request, pop off the cap and pour it into his lap with a demonic smile on your face. Steven jumps back in horror, the alcohol soaking him.
"What the hell?!"
He screams and your dad stands, looks over to you and all of the commotion and almost knocks his own beer over.
"Brendan! Cellar now!"
Your heart starts to thud in your ears because this is it. This is where you get a face full of fist, all because of this stupid boy and his cheeky persona. You turn and slowly make your way to what fate intended, ball your fists so hard that you're sure your nails are slicing the skin of your palms.
"No Mr Brady! It's fine!"
You halt abruptly and turn back around to see Steven standing and wiping himself down with napkins. He gazing at you in fury underneath his long lashes and winged eyebrows, a look that doesn't scare you as such but it's a look that changes him and his entirety.
"It's fine. I tried to be cheeky and nick a beer. Brendan tried to stop me and I poured it over myself."
His actions confuse you because you've done nothing but be a dick to him. You've threatened him in the past, shoved into him in the school corridors but for some reason, here and now, he's deciding to protect you. If this is his way to get one up on you then it isn't going to work, you are the one who's on top. You never owe anyone.
"Oh. Well clear that mess up! If I ever catch you trying to nick from my pub again, I'll break your legs boy."
Your dad snarls at Steven, points directly at him and Cheryl is the one to stand and pull down his arm and give her friend an apologetic look. You run around the bar to mop up the puddle on the floor before Seamus accuses you of slacking.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
You hiss, nudging Steven out of the way with your elbow to reach around him and the stool.
"Saving your arse."
He whispers in return. You don't need saving, are used to this sort of thing happening. You get yourself into these situations most of the time, acting like the hard man, your own stupidity overriding your rational thought process. This boy has a way to make you feel inferior and you hate it. He's Cheryl's best friend and he can worm his way out of situations like this because of his status, Seamus has nothing on him, he can't touch him.
"I didn't need you to interfere. I was fine-"
"-don't be so ungrateful. I know he beats you up. I saw remember?"
It's true. Steven heard the noises you made when your dad was beating you to a pulp in the back alley, heard your cries of mercy, whimpers of terror. He came around the corner to see you lying on the floor, blood dripping down your nose while your dad stood over you, readying himself to beat you even more. You had looked at him through your black eyes, didn't need to shout for his help, thought the situation was pretty self explanatory but he ran away from you. He let it continue.
"I can look after myself."
Is all you say. You don't want to thank him for saving you this time. He doesn't deserve to be thanked after he left you and did nothing. It's ironic though. He thinks he knows you, thinks he knows the in's and out's of your life but in reality he has no clue. No clue on what you have to put up with. You go to sleep with the fear that your father will take advantage of you. You see his face when you shut your eyes and feel like you are physically on fire in his presence. You live every day in fear, scarred for what he put you through.
When you've cleaned the floor and you step carefully back around the bar to serve the queue that has rapidly increased since your little incident and you're swept off of your feet. It's only you behind the bar tonight as all the other staff have either booked time off or it isn't their day to work, yet Seamus, the man that he is, decided to work you like a dog.
It isn't until a little while later, when you notice that the queue has rapidly decreased in such a short period of time, that realise you have a helping hand. Steven.
"What're you doing?"
You ask. This is your job. You can do it by yourself.
"I'm helping. Seeing as I caused all this."
He says, an element of obviousness detectable in his tone. He skilfully pours a pint, the froth nice and thick on the top and you are in awe of him. In all the years that you have worked here you have never been able to do that, something your dad always likes to pick up on, mock you for.
"How...?"
You stutter over your words. Something so small seems to have such a big effect on you. Steven seems below average at everything and it annoys you that he can do something that you can't.
"How what?"
He asks as he pours two more pints that are the same as the first, handing them to two customers that shove a note in his hand and tell him to keep the change.
"How do you keep the froth on the top? I can never do that."
"Oh, it's all in the technique. Here. You do one."
He grabs hold of a glass and throws it, expecting you to catch it and you do, with quite a lot of pride as a matter of fact. He watches you as he takes money off of more customers, quickly shaking up cocktails and pouring shots.
'No no no. Do it again'
He says. The boy is pushing his luck, ordering you about, but you want to impress your father because he has always been on your case about this, has even made you pour pints again because apparently they weren't satisfactory.
"No. Try it like this."
He puts his hand on top of yours and tilts the angle in which you're holding the glass. You flick your gaze to his face, his touch like electricity to your skin, burning almost. He's more beautiful up close, skin flawless like silk, a nose that points, high cheekbones. The bubbles start fizzing in the bottom of the glass and the froth builds which initiates a smile from you. You're doing it.
"See? If you hold it the way you were, then it splashes at the bottom and it goes flat."
His hand is still on yours and you both watch as it slowly fills. Such a simple touch is sparking so many different emotions. Happiness, fright, confusion, you're scared and you're sceptical but you feel adventurous and you want to step into the unknown. But not here. Not now.
"Alright girls?"
You hear a gruff voice in front of you that interrupts your little fantasy and you jump at the familiarity, quickly shake Steven's hand off of your own, subtle enough that you hope your dad doesn't see. He'll only patronise you further, interrogate you.
"Yeah Mr Brady. I was just showing Brendan how to pour a pint and keep the froth on top."
The boy isn't boasting by any means, but you still feel like a complete fool, like an idiot. Your dad glares at you with what appears to be anger, is infuriated at the fact that this boy, this council rat is better at this job than his own son. You dip your head between your shoulders in shame, can't look at him, or Steven.
"You can pour a pint eh Steven? Show me."
He demands and Steven does as asked, pours a perfect pint and you watch on, embarrassed at how he does it with such ease and how much it appeases your dad. He's about to take a sip when Steven halts him, snaps, almost gives yourself and Seamus a heart attack.
"Wait!"
He turns and snatches a lime out of one of the fridges, takes a knife and quickly chops it in half then squeezes some of the juice into the drink.
"Makes it less bitter."
Steven justifies and your father simply glares at him for a second, is taken aback by this technique. He takes takes a sip and pulls away with the froth layered across his top lip. You're writhing in jealousy because all of the pints he's had that have been poured by you, that has never happened. It may sound idiotic but this is only making you hate Steven more. You're searching for petty things, idiotic things to put you off him and divert your thoughts away from his attractions.
"Wow. Good pint son."
Oh for fuck sake.
Again, this rat of a boy gets more respect from your father than you do, more praise despite the fact that it's you who has been working here for four years, have kept the custom, have kept everything running. You get this strange urge to punch Steven in the face, purely to make yourself feel better.
"Thanks."
He says smugly, shoving his hands into his pockets, seemingly taken aback at the unexpected compliment. He rocks on his feet for a second and glances at you with a smile on his face, one that stays when he sees the fury of your own expression
"Congratulations Steven. You now work here."
WHAT?!