Hannah
I elbow through the heavy, wooden door and am welcomed to the street by a frigid breeze biting at my cheeks. The heavy bass behind me is still audible on the sidewalk and occasionally reverberates in my bones. Given that it's somewhere between 1 and 2 AM, the only people still milling about are stragglers. A hot dog vendor working a grill, a vagrant sitting outside the convenience store on the corner, and the occasional car. A non-Hollywood local would think that the city is awake all night– and parts of it could be– but it was completely dependent on the block. LA is far too large and expansive to be lively everywhere, all the time. I'd left Adam and Rachel behind, still drinking and laughing, no doubt already gameplanning on where to find the next open spot. Me, however? I'm going to bed.
My feet ache from standing and dancing for hours. My phone is at seventeen percent. I'm cold. The cute miniskirt that seemed perfect when it was still temperate and sunny taunts me now that the temperature has dropped. Tightening my cropped leather jacket, I pull up the map on my phone and watch the compass chaotically spin. Frowning, I try to look for landmarks to help me but the copious amount of $4 beers I'd been slamming proves that challenging. Let's just go this way, I think as I decisively take a step to the right. The app gives me an ETA of twenty minutes, which seemed a lot shorter before I started walking, but now I'm wondering why I didn't just order a ride. Something about saving money and being responsible. You can spend money on drinks or a ride, but not both. Sober me is an idiot.
My heels click on the sidewalk with every step, announcing my presence from half a block away. The street is empty enough to eerily amplify every sound, making the noisy bar seem like a distant memory. I foolishly hold onto hope that another establishment with people outside will be coming up, but it never does. Just more closed businesses, broken streetlights, and metaphorical tumbleweeds. My heart hammers in my chest, but I'm probably just being paranoid from watching too many true crime shows. Plenty of my friends walk home after they hit the bars and they've always been totally fine… right?
I put my nose back in my phone, staring at the little blue dot representing my location in space and counting down the minutes until I'm in my bed. Wait a second, why is my ETA now twenty-seven minutes? Shit. I've been confidently walking the wrong way and hadn't even noticed, too distracted by my mental monologue.
Spinning on my heel, I throw my shoulders back and try to look more self-assured than I feel. Don't fuck with me, my body language hopefully screams. This was a bad idea. I'm kicking myself internally, but I'm committed now. Ordering an Uber would just mean having to stand idly on this ghost town corner– I may as well see my decision through. A moving target is harder to hit… or something.
Down one of the alleys, someone cackles in a terrifying manner that makes me think they should audition for the deranged killer in a horror movie. My palms start to sweat, despite the goosebumps dotting my arms, as I uselessly clutch my house keys between my stiff fingers. I wish I were a man. They wouldn't even think twice about this walk.
Turning down a side street, my stomach drops down to my feet as I realize it's even darker and more isolated than Hollywood Boulevard was. Best case scenario was running into no one else. Worst case scenario was running into someone with malicious intent and having no one to hear me scream. My eyes subconsciously flick to my battery again, now reading a sinister eleven percent. Why didn't I charge my phone before I left? This was such a stupid idea. The $20 ride would've paid for itself in anxiety saved. If I make it home fine, I promise I'll never do this again.
My breath hitches as dull footsteps echo behind me. Too close for comfort, based on their volume. I could turn around, but that seems scarier than briskly walking while attempting to remain inconspicuous. Like a kid under the blankets, the threat doesn't exist if I don't address it. As I pick up the pace, the thuds behind me do too.
Do I run? That could escalate the situation… or am I thinking of what not to do in a mountain lion attack? Maybe I'm hearing my own footsteps? The ashy smell of a cigarette provides olfactory confirmation that I'm not letting my imagination get the best of me. My fists clench, knuckles turning white, as the tension in my body threatens to spill over.
A flash of movement on the other side of the street catches my attention. A man, staring at me with his brow furrowed, and walking determinedly down the block in the same direction I am. It's somewhat reassuring that we have some distance between us, but almost as if hearing my thoughts, he moves to cross over. My heart stutters before racing wildly. He has long, wild hair and a confident gait, black boots punctuating his stride across the asphalt. The cigarette I smelled is hanging out of the corner of his mouth and a hint of a tattoo peeks out from under his leather vest.
He's now more than halfway across the street. The lump in my throat is making it hard to breathe. I weigh my options– stab him with my keys, scream, firmly tell him to stay away, knock on a random door and hope someone is home. None of them seem great. My hands shake as I try to unlock my phone, just in case I need to call 9-1-1, but they're cold and clumsy, making me mistype the passcode over and over. Panic is bubbling up, why didn't I get the fucking Uber?
"Hey," his voice is rough and gravelly– the personification of danger. I jump at the sound and eye him warily as he falls into place next to me. Before I can open my mouth to tell him to fuck off, he interrupts me.
"You're being followed, he's about half a block back– been trailing you for about three blocks now." My eyebrows jump up in surprise, caught off guard by his announcement.
I chance a glance over my shoulder and sure enough, another man is there. He's clean cut and wearing a polo, like a typical fraternity bro, but has the shuffle of someone who had been overserved five drinks ago. The street is too dark for me to get a good look at his face. I bite my lip in contemplation– how do I know this wasn't a ploy to get me to let my guard down? If this biker man was the one following me, wouldn't it be smart to pretend we're on the same side?
Turning to face forward, I use my peripheral vision to analyze his appearance and look for clues. He's not staring creepily or making me feel uncomfortable– in fact, he keeps his eyes firmly on the pavement. Besides the tobacco, he smells good– like spicy cinnamon and earthy cedar. Do bad guys smell good? His demeanor radiates a quiet calm, not the energy I'd expect from a man waiting for his moment to pounce. And most of all, he seems much more sober than the man behind us. Blowing a slow breath through my mouth, I try to quell the swirling hurricane of my thoughts. My gut tells me he's trustworthy, and that'll have to do.
"I had no idea. Thank you for letting me know," I finally say after a long beat of silence.
"I could tell, you were staring at your phone. You lost or somethin'?"
He has a southern twang I didn't initially notice in my panic, the low timber of his voice sending tingly flutters up my spine– the good kind. He meets my gaze expectantly and I realize it's because I haven't responded, too busy admiring him. Maybe I'm drunker than I thought.
"Oh, I uh, just get turned around easily… accidentally went the wrong way at first. I was trying to will my little blue dot to go faster," I force a small laugh but it falls flat halfway out of my throat. I clear it, shoving my trembling hands into my jacket pockets.
"How far we goin'?"
I realize then that this man, this stranger, is planning to walk me to my destination. Shame prickles uncomfortably under my skin, making the people pleaser who dwells in my soul scream. He doesn't even know me.
"I'm only about another fifteen minutes, but you don't have to go out of your way…" I hesitate, even as I say it, not knowing what I'd do if he left. Despite him initially scaring me, his presence has done a lot to make me feel safer.
"Nah, it's fine. Was going this way anyway," he replies coolly, "I'm Daryl."
"Hannah. Or you can also call me 'the dumb girl who didn't shell out for a ride.'"
On cue, the footsteps behind us get closer and more purposeful. My muscles wind up tight in anticipation and dread. I don't miss the small sidestep toward me that Daryl takes, or the way he flicks his cigarette butt into the street to free his hands.
"Hey, miss," the voice slurs, blending the words into one long sound, "Is this guy bothering you?"
Daryl and I stop and turn to find an extremely intoxicated man swaying side to side. Although his overall styling is polished and well-groomed, the leer in his expression puts my hackles up. His eyes slowly trail from my feet, lingering up my body, before landing on my face. This was someone playing nice, not being nice. Daryl must see it too, because he throws a long arm around my shoulders– the weight of it warm and heavy. I immediately see the play and snake my arm behind his back.
"This guy? No, he's my boyfriend," I say with a smile that I don't mean. "Thanks though." My tone holds a finality that indicates I want this conversation to be over.
"No fuckin' way," the man replies, half amused but with an insulting undertone, "There's no way this guy could get someone as hot as you."
To his credit, Daryl doesn't even flinch– almost as if he expected him to say as much. I scowl. What the hell is he talking about? Daryl is hot as hell. He's got this backwards.
"Plus, I saw him come walking over from across the street," the drunk man adds, as if finding a hole in our story would make me say 'you know what? You're right– take me now.' Ice spreads through my veins like poison as I realize that Daryl was right– he had been watching me, and I hadn't even noticed.
"Don't know what to tell ya," Daryl swipes at his nose and I lean my head on his shoulder for extra credibility. "It would take a real asshole not to walk his girl home, so that's what I'm doin'."
Daryl's tone is neutral enough but a challenge glints in his eye, defiantly asking the man to continue pressing us. Annoyance flashes in the back of my mind– it would take a real asshole to not walk your girlfriend home, wouldn't it?
The man looks unconvinced but raises his palms in surrender. As he stumbles past, he throws one last arrogant comment over his shoulder.
"Well if you ever decide to find a real man, you know where to find me. I'll have you walking funny for a week."
I wince at the vulgar insinuation and feel Daryl's bicep tense around me. He moves to take a step forward, but I squeeze the wrist hanging over my shoulder and shake my head.
"Not worth it," I mutter. "What a dick though."
Daryl huffs but complies. We continue walking, our hips bumping occasionally. Once the man is down the block and out of sight, Daryl removes his arm from my shoulders, making me shudder from the lack of contact.
"Sorry about all that," Daryl angrily sighs, thrusting his hand into his pocket to pull out another cigarette. "You want one?"
"No thanks, I don't smoke." Suddenly, I kind of wish I did. "And you have nothing to be sorry for. You were the only thing keeping me from being alone on the street with that guy." My stomach churns at the thought. "I can't believe I didn't notice him. How did you?"
Daryl shrugs a shoulder, his fingers cupping around the flame of his lighter as he inhales.
"I hunt. A predator stalkin' their prey all looks the same," he exhales a puff of smoke, "I saw you walk by while I was takin' a smoke break, then you turned back lookin' lost. That asshole looked like he won the lottery and took off after ya," he grits his teeth and sharply inhales again, "Didn't like it."
My mind creates a compilation of every terrifying hypothetical– detailed and morbid– and plays various scenes in succession. Before the tape gets too far, his selection of words dawns on me and snaps me out of it.
"Wait… smoke break? Are you supposed to be at work right now?"
Daryl's lip lifts into a smirk, and I find myself entranced with the shape of his mouth.
"We were just closin' up, they'll be fine without me."
"Where do you work?"
"At a bar– Alexandria's. You been?" His eyes flick over to me and send heat to my cheeks. It's normal to be attracted to the man who just saved you, right? The whole damsel in distress thing?
"I can't say I have, but there's a lot of bars around here. Sometimes I don't realize I've been somewhere until I'm already inside. You like it?"
He gives a noncommittal grunt, turning my thoughts to a different kind of slideshow– all hips and lips and hands. I shake it out of my head, disgusted at my own lack of decorum.
"It's a bar, just like every other bar. They won't fire me over walkin' out midshift, so that's a perk." Guilt twists in my chest, a butterknife slowly inserting itself between my ribs. "Don't look at me like that– I'd do it again."
We round a corner and my apartment building finally comes into view– the gaslamps out front acting as a beacon and calling to me. We have frozen macaroni and cheese, warm blankets, and absolutely no pervy assholes.
"Well, thank you. You really did save me from what, at best, would've been an uncomfortable situation and, at worst, would've been a dangerous one." I throw a thumb out at my apartment. "This is me."
Daryl averts his eyes and his cheeks tinge pink, obviously uncomfortable with praise of any kind. He puts his cigarette out before using his chin to gesture to my building.
"It was nothin'– go on up. G'night, Hannah."
My breath hitches at hearing my name tumble out of his mouth. Now that we are on a well lit street, I can finally see how blue his irises are– icy and deep, perfectly contrasted by his dark hair. Someone I would be too intimidated to ever talk to in the wild.
"Night, Daryl. Maybe I'll see you around sometime." Did I sound too hopeful?
"Maybe," He replies, eyeing me skeptically.
He waits and watches me climb my steps, which strikes me as endearingly chivalrous while simultaneously making my butterfingers worse. My key just clicks into the lock when another statement from earlier finally catches up with me.
"Hey!" I whisper shout at him, not wanting to wake my block, "You said you were already going this way. How could that be if you were supposed to be working?"
He ducks his head with a smirk, giving me a drawn out, unapologetic shrug before ambling down the street. I unlock my door, but lean against the entryway to watch him go. Damn. Hot, observant, and protective? Now, that's a combination I won't soon forget.
—-
Daryl
My walk back to the bar is much less eventful than the walk to Hannah's place, although I keep my eyes peeled for that dick. I hadn't wanted to escalate the situation with her standing there, already looking tense and afraid, but I would be more than happy to revisit the discussion alone with him. My fists clench tightly in anticipation of how good it would feel to punch the crude comments out of his mouth. I absentmindedly check the time on my watch, but keep my unhurried pace. I've already been gone for the better part of an hour– may as well delay the bitching I'll hear from Jack for as long as possible.
I didn't even want this stupid job. Merle had dragged me out here, convincing me that there was an "easy gig with a fuckload of money" in it for us. You'd think I'd have learned a long time ago never to believe Merle. Once we were already here, the gig "fell through" and surprise, surprise– Merle had actually followed some chick, who had a boyfriend, and was just stringing him along. However, the lease was already signed and our shit packed, so we stayed. That was nine months ago. Since then, I've picked up random jobs to make ends meet.
After one exceptionally shitty day that involved getting sacked from a garage that mainly only did tire rotations and oil changes anyway, I'd wandered into Alexandria's for a double of whatever was cheapest. While there, I ended up meeting Jack and he mentioned that they were looking for a new bartender. I lied about my experience and the rest is history. How hard could it be to pour beers for tourists? Little did I know that Jack was the manager, and he was obsessed with making specialty versions of classic drinks until they were borderline unrecognizable. I'd heard of a gin and tonic before, but what the hell was a 'Cranberry Sugar Plum Fairy GT'?
"There he is. The prodigal son returns," Jack deadpans from across the bar as he counts a stack of bills.
I take my place behind the counter and start putting away supplies, not justifying his smart ass comment with a response.
"What? Nothing to say?" He scans me over, briefly interrupting his task of making change for tomorrow's shift. "What was it this time? Just needed to walk to Pasadena real quick to get the smokes you like?"
I roll my eyes. He's my boss, but he's also a friend and grade A pain in the ass.
"Don't matter. I came back, didn't I?" I ask gruffly, trying to get him to drop it. "I'll open tomorrow to make up for it."
He seems satisfied by my offering and picks up the cashbox, heading to his office to finish up.
"I'm taking all the tips from after midnight, too!"
"Dick," I grumble to myself before eyeing the clock. It's already 3 AM and we open at 11, giving me just enough time to get home, sleep, and wake up to do it all again.
Even knowing I'll be tired in the morning, I don't regret following my instincts with Hannah. I'm still coming down from the adrenaline, including the parts I'd left out to her– like that I'd had to briskly cut through alleys to reach her before he did. It pisses me off that she can't go to a bar and walk home, like I've done a million times. The way he stared her up and down, practically eye-fucking her legs in that skirt… he looked at her like she was a piece of meat.
Disappointment heaves in my stomach at the realization that I probably won't see her again– quickly followed by annoyance that I even care. I hardly know her, so it shouldn't matter. Probably displaced feelings from getting her whole "you're a hero" speech, that made me both want to die and made me feel ten feet tall.
Once the closing up duties are done, I peek my head into Jack's office to say goodbye before heading home. Merle has the truck for some late night construction job, or so he says, so I have to walk. I zip my Carhartt jacket up and turn down the sidewalk, mentally calculating how much sleep I can get if I shower and eat as fast as humanly possible.
Our apartment is less than a mile away, so I'm there before I know it. Throwing the door open, I find Merle knocked out on the couch– snoring with a beer bottle still perched in his lap. A trail of items are scattered around him, perfectly displaying the path of his chaos. Typical.
"Merle," I grunt, heading to the fridge to see what we have and sighing in disappointment, "Get your ass up and go to bed."
He doesn't stir, just merely snores with an even more oppressive volume– loud enough to wake the dead. I grab a slice of cold pizza, a few days too old to be remotely good anymore, and kick at his boot as I say his name again. He wakes with a start, sloshing beer onto his pants, and glares at me.
"Well, good morning to you too, Darlina."
"Go to bed," I repeat, toeing my own boots off and heading to my room. I flop down on my bed and put an arm behind my head. As I chew on stale crust, images of auburn hair cascading down a tight leather jacket replay over and over. I can still feel her head on my shoulder and smell the vanilla scent of her hair.
—-
My alarm blares next to my ear and I groan as I smack it with my palm until it stops. Rubbing my eyes, I sit up and try to remember why the fuck I'm waking up early on a Saturday. Drunk asshole following a girl. Hannah. Hazel eyes. Leaving Jack to close alone. Offering to open to make up for it. Shit.
After taking a cold shower and forcing my groggy ass out the door, I find myself back at Alexandria's. The morning goes by in a blur of ingredient prep and serving our few weekend regulars. Tequila, vodka, beer– it's all the same to me. Nondescript drinks for nondescript people. Thankfully, Jack allows my brusque customer service and direct attitude.
Stacking an order of pints on a tray, I offhandedly note a new customer at a corner table with their back to the bar. Carefully balancing the full tray on my hands, I throw a menu on their tabletop as I pass by, hardly slowing my pace.
"I'll be back in a minute."
"Actually, I already know what I want."
A familiar voice gives me pause and I watch in slow motion as they slip off their black beanie to reveal tumbling curls. I greedily inhale warm vanilla, trying to commit it to memory. It's more intoxicating than I remember. My heartbeat lurches into my throat, making it hard to speak.
"Er, what are you doing here?"
"Well, I was feeling awfully thirsty and I heard about this great spot from someone who totally saved my life yesterday. Thought I'd check it out." Despite the confidence in her words, her hands wring in her lap as she nervously bites her lip. "If this is weird, I can go."
"Nah, sorry– just caught me off guard. What can I get ya?"
"My go-to is always an old fashioned. With bourbon, not rye."
I raise an eyebrow in surprise– most people who order old fashioneds are hipsters and octogenarian men. Not cute girls with pretty smiles and delicate features.
"You a purist?"
"Mm, I'm open to surprises." She leans her chin in her hand and looks up at me through her lashes.
Am I making it up or is her tone flirty? I feel my cheeks burn, but give her a nod and leave before I can embarrass myself further. Muscle memory takes over as I muddle sugar into a glass and pour bourbon over ice. What does it mean that she showed up here? What the hell does she want with me? I finish up her drink and place it in front of her.
"This one is traditional, just to see if ya like the way I make them," I explain, hesitating. "The next one will be a surprise, if ya want another."
She pulls the drink to her and takes a sip, as I shift my weight from one foot to the other. Usually, I don't stick around to get a review of what I've made. She breaks into a content grin as she swallows, allowing me to exhale the tense breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.
"So good! Seriously, maybe the best I've ever had." She eagerly takes another sip.
"I can't claim all the credit– Jack imports some fancy, high quality bourbon which helps the flavor."
She shakes her head with a pointed look.
"I've had good bourbon before. This is definitely a work of art– compliments to the chef," she brightly declares, giving me a wink. "Most places don't do them right."
My pulse thumps wildly, officially marking the line where my comfort level had existed and was left in the dust. I'd initially worried she wouldn't like it, but her singing my praises potentially felt worse. Not able to handle any more of this interaction, I wordlessly walk back to the bar, finding someone who hasn't been greeted yet and running through the motions of serving them. Despite all my effort going into forgetting about Hannah sitting a few feet away, I find my mind– and eyes– drawn to her frequently. It's like forgetting I'm in the same room as a house fire. Exciting and terrifying. She should be less scary to me than an open flame, but she's not. Sure, I may be physically safe with women, but emotionally? That's unclear, and those scars tended to last far longer.
It's not like I haven't entertained attention from strangers over the years. I'm a surly bartender in a party area full of tourists– it's not exactly a challenge. However, I don't usually walk them home or spend much time actually speaking to them. They've never made me feel like an offhanded comment could pull me apart and put me back together again. Usually, we didn't see each other again– for everyone's benefit. I tried to avoid meeting them through work and if I did, I ensured they would only be in town briefly. The physical act of sex and attraction has always lived exclusively in its own lane, far away from my day to day life. It's easier that way– feels less unpredictable and risky, even if it means sacrificing some of the intensity and meaning. No chance of feelings means no chance of disappointment.
Hannah stares into a book with her head bowed, quietly reading, and occasionally sipping from her lowball glass. A strand of hair has fallen in front of her face and I'm overcome with the urge to push it back, wanting an unobscured view of every expression. Her lips are rosy pink and slightly wet with whiskey. How would it feel to lick it off? What sound would she make if I did? She narrows her eyes at whatever she sees on the page, completely oblivious to how hard she is making it for me to actually work.
"Hey, buddy?"
The middle aged man at the end of the bar is raising his unfilled glass and tapping it, in the condescending way I hate. I sigh and pour him another from the tap, sliding the pint down to him as I take his empty. Glancing around, I mentally note that everyone seems to be served and content, giving me some time to talk to the girl who had, for whatever reason, come to see me.
I quickly pull a mix of ingredients into a new glass, taking extra care to make it well. My limbs feel awkward as I head over to her, all clunky and out of place. Sliding the drink across the table, I push myself into the empty seat beside her, fighting the urge to make an asshole comment and run.
"Your surprise."
She jumps at my voice, for the second time in twenty-four hours– apparently so enraptured with her book that she hadn't noticed my presence.
"Oh! Thank you. Let's see," she takes a sip and her eyes widen in surprise and what I hope was some form of delight. "How interesting… I'm getting… coffee? And maybe a little chocolate?" She takes another sip to check. "Definitely coffee."
I nod, trying to keep my eyes from lingering on her lips and the way her tongue slips out to brush them. My mouth is suddenly dry and my pants are a little too tight.
"That's our espresso old fashioned. Kind of a pain in the ass to make, but was a hit when we had it," I explain, chewing on my cheek. It's a pretty divisive flavor profile and I had taken a shot in the dark on her preferences. "There's some chocolate bitters too, so you got both flavors right."
"I love it. Anything coffee is a win," she gushes and warm relief spreads throughout my body like honey. A smile like that could get a man in a lot of trouble. "When you had it? Is this an off menu concoction?"
"Currently it is. We always have the ingredients, but Jack has us add a variation of a classic cocktail every month or so. That one is from about six months ago, so people have forgotten it by now."
Glowing happily at me over the glass, she takes another sip and closes her book, putting it back in her bag which was casually tossed on the chair next to her.
"I really like it here. It's very lowkey for Hollywood. Almost feels like a library mixed with a cozy cabin," she remarks, looking around the space. "I could read in here forever."
She's not far off. An eclectic mix of furniture is scattered around the room, ranging from plush reading chairs to classic leather booths and wooden stools. A bookshelf with plants and paperbacks lines one of the walls, while exposed brick and ambient lighting makes up the other side. It had initially caught my attention that fateful day because it felt like a perfect blend of a mellow dive bar and something more special. Comfortable and familiar, but refined too.
"How long have you worked here?" It's the type of question I usually hate because no one actually gives a shit, but the way she's looking at me makes me feel like she might.
"About seven months." The longest I'd ever actually held the same job. I rack my brain, trying to think of what to say next. I'm good at ending conversations, not keeping them going. "Bartendin' ain't somethin' I'd ever done before but they had an openin' and I needed a job."
"I've always wanted to be a bartender," she laughs while I instinctively avert my eyes to the floor, defensiveness blazing in my chest.
"Yeah, sure you have," I bite back.
"No, seriously! It seems like one of the only jobs where you can tell people to fuck off. Plus you can make all your favorite drinks at home? Talk about a useful skillset."
I tentatively raise my gaze to meet her eyes, the vice around my throat tightening in fear of what I'll find, but I don't see any sarcasm or the shit eating grin Merle typically wears when he's ribbing me. Her face holds only sincerity. My anger dissipates like a flame under water as I try to recover the conversation.
"You'd think so but after makin' drinks for everyone else all day, I reach for a beer over anythin' else."
"I can see that," she adds breezily, seemingly not noticing my brief shift in mood. "I'm a nurse and the last thing I wanna do after taking care of people all day is go home and take care of someone else." Her eyes flash with something unreadable. "What's your drink of choice– if you're not making it?"
I scratch at my chin, buying myself time.
"Probably, whiskey– like you. Straight up though."
"Well, that doesn't sound like a lot of effort to make yourself at home," she teases. I find myself smiling, despite a small part of me not wanting to. Hiding behind the walls I've built has kept me safely concealed thus far.
"Nah, the problem ain't the work– it's my brother. Never met a bottle he couldn't finish or a fight he didn't want to pick after. We live together," I finish, feeling self conscious about our shared apartment for the first time. Hannah doesn't react other than to hum in agreement.
"Yeah, that'll do it. I understand him a little. I always say I like tequila but it doesn't like me. I don't fight, but it makes me a little…" she trails off, trying to find the right word.
"Impulsive?"
"That sounds nicer than what I was going to say, so let's go with that." She pulls the glass back up to her lips and finishes the last sip of her drink.
"You want another?" I ask, not ready for her to go– even though I know I should probably get back behind the bar. She shakes her head sheepishly.
"I think a third would definitely be a bad idea. These are strong and they don't sneak up on you so much as punch you in the face."
Her flush and giggly demeanor demonstrate her point, easing my fear that she's lying and trying to get out of talking to me. I hate that it's even a thought in my head. I watch her put her beanie back on and it hits me that this might actually be the last time I ever see her. I don't want to care, but the thought sits cold and heavy in my chest. I swallow thickly, the words tumbling out of my mouth before I can stop them.
"Why'd you come?"
I catch her off guard and she stills, cocking her head as a lazy smile spreads. She gives a shrug with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.
"Just wanted to. See you some other time, Daryl."
I'm too dazed by hearing my name on her lips in the light of day that she's gone before I can even formulate a reply. I already know I'll be looking for her in every customer I serve for the rest of the week.
A first chapter is born! Ugh, this took me stupidly long to edit. If no one reads this, I will abandon ship and focus on Evermore, but it's kind of fun to have one in zombie-reality and one outside of it. Hopefully this was a fun read :)