The Bucket List

2.2 The Dive

The night quickly descends into chaos.

"Behind you." I brush past TJ, reaching for a stack of glasses near his station.

He barely acknowledges my existence. I don't blame him. Between the bachelorette party and the plastered golfers, we're slammed. The gym rats are still hanging around, but they've relocated to a high top in the back corner, wedged between the window and one of the ancient pool tables. Not an ideal spot.

The one in the black tee keeps throwing TJ appreciative looks. I groan internally. So much for the you can crash at my place pity offer. TJ, as it turns out, will have his hands full tonight.

Gabby hurries down the bar, aiming for the linen closet to my left. It's where we hide all the random odds-and-ends, including the heating unit that keeps our stock of fried pickles nice and warm. The pickles are a signature item, made fresh every night down at Pete's Seaside Grill, the sister joint across town.

"Almost out," she warns me, brandishing a fresh platter of the greasy delicacies. I sniff the basket as she passes, mouth watering.

"Sweetheart," one of the golfers calls. David, with the receding hairline and watery eyes. "Hey, sweetheart?"

An internal sigh. I face him with a bright smile. "Hey, babe. What can I do for you?"

He taps his half-empty glass of scotch. "Top me off?"

One of his buddies snickers. Probably because he has the humor of a tenth grader.

But I'm not complaining. That's what the low-cut tank and ripped shorts are for: inappropriate comments and the cash to back them up. So I wink. "Sure thing."

I fill his glass, still smiling. Always smiling. Right on cue, he slips a twenty across the bar. "Appreciate it, darlin'."

I pocket the cash with another salacious wink. "This is why you're my favorite, David."

"Red alert, red alert," TJ whispers behind my back.

Taking care to hide my expression from the golfers, I twist around, eyes wide with alarm. "What? What's wrong?"

"Larissa," he hisses, slipping into the linen closet. I stiffen. He emerges seconds later with a stack of napkins, a pleasant enough smile on his face. But the panicked look in his eyes reads differently.

Feigning indifference, I lean against the backbar, ignoring the bite of the register as it digs into my spine. Receipts we've accumulated over the course of the night are impaled on a silver spike near my fingers, and I fiddle with them now, pretending to look through our tips.

But I'm not paying attention to the lackluster numbers. Not at all. Because out of the corner of my eye, I can see her.

Larissa Carrara. My lying, cheating, cold-hearted bitch of an ex.

"Bathroom break," I blurt, suave front forgotten. TJ doesn't look my way but nods all the same, focusing on whatever concoction he's putting together for Larissa and—and whoever the hell she's with. I bolt before I can get a good look, slipping into the linen closet and closing the door behind me.

Chest heaving, I flick on the light and lock myself in the employee's only bathroom, and only once I'm sure I'm alone do I blow out a long, shaking breath. "Fuck."

The light over the sink flickers. I stare at my reflection—and hate what I see.

Sweaty hair pulled back in an unkempt bun. Dark circles under equally dark eyes. From the stress, or from the lack of coffee? A toss up.