The Bucket List

8 The Bucket List

"Can you hold the bar down tonight?"

TJ never asks for favors. I frown, fiddling with the ring of keys. The sun is just beginning to kiss the far horizon, bathing the Dive's shabby wooden facade in hues of gold and orange. "Of course. You good?"

"Never better." He sighs. "Can't say the same for my truck."

"Ah." I nod, wedging the phone against my shoulder and forcing open the back door. It gives an almighty screech. "Car trouble. At least you have a car."

"Truck," he corrects. A reflex.

"Truck," I concede. "Okay, boss. Gabby and I will take care of things."

He makes a noise—a mix between a cough and a squeak. "About that..."

I kick the door closed with my hip, instantly suspicious. "About what?"

"Gabby's off tonight. You're training one of the newbies."

"What?" The phone slips from my shoulder and falls to the floor. Cursing, I retrieve it and put him on speaker. "TJ—"

"Mara." He sounds desperate. "You know we need the help."

I duck beneath the service station and throw my salad on the backbar. "I know. A little warning would have been nice."

Training newbies is always a pain in the ass. But these last four weeks have been hell, with unsustainable hours that are slowly but surely burning us all the hell out. Hence the new hires.

TJ groans. "I know, I know. I'll make it up to you."

"No need." There's another screech as the back door opens. I almost drop the phone a second time, but when I see who it is shoving their way inside, I sigh, irate. "TJ? Don't worry about it. I've got to go. Good luck with the car."

"Truck—"

I hang up. "Most people knock before bursting into establishments they do not, in fact, own or work in."

Nicholai doesn't look nearly as contrite as he should. Unsurprising. With a careless shrug, he wrestles with the door—I grimace at the noise—and joins me at the bar. I plant my good hand on my hip; the other has been bothering me all week, no thanks to my impromptu lawn brawl with his ex.

"You were in the neighborhood?" I prompt. I'm surprised to see him—surprised and relieved. We haven't spoken since the Punching Incident, and my paranoia has suffered for it. I was starting to think he wanted to terminate our contract.

He doesn't answer right away. I busy myself with my salad, ripping open the bag of utensils with my teeth. Nicholai watches me in silence, betraying nothing.

Two can play at that game.

I spear a piece of grilled chicken on my fork, contemplating each individual leaf of lettuce—anything to keep my fat mouth shut. I won't give Nicholai the satisfaction—

"I want to apologize."

I pretend not to hear him. Forty-seven leaves. Nine pieces of chicken—

"Amara?"

"Nicholai." I push the salad away and clasp my hands together. "If you're here to fire me—"

"Fire you?"

"For decking your ex, yes."

"Oh. That." He smirks, and the tension between us eases somewhat. "She had it coming."

"I mean, yeah—"

"Would you prefer it if I fired you?"

The question is ludicrous. "No. Obviously not."