Shy ✦ Héctor Bellerín

Shy {The Start}

I clean up the bar table, putting all bottles in place. A certainly familiar sensation takes over my mind.

Frustration.

I still was not used this.

You will get there, I encourage myself. Not like I had a choice anyway. No one is going to pay the bills for me.

I almost jump when the door creaks open.

For the love of God, I forgot to lock it again.

"We're closed!" I yell. "Sorry."

"Oh, are you?" A low, feminine slurred from across the room. I look up to see a woman stumbling in.

"Careful," I find myself darting out the counter to keep her from falling on her face. "I am sorry, but we are closed, miss." It didn't take a genius to guess she was intoxicated.

Her golden locks tickled my forearms, her pointed nails painfully digging into my skin as she leaned on me. I will myself not to wince.

"Sorry, I am sorry," she looked at me, her green eyes half closed. He face was familiar — it took a moment to realize that she has visited earlier this night and stayed for a good long while. "I... forgot my purse," she stammered. "Here," she patted over a chair. I pull her to make her sit on it.

"Please give me a minute," I politely chide, going across the counter to open the last drawer, where usually forgotten items lay. "Is it this one, miss?" I asked, holding up a beautiful navy Dior bag.

"Ah, yes!" She exclaimed, snatching it off my hand. "Thank you."

"I am sorry to repeat, but we're closed," I say softly, scratching the back of my head.

"I needed a taxi," she mutters to herself. "Where would I get a taxi here?"

"I don't think that taking a taxi would be a very good idea at this time," I tell her.

"Oh?" She rests her head in awkward angle at the table.

"I could call an Uber for you," I offer, turning around to fetch my phone from the store. "Please tell me your address," I say as I click open the Uber app.

Isabelle did not reply, and after a minute or so, I looked up from my phone. I wince when I see her dozed off on the counter.

"Are you serious?" I squeak to myself and shake her a little. "Miss? Please wake up."

Nope.

She wouldn't budge.

"Miss?"

I contemplate slapping her awake.

Or maybe pouring a bottle of tequila over her.

Or I could call an ambulance and say she fainted.

As I was measuring my odds, her phone started to chime inside her purse. I hurry and fish it out of a heap of nonsense in the bag, and see the screen flashing BELLS ❤️💏 as the caller.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

I slide my thumb across the screen and press the phone to my ear.

"Hello?" I timidly speak.

"Isabella? Where the hell are you?" A thick, smooth male voice yelled from the other side.

"I am speaking from the Bycrest grill, sir. I am afraid Miss Isabella is sleeping, and I can't seem to wake her up," I say. "It would be very helpful if you could pick her up."

"Wait — sleeping? In a grill?"

"Uh, yes," I bite my lip. "It's beyond closing hours, sir. Please inform someone she knows if you can't pick her up —"

"No, hold on," he cuts me off. "Tell me the address of the grill."

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