Hard to Love

5. Laura

Picking up the twenty off the polished wooden counter, I turn on my heels to face the register. My sneakers slip easily on the worn linoleum floor as I tick my blunt nails against the metal buttons until I hear the ping and the cash register opens.

How much shit could he have possibly gotten into in just an hour and a half last night? Every time I know he's out there, doing something—something that could get him killed—I watch the clock like it's going to have answers for me.

Like last night. I glance at the clock that never has anything for me but how long he's been gone. I stared at it for an hour and a half, making small talk in between and drinking with Roman while he watched the clock on his phone like he was waiting for something too.

I was sitting there feeling every tick of the clock squeeze my heart harder and harder when Seth sat down next to me on the leather bench in the back of the Clubhouse, put his arm over my shoulder and kissed my jaw. He was happy and relaxed, like there's not a worry in the world.

Before I could even speak, he was making me want to thank him. "I know I'm late, but I grabbed you the vodka you like," he said.

It's Grey Goose Citron and the bar was out of it. So yeah, I wanted to thank him.

Touching me, kissing me, giving me gifts and acting like he got stuck in traffic on the way down here.

One shot and thirty minutes later, I was laughing along with everyone else. Feeling the ease of being among friends. Even if half of them knew what Seth was doing last night and I still don't.

"Thanks for the beer," Mickey says from the far end of the bar. "Keep the change." The wrinkles around his eyes deepen when he gives me a wave and heads for the door. He's a regular. Well, a regular during the day. At night things are different; busier, louder, more... intense. Technically we're closed then and it's just a hangout. The crew—and us—aren't charged. We kick out anyone who isn't one of us due to the "private party." It's always intense, and a good time if I'm being honest, when the crew is here.

The "private parties" are what got me through so much shit.

During the day, it's just a slow old Irish bar. Lunchtime always picks up though, right about now.

"Thanks, Mick," I call out to my regular before he can make it through the exit. The front door is old wood, dark brown except for a little black on the outside of it. Where the fire from next door caught it a few years back. The bar is in need of updating, but Seth and the guys say they like to see the memories. I get that. I like to see the memories too.

"Good luck on the test," Mick calls back to me and I flash him a smile. His bill was only twelve bucks, so I scoop eight bucks from the register and slip the cash in the back of my anatomy book that's open next to the register. I keep my finger wedged in the pages I'm reading though. I can't lose my place.

With the pen in my hand, tapping it against the notebook, I take tabs on the three remaining guests. Two are women, whispering over large pours of red wine in the back corner at a high top table. The picture frames above their heads are of the old times. Black-and-white prints from when Connor's family first came here from Ireland. Those are my favorite pictures in the bar.

The women's glasses are still relatively full, although twenty minutes ago, they were sucking the wine down like I'd given them water. The look on the brunette's face combined with a few whispers I heard tells me she most likely dumped someone, or got dumped.

Either way, they're good for another chapter of notes.

The other patron is another regular, staring up at the TV above the leather bench I sat on practically all last night. An old soccer game is on. Or a new one. I don't know and I don't care; sports aren't my thing. I assume it's an old one though, judging by how Cormac doesn't yell, "Oh, come on!" every five to ten minutes.