Asylum

Chapter 7: One Right Guy

A couple hours after midnight, technically Friday morning

He wasn't coming.

I absently rimmed a wide-mouthed margarita glass with salt and set it on the rail. I threw a scoop of ice into a pounder and poured in the new drink's ingredients before slapping the cocktail shaker on top of it. I spun the coupled containers a few times on my palm to mix the drink, gave them a final ferocious vertical shake, then strained the dark red liquid into the glass.

"What's it called again?" the tiny woman with a pink-dyed pixie cut asked me. The jeweled choker she had lashed around her throat bobbed as she swallowed a cautious sip.

"A Bloodbath," I tossed over my shoulder as I pulled a pint of Stella for Tiny Tinkerbell's hulking companion.

I collected the cash off the bar and mechanically made change for the couple, acknowledging the tip with a tight toothless smile instead of my usual megawatt grin. Whatever. My outfit wasn't screaming "friendly" tonight anyway.

I hadn't been able to pull together the intimated Batgirl ensemble on such short notice, so I'd opted for the next best chiropteran-themed wardrobe choice available: the nowadays ubiquitous vampire. A modern one, though; no Bela Lugosi capes or slicked black widow's peaks. More of a nod to Jim Jarmusch vamps than an homage to any of the Hammer Horror films.

I had brushed a hefty dose of baby powder through my hair to dull the natural shine, limited my makeup choices to a monochromatic pale, and used only the white thickening coat of a dual-step mascara set to make my long lashes all but vanish. A high-collared, form-fitting black silk mini dress with rich whorls of oriental-inspired embroidery completed the look; I figured that no one could see the incongruous gray high-tops I wore behind the bar, and they were so much more comfortable than any of my more visually appropriate selections.

Of course, now in retrospect, I really needn't have put so much effort into the look. I looked at my watch: 2:32am. I jerked my chin at the next set of customers in silent acknowledgement and started preparing their ordered tequila shots.

I had been practically floating for the first half of my shift, splitting my focus between my thirsty bar patrons, Glory (who was on a tear about her boyfriend and some skank who'd been sniffing around him for a couple of weeks), and the back hallway, where I'd expected to see Ivan – or at least Marshall or Mateo – silhouetted against the dimly lit, dark red walls at any second.

I'd still held out hope of his arrival all through my break, waiting for the door of the employees' lounge to crack open and compulsively checking my phone in case he sent a text. But when 1:30am rolled around, I'd had to head back to my station and face the fact that I probably wasn't going to see him tonight.

I stuffed three lime wedges in the necks of three Coronas and collected the money. I knew I was being silly, but that self-awareness wasn't helping at all. This wasn't summer camp, I chided myself; twenty-seven was too old for that I-know-we-just-met-but-I-can't-stand-being-away-from-you-for-even-a-second level of infatuation.

I sighed. It probably didn't help that I had grown used to seeing him almost every day for nearly a month, and actually had spent nearly every minute of the past ... let's see, six times twenty-four, plus eight and a half ... 152.5 hours together. I was quite sure that this kind of obsession wasn't even healthy.

"Just who does he think he is, anyway?"

It took me a moment to realize that Glory had spouted that vitriolic dismissal out loud; it was not, as I'd first thought, part of my internal monologue veering in a new direction. I supposed there should be some comfort in the fact that I wasn't the only pathetic, lovesick woman behind the bar at Asylum tonight.