The Queen of Lies

Chapter 1: Briar

Ten years later

The commotion commencing in front of me has my jaw clenching as I wipe down the bar. Two burly men stand, ready to fight each other over what I could only assume is the girl dressed scantily in the corner where the both of them were previously sitting at. She giggles, flipping her obviously home-dyed, bleach blonde hair, and sends a wink to both men.

"She's mine," The guy on the left says. In comparison to his competitor, he's more toned in muscle with a sharp jawline and buzzed hair. He's definitely a lady killer.

Eye roll.

"She said she was coming home with me tonight," The other guy all but smirks in Mr. Buzzcut's face. In his defense, he's also very good looking. Not as muscular, but tall, standing at a solid six foot five. These guys could definitely duke it out for a good amount of time before one pummels the other. Well, depending if they were that desperate for some action.

Cue another eye roll.

I huff and decide that this little, "who has the bigger dick competition," has gone on for a little too long. As much as I hate to step in between these kinds of ordeals, it is my bar, and I have a strict "No Fighting" policy for my customers.

"Boys, boys, get over yourself and let's break it up before you both get hurt. Huh?" I say as I walk over to the two guys, who are still actively sizing each other up to see who is going to throw the first punch. They both look down at me, and I track their eye movement traveling further down my body.

I've never been what you would classify as a "tall person." My height only ever reached five foot five. Which comes in handy when picking things up off of the floor, or grabbing things in low places. But, reaching the top shelf of my bar? No. I have a step stool and specifically hire tall employees for that reason. And as much as I hate to admit this to myself, I also love a big, strong man.

Oops, sorry feminists.

"Oh yeah? What are you going to do about it?" Mr. Buzzcut smirks in my face. His hot breath hits my face, smelling of warm beer. My nose wrinkles as his competitor chuckles a response to the question.

I cross my arms and pop my hip smirking, "Well boys, I'm going to call the cops. Then while we're waiting, I'm going to beat you both senseless with the bat that I have behind the bar." I flash them a smile and watch the thought process, as minimal as it is for these boneheads, flash behind their eyes. As I turn and stalk back over to the bar to retrieve my handy-dandy weapon of choice, they just gave each other a look and go their separate ways, grumbling as I laugh at their stupidity.

I stop laughing, "Awe, I was so looking forward to breaking the new bat in boys. Well maybe another time."

I put the bat back on the shelf under the register at the end of the bar and watch as they make faces of fear.

Most of the people who are regulars at my bar know what happened to the last bat I had. It had finally broken into two when I smashed it over some gang member's head for breaking one of my bar stools in a drunken fight with another regular over, you guessed it, a chick.

A third and final eye roll.

Though I have had to unfortunately use the bat multiple times before that, from bar fights to break-ins, that was the final straw for my poor, sweet bat "Bernice."

Though bats are not my weapon of choice, they are the most efficient as far as cleanup. I own a pistol, but I keep it in my car or in my house. To me, guns have always escalated a situation to become more violent than it needed to be. The bat was just easier, and I preferred it that way.