5
Coyote Bills
B ringing Sam into the bar feels like I'm walking through a dream. Everything is probably going to be fine, but anxiety ripples up anyway. Thankfully, it's not Fire Night, but the air is thick and syrupy. Humidity clogs my pores, weighing down my hair.
"You're going to fucking die in here tonight," I say over my shoulder to Sam. I hadn't even thought about it while we were on our way over. With her sweater dress, she's going to overheat. I should have told her to change. "It's almost always lava-hot here, but the humidity is a bonus."
"Well, then, it's a good thing I'm good at shedding layers," Sam smirks, rolling up her sleeves.
I snort at the dad-level joke. "Yes, yes, it is."
Ivy is probably in the back somewhere since I don't see her behind the bar, so that is where I lead Sam. A peek through the kitchen window tells me that Cook is absolutely throwing down in there, but no Ivy. When I open the door enough to fit my head through, I ask Cook if he knows where she is.
"Downstairs, Darlin'," He answers with a wave of his knife, immediately returning to prepping ingredients.
"Can you prep us a couple plates? I brought a new Coyote," I ask.
"You got it!" He answers without pausing his frying, chopping, and plating.
"Thanks, Pookie!" I say, blowing him a kiss as I close the kitchen door behind me. Then, I take off my long sleeve and stow it in the small office.
"I guess you get a tour, too, Sammy," I say, waving my arms around like a flight attendant. "Over here, you see the shitters, and here, oh, here is a nice wall. And then this, you'll see, is the dungeon where we keep people who don't pay their tabs!" I chortle while Sam follows me down the stairs. I can already hear Ivy laughing at my joke, kegs clanging as she rearranges them.
"Telling all my secrets to the newbie already, are you Arty?" Ivy jeers, wiping her hands off on a rag.
"Nah, just looping her in on our scheme, so she's an accomplice now," I reply, and Sam snorts behind me. "Ivy, this is Sam, Sam, this is Ivy, otherwise known as Boss Lady." I introduce them, and they politely shake hands.
"Have you ever worked in a bar?" Ivy asks, leaning against one of the support beams.
"Yeah, but it's been a few years. It's the mixed drinks I don't remember much of. Other than a marg. I can make a mean margarita," Sam replies, doing a little shoulder shimmy.
"That I can attest to," I agree, nodding my head. Sam has made me more than a few pitchers of margs throughout our friendship.
"I'm sure Arty here has given you a run down on the Slap Shot booth?" Ivy asks, crossing her arms.
"Yeah. I'm always down to slap people!" Sam replies with a bright smile, rubbing her palms together.
"Well, alright then. You will get heat stroke in that sweater, though, so let me find you a Coyote tee," With a wave of her hand, Ivy leads us back upstairs.
"Did you get more of the oversized ones?" I ask, wanting to grab another. And maybe a normal-sized one to crop.
"Yeah. You guys can sell them at the bar, too. I hung one up the other night and sold an absolute truckload of them."
"Mostly girls buying them?" I ask, a wry smile stretching my lips as I follow her into the office.
"Yes," Ivy replies with a huff.
"Beautiful. I told you people would buy them."
" Yeah, yeah. What size do you want, Sam?" Ivy asks, opening a box.
" Um, 3XL, I guess," Sam shrugs.
"Can I get another?" I blurt.
"What happened to yours?" Ivy sasses back.
"Nothing. I am just a rat girl and need to have multiples." That makes us all laugh while Ivy hands Sam and me new shirts.
"Fair enough. Are you going to set up the booth together?"
"Sure am," I reply, grinning.
"Beautiful. Welcome aboard, Sam."
"Thanks, happy to be here."
"Let's go," I order my friend, pulling her towards the bathrooms so she can change. Then, we'll see Cook to get our plates of tacos. Hopefully, he plated extras because I right about now I feel as if I could eat my body weight in them. The entire bar smells fucking incredible.
Sam emerges from the bathroom moments later, a new Coyote tee floating around the tops of her tanned thighs. I raise an eyebrow, giving her a golf clap because she looks fantastic .
"Don't worry, I have a jumpsuit under. I didn't know how cold it would be here," She shrugs, folding her sweater dress into a neat pile. "Is there somewhere I can set this?" Sam asks, holding up her cube of dress.
"Yeah, you can put it with my shirt, but now it's taco time ," I grin, leading my friend through the bar that practically feels like a second home.
"Fuck yea, taco time!" Sam hoots, pumping her fist in the air behind me.
The first few hours of the hour shift pass in a blur. Sam gets along with everyone, so I'm not surprised when she and Angel start singing along with the jukebox, using liquor bottles like microphones and swaying their hips with the beat. I've already shown her the line steps of the Fire night dance, and naturally, she took to it like, well, an anaconda in water.
Now that it's slapshot hour, Sam is next to me at our little corner of the bar with a sly smile on her face. "So it goes without saying that we can't actually hurt anyone, right?" I ask my friend, searching for the laminated shots menu on the back bar.
"Duh," Sam replies, rolling her eyes.
I laugh and say, "I'm just checking. Patrons can only order off this menu during slap shots," I tell my friend, giving the menu a little shimmy. "They pay, we slap, they drink. Easy peasy."
Sam claps her hands and rubs them together, saying, "Can't wait. Do I have to take off my rings?"
I give her a little backward finger wave, showing the stacks on my fingers that rarely come off these days, and answer with a simple "no." I've been in the Forge off and on with Jay, and eventually, when I get bored in his office with him, I go down and sit next to Dante and doodle on ring blanks. Some turn out good, others awful. A decent amount of my crafts are sold in the store.
I've uncovered some hidden talent in the Forge while waiting for Jay. The ability to turn my brain off while etching into the metal is, to be frank, a mother fucking blessing.
"Oh, those are new," Sam coos, grabbing my fingers and examining each one.
"Don't get too excited. I made them all. There are no promise rings or engagement rings or anything of the sort to be found on this chipped, manicured hand," I assure my friend, knowing that is what Sam is truly searching for.
Sam tosses my hand away with a dramatic sigh, saying, "Ugh, boring. I thought you were baiting me with another engagement. I like him this time."
"Nah. Glad to know you like him though."
"He makes you happy, so yeah, I'd say he's a vast improvement over the shithead you dumped."
"I would have to agree with you on that, my friend," I reply, and then the Slap Shot mix comes across the PA system, and I flick the light switch to the neon sign of a hand. Just like that, customers line up before us, stepping up to the bar with bills clutched between fingers.
"Here we go," I say, taking the first customer's order. "What are you drinkin'?"
"Whiskey," The guy says, not even looking at the menu.
"Any particular one?" I ask, sliding the menu towards him.
"Don't care, give me whatever swill this twenty will buy me in a shot; it'll do," He answers, slapping his money down.
With a gracious smile, I pluck his money off the bar, take it back to the register, deposit five for his shot, and then demurely place the remaining fifteen into the tip jar in full view of him and everyone else. Then, without preamble, I pour him his five-dollar shot and slide it over the bar to him without letting go. "I slap you, then you drink. Got it?"
"Sure, and the reason you took my money without asking?"
"Dickhead surcharge." I deadpan, smiling sweetly. The crowd behind him oohs loudly enough that it's really a feat of strength to keep my laughter contained. "Ready?" The man nods, bracing himself against the bar. Without another word, I smack him, and he staggers, apparently thrown off guard by the hit. I never understood when they did that. They're fucking paying for it. "Drink," I order, sliding the shot glass towards him.
As the man's cheek turns red and he downs his shot, I turn to Sam and ask, "Any questions?"
She grins and chirps, "Nope!"
The rest of the night passes in a blur, Sam and I churning shots out in tandem. When we close, counting out the tip jars, I have difficulty doing the math. I make Ivy count the total for me, too.
Even splitting the tips for Slap Shots, tonight was one of the best nights for tips I've had yet.