- VANESSA -
Theo's Bar is crowded tonight. It's smoky and loud, and I love every second of it.
"Behind you," Chris says, reaching for a bottle before pouring four shot glasses and passing them over the bar. "You're having way too much fun," he says, taking the tip that was left and depositing it into our jar.
"No I'm not," I grunt, but I can't wipe the smile off of my face. "I hate this job."
"Sure you do."
"I do! I'm doing this to save for college."
"To save for college, right," he nods, recalling my made-up story. "You can have my share of tips tonight, V."
"No way." I glare at him. "I know you need it just as much as I do."
Chris needs it so much more than I do. Everything I've ever wanted in life has always been provided for me. If he knew the underground royalty I come from, I'd be laughed right out of this place.
"I'm resigned to this life," he shrugs and then grins at me.
Chris has a sweet, boyish way about him. He looks so much younger than he is, and he can't exactly paint on layers of makeup like I do to appear older. Well, he can, but that's clearly not his thing.
"You're twenty-three, Chris. How can you be resigned to this life? You've barely even started living."
He chuckles and shakes his head.
I'm handing a beer across the bar to a familiar face when I feel the weight of the man who enters next. I don't even need to see him to know who it is. The shadow of all the evil he's done follows him like a dark cloak, and it floods the room.
My stomach immediately sours. Even all the noise and commotion isn't enough to camouflage the dense energy he brings in.
"V," Chris says, nodding toward the man who is making the crowd part.
"I know. Stay away from him, okay? I've got this."
He frowns, but I ignore it. There is no way someone as sweet as Chris whose aura is probably as jovial and bright as they come needs to be anywhere near this man. I'm determined to protect Chris and everyone else here the best I can.
It's kind of funny. I'm the innocent one back home where bad men are all I've grown up with. They're the norm—the energy they carry with them is all different levels of dark and heavy, and my father's is among the darkest. But here at Theo's, I'm the dark one.
I may not have killed people or committed the kind of crimes that my family is known for, but I'm very comfortable being among those kinds of people. I love many of those kinds of people, because they're my family. So I'm equipped to deal with the monster currently stalking this way. I know how to act when I'm surrounded by his kind of darkness.
"Hey, Jimmy," I say, offering him a small smile when he takes a seat. "What will it be?"
"What it always is."
His voice is coarse and rough, and I slide on my mask—the one that doesn't react to the hovering secrets that only I can see, to the tortured souls around him that he's killed and that follow him everywhere. All the time.
I can't exactly see the dead. That's not what this ability of mine is. It's more like I can see a person's secrets.
I can see what is being purposely, desperately veiled from the rest of the world. Because secrets have weight, and they take energy to hide—often a tremendous amount of it. And the more energy they take, the more obvious they seem to show up in this shadow vision of mine.
That's what I call it. Shadow vision. That's how I tried explaining it to Mom when I was little, but she would always shush me—tell me not to speak of it. Tell me that the shadow vision was meant to be my own secret, and it was my job to hide it.
In Theo's bar, there are plenty of secrets mulling about, but they're mostly easy to ignore. Jimmy's secrets, on the other hand… not so much.
I feel his darkness weighing on me constantly whenever he's here. There are dozens of people he's killed in his lifetime, and for some awful reason, I can feel their emotions. That doesn't always happen. That's never happened with my father, for example, and I know he's killed plenty of people. But I think it's because, unlike my father, Jimmy's victims were all innocent.
I slide the tumbler of whiskey to him, and he glares at me until I fill it all the way up. Same old routine, different night.
He lights a cigarette and stares into his glass. Someone else might think this man is reminiscing on the past, regretting decisions he's made that have made him look so miserable. But I know the truth. He doesn't regret a thing.
Sarah walks behind the bar for her shift, gaze snagging on Jimmy and then me. She shoots me a worried look but says nothing, focusing on people trying to get our attention on the far end of the bar. She knows I prefer to help Jimmy, and I'm proud to say that I've managed to convince everyone here that I'm kind of a badass, so they don't fight me on it.
Sarah is an interesting one. I try not to pay attention when people have dark things they're carrying—at least not if I can help it. It's none of my business what they've been through, and there's never been a time when this strange gift of mine has actually helped anyone. In fact, the few times people have become aware of my shadow vision, it's only created problems.
Everyone is carrying something. It's not something they can help, and they're not things I'm supposed to see.
But the wounds Sarah has sometimes ache so much that I can't help but want to reach out and hug her, tell her it's going to be okay, tell her I'm here if she needs a friend. She isn't exactly the kind of person who is easy to get close to, though. And I guess I give the same impression. These are the barriers we put up to keep a safe distance, and I have to respect hers if I want her to respect mine.
Aside from Jimmy's presence, the night passes uneventfully. I take shots of water when guys insist on buying me alcohol and put the money in the tip jar. Sarah, Chris, and I develop an easy rhythm, swiftly tackling all the orders and keeping everyone as happy as we can.
It's fun, and it goes quickly when we're busy like this. I'm usually tired and happy by the end of the night.
When Sarah announces last call, Jimmy downs the rest of his whiskey, pushes some cash across the bar without so much as looking at me, and leaves as quietly as he came. When he's finally out the door, I breathe a sigh of relief.
Chris makes the rounds with a tray and rag, picking up glasses and wiping down tables while Sarah and I clean up behind the bar.
"He's coming more frequently," she says, gaze cutting my way. "And only when you're here."
"Really?" I look back at the door where Jimmy exited.
"I think you should consider having someone meet you here when you head home from now on."
"Or Chris could just walk me out."
"Chris?" She asks sarcastically. We both look over to where he's whistling a tune, flinging the rag over his shoulder.
"You're right," I chuckle. I can't imagine him fighting anyone off. I would probably do better on my own. "Okay, I'll think about it."
"Seriously," she says, brows lifting—making sure her meaning is clear. "Don't just think about it. Jimmy makes everyone uneasy, but he seems to have developed a thing for you."
"Okay. I will seriously think about it," I tell her, and she scoffs.
"Stubborn girl."
"Who are you calling girl? You're barely older than me."
She doesn't answer, just goes back to her closing duties.
"Great work," Theo tells us when he locks up.
Theo's the owner. He's a middle-aged man who gets along with just about everyone. He's an easy boss to work for.
"Vanessa, you're on again tomorrow?"
"Yep. All weekend."
"Great. I can tell the customers are happy to have you here."
"You mean the men," Chris chuckles, and I punch him in the arm. "Ow!"
"Some of the men fancy you, too, Chris," Sarah says with a wry smile.
"You think they'd tip better if I dress like you two?" He asks, tugging at his collared shirt.
"Can't hurt," I tell him, laughing along with Sarah.
"Who else is on tomorrow?" Theo asks, approaching the bar.
"Not me," Sarah says. "I've got a thing."
"Okay, Sarah's got a thing," he says, unfazed by the vague explanation.
"I'm on," Chris raises his hand. "And Taryn, I believe."
"Chris, Vanessa, and Taryn. Alright," Theo drums a short rhythm on the bar. "See two of you tomorrow."
When I make it back out to my car, it's with a happy heart—even when I notice the donation box in the backseat my mom gave me for the shelter.
I shouldn't lie to my parents. It's not a good idea. But I can't stop working at Theo's either. I get to be a version of normal here, and normal is all I've ever wanted to be.