Then he winced, looking at me as if he wanted to take the words back.
I waved away the worry. “Don’t worry about it. I tend to agree.”
His brows rose.
“You think that I want to work in a bar?” I asked.
I didn’t work in a bar, to be honest. I worked as a truck driver. I worked in the bar on my off time. And when I had off time from my off time, I wrote anonymous letters. I was a jack of all trades.
Sort of.
He shrugged.
“I don’t really know anything that you want, Banger,” he said.
That’s when I realized that he was serious.
I sighed. “It’s hard to open up to people, Easton.”
He snorted. “There’s a difference between opening up and being a bitch to the world.”
He had a point.
But it wasn’t my fault that I didn’t like anyone.
I barely tolerated my own sisters.
Well, at least I liked one of them.
Salem.
Mirabel was an asshole and always would be.
Faye had been the nice one. And she’d died.
I have step and half-sisters and a brother from my parents who just can’t seem to figure out who they love at any given moment.
Mirabel and Salem were a few years older than me, and it seemed, in the womb, Salem got all of the niceness and whatever-ness that caused her to be likable. Mirabel was just a plain bitch and worked in my father’s bar out of the kindness of my father’s heart.
I hated her guts and didn’t pretend otherwise.
Speaking of assholes, my least favorite one walked through the door as if she was conjured by my thoughts.
I looked at my watch and tried to suppress a growl. “You’re an hour late, Mirabel. You know you were supposed to be here to accept inventory delivery.”
Mirabel tossed me a look that couldn’t be construed as anything but bitchy.
“I don’t know what you expected, Banger.” Mirabel sniffed. “But you damn well knew that I wouldn’t be here that early in the morning. You should’ve expected it. Oh, hello, Mr. Sexy.”
I gritted my teeth to keep the curse from spilling free of my lips.
Easton ignored her, which made me want to laugh my ass off.
Mirabel did not like being ignored.
Not by anyone, but especially not by hot guys like Easton.
And Easton was hot.
I blinked, surprised to find that Easton was still there, still standing next to the bar, still standing exactly where he’d been before I’d decided to take a little trip down memory lane.
“Sorry,” I admitted. “She” —I gestured to where Mirabel had exited the room completely— “makes me question my loyalty to her as a sister.”
Easton’s smile flashed. “I’m sorry that I didn’t tip you. I feel like an asshole. I’m not. I swear.”
I looked down at the crisp one-hundred-dollar bills, then back up at the man who really did look sorry.
I picked them up, tore off one, and then handed him back the rest. “You’ve only been in here a handful of times. I’m not worth five hundred dollars for the piddly amount of work I did for you.”