Well, look at that, I’m finally writing prompts again! And I have to say, it feels really good. Anyways, I took some leeway with this one, but I actually am liking the turn it took - hope you do too, nonny!
Her hair tie had torn. That was
how Clarke knew it was going to be a bad night working at the bar. And it only
went downhill from there. One of the favorite beers on tap was out, gaining her
endless dirty looks from just about every type of customer. The ice machine
broke, and so Harper had to run out to get bags of ice to compensate, leaving
Clarke alone behind the counter with Murphy for a substantial amount of time,
which was never a good combination. Then a bachelorette party had come in and
proceeded to break three rounds of shot glasses followed by insistently,
crudely yelling for strippers, even though Clarke firmly and repeatedly
explained we’re not that kind of bar,
ladies, sorry to disappoint.
Now, as she twisted her hair at
the nape of her neck for the umpteenth time, trying to keep it out of the way
(she had yet to succeed at that), a hazy-eyed frat bro in a violently bright
collared shirt had sprawled across the bar counter, calling for honey, hey honey, got a minute?
“Does it look like I have a
minute?” She barked, pulling four beers at once from the cooler, popping their
tops, and sliding them to the girl on her right. As Clarke grabbed the cash
they left and stowed it in her apron, she continued, “You have three seconds to
give me your drink order before I move on.”
“I just need one minute,
blondie,” he slurred. “I gotta ask you something.”
She just continued filling other
customers’ orders, hoping he would go away. No such luck, though, not on a
night like this.
He waved his hand jerkily,
obviously trying (and failing) to get her attention. “This is my question: did
it hurt? When you fell?”
Clarke stopped dead in her
tracks, tequila bottle in one hand, glass of ice in the other, and just stared
so disbelievingly at this idiot who was trying to hit on her using the most
cliché pickup line known on earth. Somewhere to her left she thought she heard
Murphy’s nasty chuckle, and the guy just continued grinning at her dopily. Fucking hell. She did not need this tonight.
Before she could respond, or,
you know, throw the tequila bottle at the guy’s head, and maybe even the glass
too, someone else interjected.
“Hey, Glo-Brite. Can I ask you a question?”
Both Clarke’s and the guy’s
attention turned to who was speaking, which would be another guy, this one
dressed in a simple black T-shirt and a backwards baseball cap. A half-finished
beer sat in front of him on the counter, and he was perfectly positioned to be
watching the baseball game playing on the TV above the bar. He wasn’t looking
at the screen though, instead staring with a narrowed, almost disgusted gaze at
the guy in the collared shirt. Or, Glo-Brite, as Baseball Cap had so aptly
Glo-Brite scoffed, turning his
gaze back to Clarke, but she was still looking at Baseball Cap, who, locked
eyes with hers and raised his eyebrows in question.
You got it, or can I help?