Page 11 of The Patron Saint of Timber Hollow

"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 fuckingincredible.

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 looksfantastic.

"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'staco 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 likemicrophones 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'tactuallyhurt 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'refucking 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.

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