sorry. I'm not big on apologies, so I suggest you accept it, before I take it back."
"Don't do it again." Holly's serious.
"I won't."
10
HOLLY
So the douche nugget knows how to apologize.
And he knows I bite the inside of my mouth when I'm nervous. Why does he know that? Unless he doesn't detest me as much as he lets on.
When he'd grabbed me by the wrist though, I thought for sure that he must really hold a lot of resentment towards me. I wanted to quit right then and there. He's hated me since the day I walked in here about three years ago. But I don't want him to hate me. Working with him, I thought, would make us friends...at least compatible co-workers. That comment about him drinking all the profits was meant to be a joke, but then, without warning, he was across the bar, grabbing hold of my wrist like he wanted to break it.
And now he apologizes? And makes small talk? Mick Ross is definitely difficult to figure out.
All of a sudden there's a thud at the back door, then a slam. Some drunk lady trips into the second doorway and stumbles into a table.
"Uh...we're closed," I say to her.
"Where is she, Michael?" the girl slurs, her bony hand slides over the side of her short black hair, as if she has a headache and she just now realized that it hurts.
Michael?
Mick eyes her up and down, but otherwise he ignores the woman and returns to the glassware behind the bar.
The girl bumbles closer to the bar and slams a stool forward.
"Whoa, lady," I chide. "Calm down."
"Mind your own fucking business," she orders, using Mick's favorite line.
Snapping my head in Mick's direction, I say, "Friend of yours?"
He gives me a lop-sided smirk—he either thinks I'm funny or being a prick. Most likely the latter.
"I said mind your own fucking business," the girl repeats.
"Charity. That's enough." Mick finally acknowledges her.
"Where's Kenna?" she says.
"None of your fucking business." These people really have to find a better comeback.
"Damn fuck it's my business. She's my kid, Michael. Not yours."
"And you're not getting her back 'til you get help," Mick says quietly, calmly.
She jams the chair up against the bar again. "I want her back, Michael," she yells, practically sobbing. "She's my baby." Climbing onto the stool, she slips on the bottom rung but rights herself and kneels on it, launching herself across the bar, aiming for Mick.
"Whoa," I yell simultaneous to Mick's, "Shit, Charity," as he catches her by the armpits and falls back against a Glenfiddich mirror.
"Fuck," he says as the mirror crashes to the floor. He pushes Charity back and tells her to get out of his fucking bar or he'll call the police.
"You won't call the cops," she challenges.
"Watch me." He picks up the phone beneath the bar and starts dialing.
"No. No," she cries, and using the bar top as her guide, she backs out from behind the bar. "Just give her back, Michael. Please." By the crackling of her voice, Charity sounds desperate.
"Get to rehab and we'll talk." Mick barely raises his voice above a whisper, and he definitely doesn't look at Charity while he talks.
"I can't go back there. Please don't make me," she pleads to his crouching back while he's sweeping shards of glass into a dustpan.
"You know the deal, Charity." He doesn't look at her still. "You don't go back to rehab, I file for permanent custody."
Charity falls back into a nearby chair and shakes her head. "Oh my God," she cries.
"Charity." A soft-spoken, clean-cut looking man walks in through the back door.
"Luke?" Mick questions the short blond guy.
Luke runs his hand over Charity's arm and says to Mick, "I brought her here, Mick. She was trying to hitch a ride to see you, so I just brought her here."
"She's fucked up. Why would..."
Luke holds up his hand to halt Mick. An ironic air of authority tumbles off this stout man.
"I wanted her to arrive here safely. That's all. My chief phoned me when we first got here. Needed to take the call." Luke
"Don't do it again." Holly's serious.
"I won't."
10
HOLLY
So the douche nugget knows how to apologize.
And he knows I bite the inside of my mouth when I'm nervous. Why does he know that? Unless he doesn't detest me as much as he lets on.
When he'd grabbed me by the wrist though, I thought for sure that he must really hold a lot of resentment towards me. I wanted to quit right then and there. He's hated me since the day I walked in here about three years ago. But I don't want him to hate me. Working with him, I thought, would make us friends...at least compatible co-workers. That comment about him drinking all the profits was meant to be a joke, but then, without warning, he was across the bar, grabbing hold of my wrist like he wanted to break it.
And now he apologizes? And makes small talk? Mick Ross is definitely difficult to figure out.
All of a sudden there's a thud at the back door, then a slam. Some drunk lady trips into the second doorway and stumbles into a table.
"Uh...we're closed," I say to her.
"Where is she, Michael?" the girl slurs, her bony hand slides over the side of her short black hair, as if she has a headache and she just now realized that it hurts.
Michael?
Mick eyes her up and down, but otherwise he ignores the woman and returns to the glassware behind the bar.
The girl bumbles closer to the bar and slams a stool forward.
"Whoa, lady," I chide. "Calm down."
"Mind your own fucking business," she orders, using Mick's favorite line.
Snapping my head in Mick's direction, I say, "Friend of yours?"
He gives me a lop-sided smirk—he either thinks I'm funny or being a prick. Most likely the latter.
"I said mind your own fucking business," the girl repeats.
"Charity. That's enough." Mick finally acknowledges her.
"Where's Kenna?" she says.
"None of your fucking business." These people really have to find a better comeback.
"Damn fuck it's my business. She's my kid, Michael. Not yours."
"And you're not getting her back 'til you get help," Mick says quietly, calmly.
She jams the chair up against the bar again. "I want her back, Michael," she yells, practically sobbing. "She's my baby." Climbing onto the stool, she slips on the bottom rung but rights herself and kneels on it, launching herself across the bar, aiming for Mick.
"Whoa," I yell simultaneous to Mick's, "Shit, Charity," as he catches her by the armpits and falls back against a Glenfiddich mirror.
"Fuck," he says as the mirror crashes to the floor. He pushes Charity back and tells her to get out of his fucking bar or he'll call the police.
"You won't call the cops," she challenges.
"Watch me." He picks up the phone beneath the bar and starts dialing.
"No. No," she cries, and using the bar top as her guide, she backs out from behind the bar. "Just give her back, Michael. Please." By the crackling of her voice, Charity sounds desperate.
"Get to rehab and we'll talk." Mick barely raises his voice above a whisper, and he definitely doesn't look at Charity while he talks.
"I can't go back there. Please don't make me," she pleads to his crouching back while he's sweeping shards of glass into a dustpan.
"You know the deal, Charity." He doesn't look at her still. "You don't go back to rehab, I file for permanent custody."
Charity falls back into a nearby chair and shakes her head. "Oh my God," she cries.
"Charity." A soft-spoken, clean-cut looking man walks in through the back door.
"Luke?" Mick questions the short blond guy.
Luke runs his hand over Charity's arm and says to Mick, "I brought her here, Mick. She was trying to hitch a ride to see you, so I just brought her here."
"She's fucked up. Why would..."
Luke holds up his hand to halt Mick. An ironic air of authority tumbles off this stout man.
"I wanted her to arrive here safely. That's all. My chief phoned me when we first got here. Needed to take the call." Luke
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