“Fuck, you are never drinking absinthe again. That shit has fucked you up in a way your man will give me hell over for months,” I say to Harlow as she stumbles through the back door of Trilogy, one of Storm’s restaurants I work in.
She grins at me. “Scott’s getting lucky when I get home. He’s not gonna give you hell for anything.” Her words are one long slur. Girl is wasted as fuck and she doesn’t even know it. Her husband is the president of Storm and giving me hell is one of his favourite things to do.
“I’m never saying yes to you again when you beg me to take you out.”
That damn grin of hers only grows bigger. “Keep on grumbling, Scar. It’s what I adore about you. But maybe just stop for one minute and let me go to the toilet, okay?”
“You go to the toilet. I have to get this shit done for Wilder before he comes in.” He asked me to check some supplies this afternoon. Trilogy has a few events coming up, so he wants to make sure our stock levels aren’t low. I bloody forgot, which is unlike me, and remembered about half an hour ago. I dragged Harlow from the bar we were at, where she was downing shots of absinthe like lolly water, to Trilogy so I could get this job done before I see Wilder tomorrow. No one needs that man on their case, and certainly not me. He’s on my case enough as it is.
“Wilder’s not here,” Harlow says. “I told you, he’s at my place tonight with the boys.”
She did tell me that, but I know Wilder, and he’ll be in here soon. He’s always in here.
“I’m not taking any risks, Harlow, and I’m not stopping for your toilet break. I’ll be out in the storeroom when you’re done.”
Without waiting for her response, I head to the storeroom and get to work checking the stock levels.
Exactly like I’d predicted when Wilder asked me to do this stocktake, I confirm that we’re not running low on anything. Of course he didn’t listen this afternoon when I told him I was sure we were good. The man never listens to me. And fucking hell, checking stock levels is his favourite thing to do. Well, his favourite thing for me to bloody do, so there’s a lot of not listening that goes on around here.
I’m almost finished the job when Harlow lurches into the room with “So it seems you know Wilder better than me.”
I frown. Harlow is friends with him; I am not. There’s no way I know him better than her. The only things I know about Wilder are that he’s a bossy boss and that he likes country music, which, can we just agree, is the absolute worst kind of music on this planet. Like, when he’s got it on in his office, hand me a gun so I can put myself out of my misery. Also, I know he loves his damn football. He never shuts up about it. I know far more about the Brisbane Broncos than any woman should have to know.
When I don’t say anything, Harlow jerks her head towards the storeroom door. “He just turned up.”
“Fuck,” I mutter, my hands working faster to get this count done. No way am I letting him know I forgot to do this today.
“You want me to help?” Harlow says, moving next to me and trying to assist. She’s so drunk, though, that she drops the bundle of napkins she picks up. “Shit.” She bends to scoop them up, and as she leans over, she knocks her head on a shelf, letting out a string of complaints as the pain hits.
“Has anyone ever told you that you suck at holding your liquor?” I take hold of her shoulders and direct her to sit on the floor. “Just sit there and don’t move. I’m almost done here.”
She pouts up at me. “I don’t suck at holding my liquor.”
“You really do.”
“Well, has anyone told you that you suck at being nice to drunk girls?”
Honestly, Harlow’s the only person I know who says shit that doesn’t piss me off. We argue all the time, and yet I don’t want to punch her. Ever. And that’s a damn miracle because I pretty much want to punch everyone I know at some point.
Before I can reply to her question about me sucking at being nice, a deep voice sounds from the doorway. “You