FIGHT Part 1 Read Online Free Page A

still not making eye contact with me yet she grabs a towel and starts wiping the bar. “You stayin for a drink or headin out?” That voice doesn’t belong to the girl I’m looking at. That voice is sweet, light, and innocent. Not the voice of an inked up, spiked hair, rocker chick. Who is this girl?
    I stare at her, wondering what her story is a moment too long. As I’m staring, taking in her beauty, she looks up at me waiting for an answer. Those hazel eyes land on mine and things implode once again.
    Fuck me .
     

Chapter 3
    Gwynn
    Must. Break. Eye contact.
    Jesus, I couldn’t look away if I had to. I should, this is going to bring about nothing good. Men that look like him never do, but fuck if he isn’t easy on the eyes. Way easy on the eyes. Buzzed hair, tattoos covering most of the skin that’s showing (and let’s be real, I wish there were more of it showing), piercingly bright hazel eyes. Expressive eyes. Eyes that tell me he is feeling it just as much as I am from this one look. One look that’s lasting way too long.
    He finally turns and looks out the window, taking a deep breath before answering me.
    “Nah. Thanks, though. See ya.” He lifts his arm in a wave and walks outside, making sure the door is safely closed from the wind before walking down the street.
    I can’t help but feel a little let down that he didn’t stay. Sure, he was packing up and leaving before that little display happened, but he could have stayed. If he were to come back at another shift change I’m sure he would have seen yet another one of our famous fights. Things like that are always happening around here. I’ve been threatened more times than not, but nothing has ever come of it. They need me, especially now that my name is getting out there in the fighting world. I’m not big headed, but I know people come here to see me.
    I still don’t get why he didn’t stay. I’m not that bad looking. I don’t bite and he definitely couldn’t have found me intimidating since he has probably triple the amount of ink that I have. Some people look at my tattoos and immediately come to the conclusion that I’m a hardcore bitch before even talking to me. I’m not sure why there are still people out there in the world that look down on people with tattoos. I say ‘more power to ya!’ if you want to get inked. I never thought twice about it before my dad died, but I also never knew how just sitting in that chair and zoning off could help ease my mind as much as it does.
    I need to get my mind in a better place. I have the next ten hours or more to be behind this bar, and I need to make it good. Tips on a weeknight aren’t normally great, but with fall break coming up maybe we will start to see more business. For as long as I’ve been working in this bar, I have been the girl bartender on weeknights. One time they tried throwing another girl in here with me, but that was just too many tits taking up space back here, as she had zero talent actually bartending. Her talent all rested nicely in her size 34DD cups. Sure she got tips, but we were forced to split so the few days I had to put up with her back here were at least worth it for me.
    Tonight is no different than any other week night. The normal guys drop in, a few dart players are playing in the corner. There is an old man at the end of the bar named Sam. Sam is here every night for exactly three hours. In those three hours he rarely speaks. White long hair down to his shoulders, sunglasses always on, and sometimes a headband of some sort adorns his head. He is the reason we keep Stag on board still, because he drinks two and a half of them every night, and every night he gets up and lays cash and a tip on the bar when he leaves. I hate Stag. My dad always used to drink it, and now every time look at it I’m reminded of that night. It’s been years, but sometimes when those memories are triggered and it’s hard to crawl back out of the darkness.
    Three kids are standing