Declan had not done himself any favors. He'd started off on the wrong foot, trying to establish a hard rule against any extra-curricular activities between customers and the bouncers. Mavis, the previous owner, had let most things slide, as long as they kept the rowdy customers under control.
He'd fired longtime bouncer Billy Sullivan on the spot for taking a disrespectful tone just a few weeks ago. Now that Billy was back, Declan was trying a more hippie-dippie approach to managing the bar.
"Escape rooms are a ridiculous waste of t-time," said Billy, his teeth chattering in the cold. Although short for a bouncer, Billy was the meanest and scrappiest of the bunch. He was also full of shit most days. About team-building exercises, he was correct.
Dash hopped from one foot to the other to keep his long legs warm as the group waited for the doors to open. Billy ranted on, "In comparison to being buried alive, this is nothing."
All eyes went to Billy. Declan had only yesterday granted Billy his job back at Crow Bar after firing him for insulting Declan's mother in an argument.
Billy's rehiring condition was that the entire staff had to participate in an escape room together to "build a better bond between employees and manager." The bartender, Griff, and the wait staff were exempt as they had already proven themselves the most stable and reliable of all staff members.
Dash spoke first, never able to keep his mouth shut when Billy spouted off his random garbage. "You've never been buried alive."
"Kindly go fuck yourself, String Bean, and yes, I have," Billy answered.
Ricky Smith piped up, then. "Tell us, Billy. Was it a child-size coffin or adult-size?"
"Always the short jokes. Screw you, college boy," Billy harrumphed. Although Ricky had long ago graduated and was by then a popular adjunct professor at the community college, Billy could never think of a better insult than that. Everyone liked Ricky.
Holden Murphy, the gentle giant of the group, could rein Billy quicker than any of the others could. "Quit telling stories, Billy."
Declan, with his newer, softer approach, gently reminded the team not to insult each other. "Does that sound like teamwork to you? Insults and arguing will be the downfall of our team if we let it," Declan said.
Levi, the group's oldest bouncer, squeezed his girlfriend in close as she shivered against his side. "Insults and arguing are the glue that holds this group together, Declan," said Levi.
Dash shook his head and looked up at the sign above the awning. X-otic Ex-Scapes had to be the worst name he'd ever seen.
"Corny shit like that? This place will be closed in about two weeks," Dash grumbled. "Who even came up with spelling like that?"
A familiar but unexpected woman's voice cut across the group dynamic. For Dash, the voice had a jarring effect of a ship's hull scraping against an iceberg. It was a voice that he never wanted to hear because it conjured up a sense of urgency inside him that he didn't like. She disrupted his calm. "Looks like I'm paying my dues twice in one day," said the voice.
Dash's whole body flinched at the sound. He spun around to see Harper Ross glaring up at him, her mop of red curls and blue eyes peeking out from behind a bulky scarf. Dash regarded her as if she were a feral red panda, ready to knock down all his building blocks and reassemble them into something unrecognizable. Her petitions, political causes, and loud-mouthed opinions were the bane of Dash's existence. He did his best to try to keep her away from Crow Bar, but she always seemed to find a reason to pop up.
If she would simply learn to stay away, he probably wouldn't hate her so much.
As a rule, the Fitzgeralds hated the Rosses, and vice versa.
Dash didn't know why, but why do any two families hate each other? He assumed it had been a political disagreement from way back. Harper's mom, Lora, was exactly like her daughter; she'd been a community organizer from way back. That family also had slightly more money due to their mildly successful family business, Ross Distillery.
He'd heard his mother, Marianne, mutter something about the Horace Ross Whiskey that the bar served, referring to it as cough syrup. Another time, Marianne had turned up her nose at a modest donation from the distillery to her husband's medical debt fundraiser. "Show offs," Marianne had said. Dash didn't understand why a widow would turn down any kind of donation that would go toward her late husband's medical bills. But if his sainted mother decided their family didn't like someone, then that was good enough for Dash.
He noted how frigid Harper's fingers must be in those fingerless gloves she wore. What was the point of those, besides looking cute? Not that she looked cute in them. "Well, looky who we have here. Sorry, Ross. I do not have the will to sign any petitions today," he sneered. He was freezing and really should have zipped up his coat all the way. But some profoundly primal machismo took hold, and he didn't want to look like a wimp in front of her. Or anyone.
Eyeing the pen in her hand, he waited for the latest screed about injustice. Or gentrification. Or gerrymandering, whatever that was.
But then he noticed she wasn't holding a petition in the other hand. Her signature blue clipboard was gone, replaced with a rectangular reporters' notebook.
She looked at his shirt, unbuttoned to the mid-sternum, then glared up at him, "Nobody's asking you to sign a petition today, Lynwood," she sneered.
He returned her sharp look. "It's Dash. My name. Is Dash."
Her smile made him clench his fists. "Whatever you say, Lynwood Dashell."
"Shut it," he growled.
Why was she fluttering her eyelashes
