Annoying Customer

Elias’s POV

I locked my phone and set it face down on the lab bench, but the screen still felt like it was burning against the wood. The last message from Adrian sat there unanswered. You’re ridiculous. I had typed it without thinking, and now I could not stop replaying the entire conversation. The way he had said he would rather talk to me than anyone at that party. The easy offer to lend me a suit. The quiet push when he wrote You answered me though.

I dragged a hand down my face and tried to focus on the sample readings in front of me. The numbers blurred. My mind kept sliding sideways, back to the storage room, back to the living room wall, back to the fence after the race when his body had pressed against mine and the soreness had reminded me exactly what we had done. I shifted on the stool and felt the dull ache again. It should have made me angry. Instead it made my stomach pull tight.

I thought about the way Adrian had looked at me after the last race, that satisfied expression when he noticed I was still feeling him. I thought about the hickey he had left and how close I had come to being exposed in front of the whole team. I thought about the difference between his world and mine, the ballroom full of expensive suits and planned futures versus the lab and the late shifts that kept the rent paid. Every time I tried to push the thoughts away they came back harder.

I forced myself to finish the last set of logs, saved the file, and shut the computer down. The lab was almost empty. Only the low hum of the equipment kept me company. I pulled on my jacket, checked the time, and headed out. I had a shift at the bar in less than an hour and could not afford to be late.

The walk across campus did nothing to clear my head. Every quiet stretch of sidewalk pulled me back to Adrian. I kept seeing him in that ballroom, smiling at people he did not care about while texting me between conversations. I kept hearing the low voice he had used against the fence when he asked if I was still hurting. I hated that the answer was yes. I hated that part of me had wanted him to keep asking. I hated that I had answered his messages at all when I had spent days telling myself I would ignore him completely.

By the time I reached the bar the sky had started to darken. I clocked in, tied the black apron around my waist, and took my place behind the counter. The early crowd was already settling onto stools, the usual mix of students and older regulars. I poured drinks, wiped glasses, and tried to stay busy enough that my thoughts would stop circling the same person. It did not work. Even while measuring shots and making change I caught myself wondering whether Adrian was still at the party, whether the girl his father wanted him to impress was still standing beside him, whether he had put his phone away or was waiting for me to write something more.

A man in his early thirties took a seat directly in front of me about an hour into the shift. He smiled too easily and watched me longer than necessary while I mixed his drink.

“You’re new,” he said.

“I’ve been here three months.”

“Then I’ve been coming on the wrong nights.” He leaned forward on his elbows. “What’s your name?”

“Elias. What can I get you?”

“Whiskey. Neat. And a smile if you have one to spare.”

I poured the whiskey and set it down without smiling. “There you go.”

He wrapped his fingers around the glass but did not pull it closer. “You’re the CRS racer, right? I’ve seen you on the track. You’re better looking up close.”

The mention of racing made my shoulders tighten. I wiped the counter beside his glass. “Enjoy your drink.”

He stayed. Every time I passed he found something else to say. Compliments that sat too long. Questions about my schedule. Comments about how serious I looked. I answered with the shortest replies I could manage and kept moving, but he tracked me with his eyes the entire time.

“You always this quiet or am I special?” he asked on my second pass.

“I’m working.”

“You can work and talk. People do it all the time.”

“I prefer not to.”

He laughed under his breath like I had told a joke. “Tough crowd. That’s fine. I like a challenge.”

I ignored him and focused on the next customer. Two minutes later he called me over again for another drink. When I set it down his hand reached out as I leaned slightly forward. His fingers settled on the back of my jeans, low and deliberate, pressing just enough to make his intention clear.

I straightened at once. “Don’t touch me.”

He held up both hands, still smiling. “Easy. Just being friendly.”

“I asked you not to touch me.”

“Alright, alright.” He sat back, but the smile never left. “No need to get tense. You’re too good looking to look so angry.”

I turned away and focused on the next order, jaw tight. My mind flashed unwanted to Adrian again, to the way he had put his hands on me without asking the first time, and the way I had eventually let him. The comparison made my stomach turn. I shoved the thought down and kept working.

The man waited less than three minutes before calling me over a third time. When I approached he reached out again, this time sliding his hand more firmly across the same place on my hip as if testing whether I had meant the first warning.

I stepped back. “I already told you once. Keep your hands to yourself.”

“Come on. It’s a compliment.”

“It’s not.”

He laughed under his breath and leaned closer over the counter. “You’re wound really tight. I could help with that if you let me.”

I warned him a third time, voice low and even. “Touch me again and you’re done here.”

He watched me for a second, eyes moving over my face like he was deciding how serious I was. Then he reached out anyway, fingers aiming for the same spot as if my words had been a suggestion instead of a clear line.

I did not give him the chance to make contact and I smacked him across the face.