Chapter 2 Happy Birthday
The bar was already buzzing when I clocked in. The low hum of jazz filled the air, mixing with the clink of glasses and the soft chatter of customers unwinding after a long day. Dean stood behind the counter, his usual white shirt rolled up at the sleeves, polishing a glass with the same old rag like he had nothing better to do.
"Two mojitos, one on the rocks!" someone at the far end called out, snapping their fingers to get my attention.
"Coming right up," I said, slipping behind the counter and grabbing the shaker Dean had taught me to use months ago.
It had been two years since I dropped into this world, and so far, I was rocking it. I mean, Dean, the owner and sole bartender of this little restaurant-bar tucked into the side streets of the city, was the definition of chill. He paid me a salary on time, gave me a small room in the back to crash in, and didn't ride my ass unless I really messed up. Back at the orphanage on Earth, privacy wasn't a thing. Ten kids in one room, everyone fighting over who got the corner bed and whose turn it was to clean the bathroom. And the chores? Endless. Half the time they didn't even make sense.
Here, though, I had what I liked to call my "private domicile." It sounded fancy, like something a rich old guy would brag about. But really, it was just a little room with a futon, a desk, and enough space for me to practice my fireball without anyone barging in. Dean respected my space. Didn't even blink when I asked if I could practice indoors, just told me not to burn the place down. Fair enough… especially after he warned me that if I made a mess, it'd come out of my pay. That sounded fair, and honestly, since he was such a tolerant guy, I wanted to pull my weight around here.
"Hey, kid!" Dean's voice cut through my thoughts. "Table three's waiting. Two martinis and a mojito."
"Got it," I said, reaching for the bottles. Dean had been patient when teaching me the basics, drilling every detail into my head from the right angles to pour, the way to hold the shaker, even how to garnish without looking like an idiot. It was muscle memory by now. Pour, mix, shake, and strain.
"Excuse me?" a woman at the bar leaned over, her hand resting on the counter. She wore a red dress that looked expensive enough to make me nervous. "Can I get a gin and tonic? Heavy on the lime."
"Sure thing," I replied, grabbing the gin and tonic water. My hands moved smoothly, just like Dean had taught me, though I still felt a little tense whenever someone with that kind of confidence looked at me like I actually knew what I was doing.
By the time I finished the drinks for table three, two women had walked in, both dressed like they owned the night. They settled into a corner booth, their laughter spilling over the music like soft bells. I walked over, order pad in hand.
"What can I get you, ladies?" I asked, trying to sound like I belonged here.
"Two… uh…" one of them paused, scanning the menu with a finger tipped in black polish. "The… Saint-Émilion Bliss?" she said, carefully pronouncing it with a heavy accent.
I blinked. "Right. Two Saint-Em… uh… two of those."
Back behind the counter, I leaned close to Dean. "What the hell is a Saint-Emilion Bliss again?"
He smirked without looking up from his glass. "Red wine, triple sec, a splash of soda, and a twist of orange peel. Simple. Don't overthink it."
I followed his instructions to the letter, focusing on every detail of the mix from the smooth pour of the wine, and the sharp scent of citrus as I twisted the orange peel. When I finally set the drinks on a tray, they looked halfway professional, like something out of a magazine.
I brought them over to the women's table, doing my best to keep the tray steady. "Here you go," I said, sliding the glasses onto the table with what I hoped passed for confidence. "Your… Saint-Émilion Bliss."
They smiled, murmured their thanks, and I couldn't help but grin as I walked back to the counter, silently proud that I'd managed to pronounce it right.
The hum of the bar had settled into its usual evening rhythm. Glasses clinked, conversations blended into background noise, and Dean stood at the counter, flipping through the ledger like he owned the place… which, to be fair, he did.
Without looking up, he said, "By the way, Bob, happy birthday."
I froze mid-wipe, the glass in my hand slipping slightly before I caught it. Turning toward him, I blinked. "Wait… how do you know?"
Dean glanced over his shoulder with that casual, unreadable expression of his. "Last year. Saw you in the kitchen after close, singing happy birthday to yourself while eating a cupcake. Cute little thing, by the way."
My face heated instantly. "I… uh… I like celebrations, alright?"
A corner of his mouth curved upward before he turned back to the ledger like the conversation wasn't worth more words.
Dean had dark hair, always a little tousled no matter how many times he combed it, and a masculine frame that fit his crisp shirts perfectly. People might call him a handsome chap… not that I'd ever say it to his face. Strict, no-nonsense, the type who could silence a noisy room with just a glance. But beneath that, there was this subtle, goofy side that came out in the way he hummed off-key while cleaning glasses or snuck an extra shot of rum into a regular's drink "for good luck."
Two years ago, I'd started here as a barback, running orders, cleaning up, and basically doing anything Dean asked. Now, though, I was practically his apprentice, learning the art of bartending drink by drink.
"So," Dean said after a beat, closing the ledger and leaning casually against the counter, "how old are you now?"
"Nineteen," I said.
"Good," he said, sliding a small, neatly wrapped box across the counter toward me. "That's for you. Birthday gift. Don't get all teary-eyed on me."
I hesitated, staring at the present. "Uh… thanks. You didn't have to—"
"You remind me of my uncle," Dean interrupted, smirking as he adjusted the cuff of his sleeve. "Figured I'd get you something. Anyway, take the rest of the day off. Since you like celebratin' so much, why don't you go check out that party some of those cool kids from Wordsworth are throwin'?"
He gave me a look, a sly, almost leery smile that said he knew exactly what kind of party it was.
I scratched my neck, uneasy. "There's… quite a lot of people at those things, you know."
"Yeah, and I'll be fine here," he said, turning back to his shelves. "Been runnin' this bar longer than you've been alive. Go have fun."
"What's up with the sudden accent?" I muttered something under my breath and started heading for the stairs. "I think I'll just stay upstairs, mind my business—"
Dean's voice cut me off. "Nope. Go to the party. Take the car if you want."
A set of keys clinked as they landed neatly on the counter. I caught them automatically, staring at them like it weighed a ton.
"Well," I said with a half-hearted laugh, "if the boss says so."
In my head, I had already planned to spend the evening practicing my fireballs in my room, honing my control and working on precision, but I guess that idea was out the window. At the far end of the counter, a group of adults chatted animatedly, their voices just loud enough to carry. I was just on my way out, when I heard them talking.
"Did you hear about her? The genius of Wordsworth," one man said, swirling amber liquor in his glass.
"The frost queen, right? That gal with the cold attitude," another replied with a chuckle. "Saw her last week in the academy yard. Didn't even blink when some guy tried to talk to her."
"Kid's a prodigy," a third chimed in, shaking his head in disbelief. "If she's not a full-blooded hunter by twenty, I'll eat my hat."
I ignored them as best I could, thinking of a way to sneak past Dean and return to my room. Conversations about academy prodigies were just noise to me now. Well, they were interesting, but I'm more interested with my fireballs.
"Oi, Bob!" Dean's voice cut through the noise, sharp but playful. He leaned across the bar, his attention fixed not on me but on the woman in the red dress perched on a stool, one leg crossed over the other like she owned the place. "Don't come back until after midnight, got it?"
"Yeah, yeah," I muttered, thinking my plan of returning to my room was foiled. "But really, do I have to go? Ugh…"
Usually, that was code. Dean didn't even have to say it outright. If he told me to stay out until midnight, it meant only one thing: he was going to have sexy time with someone. It didn't take a genius to figure that out after two years working here.
Back on Earth, in the orphanage, I'd seen enough freaky shit to recognize the signs. The director and one of the caretakers used to get it on in the office sometimes, and none of us kids dared go near that part of the building when it happened. Thin walls. Weird noises. Trauma-inducing, to say the least.
I sure as hell didn't want to be around here when Dean decided to get freaky. The walls upstairs weren't that thick.
I grabbed the car keys he'd tossed me earlier and headed outside, the night air hitting me with a cool rush that carried the sharp scent of the city from the asphalt, gasoline, and the faint sweetness of food stalls just shutting down for the evening.
The black car was parked in its usual spot out back, polished enough to reflect the streetlights. Sliding into the driver's seat, I felt the wrapped gift Dean had given me earlier, still clutched in my hand. Without thinking, I set it carefully on the back passenger seat. Judging by the shape, it was probably some kind of book. Whatever it was, I figured I'd unwrap it later when I was back in my room, away from the noise.
The engine rumbled to life as I turned the key, creating a smooth and familiar sound. I leaned back, one hand on the wheel, and muttered to myself, "Alright… now, where the hell is this party?"
The GPS pinged with a map route, leading toward the more upscale neighborhoods near the Academy, but the thought of loud music, flashing lights, and drunk teenagers grinding on each other made my stomach twist.
I wasn't interested in partying. Never had been.
Instead, I found myself driving aimlessly, following roads that curved out of the city, until the neon glow faded and the streets turned quiet. Eventually, I ended up at a lake just outside the city limits, its still waters reflecting the moonlight like a polished mirror.
I parked by the shoreline and climbed onto the hood, the metal still warm from the drive.
The night was silent except for the soft whisper of water lapping against the shore.
I held out my hand, focusing, letting the familiar hum of energy rise from somewhere deep inside me. A spark flared, then a steady ball of flame bloomed in my palm, bright and warm against the cool night air.
The counter blinked in the corner of my vision.
[73,121 / 100,000]
[Fireball Level 5]
I let the fireball hover there, steady and perfect, the heat licking at my skin but never burning, and thought… Yeah. This was better than any party.