Inside the fire

I'm sure that hearing "Like a Virgin" karaoke twenty times in one night should be considered cruel and unusual punishment. It was Thursday night, two weeks before Spring Break, and I was pulling midnight for Lee and Toni at the bar. Tugging down my skirt, I silently cursed Bob, the owner, for setting up the stupid machine in the first place, and myself for not letting the drunks smash it during a fight.
"Is that seriously all that people know how to sing?" I yell to Kerr, our bartender.
"Hey, give them a break." he shrugs, wiping out a glass, "I mean, how can you screw up Madonna?" I laugh, sitting on an empty stoold and watching the overweight CEO who had been hitting on me for the past hour get up to sing "Sweet Home Alabama".
I roll my eyes, "Oh, God, here it goes."
"Ain't that bad. Could be much worse."
"Really?"I pull a face, "How is that even possible?"
"Well, could be 'Free Bird'."
"Thank you, God, for small miracles." I reply as the drunk on stage forgets the words, tries to improv with "Stairway to Heaven" and drunkenly finishes with the Brady Bunch theme song. "And for cheap entertainment."
"Yeah," Kerr replies, staring off into the distance, "Isn't that your boyfriend?"
My smile grows wider: ever since a few nights ago, Jess has taken to come in with his biker friends, just to check up. Lately, he'd began treting me as if I were made of blown glass-an object that was beautiful to look at but incredibly delicate; something that you had to take care not to break, because the damage could be done so quickly and was almost impossible to fix.
I spin on my stool, eager to catch his eye, when I realize with a jolt that it wasn't Jess that Kerr was talking about.
It played out almost like a slow-motion movie: the crowd seems to part, bringing me (practically) face-to-face with my ex, Grant, standing next to a plain puppy-dog girl who barely reaches his waist and is gazing up at him adoringly. I know that look. I'd worn that look for practically six months: She was totally in love, and he couldn't care any less.
I close my eyes, trying to keep my tone calm, "Nope. Too bad, though. Hey, could you get Carrie off her butt? I"m gonna need a cig before I try to wade through that sea of hands again."
Kerr winks. He's no stranger to being hit on by those in  various stages of inebriation. "Sure, Baby. Yo! Goose! Showtime!" he calls down the bar to one of the other waitresses.
Taking off my apron, I quickly walk behind the bar, through the doors that led to the kitchen, and into the back alleyway behind it. Sitting on one of the overturned milk crate that served as makeshift chairs, I put my head between my knees and begin to take deep breaths.
"Baby? You ok?" Jeff, our cook, asks. I look up, surprised that I hadn't seen him before, sitting about three feet away, eating a sandwich.
"Yeah, Jeff. Sorry. Didn't see you there."
"Es ok." he nods, waving his hand as if he were whisking away smoke. "You're sure you're ok? You ran outta there like you were runnin' from Freddy Kreuger." he peers at me through the darkness, "And you look like you've seen a ghost."
"I'm fine. Just...too many people." I lie, "I get a bit claustrophobic sometimes."
"Oh, thank God, Cecillia" Carrie sighs when I walk back in."This guy's been asking for you, he wants you special for his table."
Rolling my eyes and bracing myself for the drunk CEO, I look to where Carrie is pointing and freeze. There was a flash of dirty blonde, almost brown hair. I turn to beg and plead, if needed, with Carrie to take that table instead of making me take it, but she has already been swallowed up by the crowd.
Shakily, I make my way over, pasting on a huge fake smile. Grant tried to be the king of screwing with people's (most notably my) head, and i was sure that was all that this was. I, however, wasn't going to let him see me sweat.
"Hey, yall. What can I getcha?" I look up for just one second too long. Grant's hair has grown past his ears and I could tell that he had shaved recently, but not today, the pale stubble glowing even in the dim light of the bar. He looks marginally more tanned, and his hair looks darker- vaguely, I wonder if he's dyed it. The Girl's hand was on the table, palm-up in the vain hope that he would hold it, but both of his remained firmly in his lap. Her hair was long and dark brown, tied back at the nape of her neck, and he face was full of freckles. In a word, she was the poster child of what he once told me that he liked in a girl: plain.
"Hey! Long time no see, lil' bit." Grant grins his fairy-tale wolf grin.
The Girl looks confused, "You know her?" The tone isn't angry, just hurt. Less of a "you bastard", more of a "why didn't you tell me, darling?"
I bite my lip, fighting back quite a few answers-all of which would be considered rude in normal company. "Drinks, yall?"
The bar is slowing down and I sit on a stool beside Kerr, busily shaking martinis for the Desperate Housewives, and mixing hard drinks for the Men in the Throes of Midlife Crisis. We aren't supposed to drink when we're on shift, but after the third time that Grant waves me to bring him another, I wearily ask Kerr for a shot-something strong.
"That bad?" he inclines his head as I knock back a shot-tequilla.
"You have no idea. The guy's a jerk. She's in awe of him. He gets, " I swallow hard, "he gets mean when he drinks."
He slides another shot to me. I'm feeling a happy buzz after it and wave off the offer of another.
Grant waves at me again while the girl gets up, heading our way. Carrie intercepts Grant's request just as the girl looks around and comes straight for me.
"'Scuse me? Could you tell me where the ladies' is?" her voice is quiet, timid. I'm starting to see more why Grant latched on to her.
"Yeah, I'll show you." I answer, walking her toward the back hallway that hides the bathrooms from view. She goes into a stall and I absent-mindedly pat my hair in the mirror, finally pulling out the elastic and holding it in my teeth as I twist my hair up into a bun. She comes out, surprised that I am still standing there.
"Look..." I trail off, not knowing her name and raising my eyebrows to indicate as much.
"Val." she supplies after a second.
I curse inwardly, wondering if this could get much more difficult. Grant had told me about Val when he and I were dating: she had been in his Chemistry class and was totally in love with him. There had been quite a few afternoons that were punctuated by her random calls and texts. I wonder vaguely why he's with her and decide that is exactly who he doesn't pay her any attention: he wants the ego boost of a girl who worships him, without all the messy complication of reciprocated feelings.
"Look, Val, you were right. Grant and I did date. And I just want to tell you: Grant? He's not a good guy. He can put on the act, yes, but that's all that it is- an act."
She looks surprised. And angry. "He is a sweet guy!" she protests. "See, i'm a..." she trails off, her face blushing crimson under her freckles, "virgin. And he promised me no sex at all." She fiddles with a leather bracelet that I recognize as one of his, one of the things he never took off, and sigh: she isn't going to listen.
"Listen, Val, I understand. If you wanna talk, though, here. I"ll give you my number, kay?" I tear a sheet out of my orders book and scribble my number on it, handing it to her.
"Ok...Cecillia." She answers, glancing at the paper before she folds it up and sticks it in her pocket.
Jess is curled up on my bed when I get home, half-asleep and mumbling to himself. I undress quietly, not wanting to wake him, and curl up in my chair.