The Barmaid
"Last orders called. Everyone leaves but him. She locks the door, pours them both a drink. Says she's been watching him all night. The pool table's right there."
"Last orders! Come on, you lot, don't have to go home but you can't stay here!"
The Queen's Head empties out in the usual chaos—lads finishing their pints, couples stumbling toward the door, old Frank nursing his whiskey until Gemma physically takes it from him.
I should go too. I've got work tomorrow. But something keeps me on the barstool.
Gemma, specifically.
She's been working here six months.
Slim, angular, with sleeve tattoos that tell stories I haven't heard yet. Nose ring, tongue piercing that glints when she talks. Hair shaved on one side, dyed red on the other. She's not pretty in a magazine way—she's pretty in a way that makes you want to earn her attention.
Tonight she's wearing ripped jeans and a tank top that shows off her ink. Her shoulders are tattooed with roses. Her arms are full sleeves—skulls, snakes, something with wings. Her chest has script I can't read from here.
"You deaf or something?" She's standing in front of me, arms crossed. "I said last orders."
"I heard."
"So why are you still here?"
She locks the door after the last straggler leaves.
I expect her to tell me to go. Instead, she pours two glasses of whiskey and slides one across the bar.
"Right. I'm gonna say something and you're gonna listen."
"Okay."
"I've been watching you for weeks. You come in here, you nurse your pints, you don't talk to anyone. You just... watch."
"That's not—"
"It is. And I know what you're watching." She leans on the bar, giving me a view down her tank top. "You're watching me."
"Gemma—"
"Don't deny it. I see where your eyes go when I bend over to get bottles. I see how you watch me change the kegs." She takes a sip of her whiskey. "Question is, are you gonna do something about it, or are you just gonna keep being a creepy regular?"
"I'm not creepy."
"Prove it."
She comes around the bar. Stands right in front of me. This close, I can see the details in her tattoos, the glint of her piercings, the challenge in her eyes.
"Pool table's right there." She nods toward it. "I've been thinking about getting bent over it since I started here."
"You serious?"
"Do I look like I'm joking?"
She pushes me toward the pool table.
Her kisses are aggressive—tongue piercing clicking against my teeth, her slim body pressing against mine. She's all angles and edges, nothing soft, but there's a heat to her that burns.
"Get these off." She's tugging at my jeans. "Come on, I've been wet for an hour thinking about this."
I strip while she does the same. Her body is a canvas—tattoos everywhere, even places I didn't expect. Stars on her hipbones. Words on her ribs. Something intricate around her belly button.
"Like what you see?"
"Fucking love it."
"Good answer."
She bends over the pool table.
Her arse is small but perfect, framed by a thong I didn't know she was wearing. She looks back at me over her shoulder, all that red hair falling across her face.
"What are you waiting for? An invitation?"
I step up behind her, run my hands over her tattooed back. She shivers.
"Don't be gentle. I'm not made of glass."
I push inside her. She gasps, hands gripping the felt.
"Fuck yes. That's what I needed."
I fuck the barmaid on the pool table.
She's vocal—moans and demands and filth spilling from her pierced tongue. Her slim body takes everything I give her, pushes back for more.
"Harder—come on, is that all you've got—"
I grab her hair, pull her head back, fuck her like she asked. The pool table creaks beneath us. The balls scatter. Neither of us cares.
"Right there—don't stop—I'm gonna—"
She comes with a scream that echoes through the empty pub. Her pussy clamps around me and I follow her over, finishing inside her.
After, she pours us another whiskey.
We're sitting on the pool table, half-dressed, catching our breath.
"I needed that." She lights a cigarette even though she's not supposed to smoke inside. "Been a shit week."
"Happy to help."
"I bet you are." She grins, all piercings and attitude. "So. Same time next week?"
"You asking me out?"
"I'm asking you to stay after closing. Every Friday. Regular thing."
"Just Fridays?"
"For now." She blows smoke at the ceiling. "You impress me, maybe we'll expand to Saturdays."
Friday becomes our thing.
Last orders. Door locks. Everyone leaves.
Then it's just us—whiskey, cigarettes, and the pool table.
Sometimes we use the bar. Sometimes the storeroom. Once, memorably, the toilets.
"You're getting better," she says one night, cigarette dangling from her lips.
"Better at what?"
"Everything." She kisses me, smoke and whiskey on her breath. "Keep it up and I might let you take me home one day."
"Might?"
"Don't push your luck." But she's smiling. "You're still on probation, babes. Gotta earn the home visit."
Two months later, I earn it.
Her flat is covered in band posters and tattoo art. Her bed is unmade. Her shower is definitely big enough for two.
We don't leave the bed for sixteen hours.
"Congratulations," she says afterward. "You passed probation."
"What's my reward?"
"Me." She drapes herself over my chest. "Consider yourself the barmaid's boyfriend. Drinks are still full price, but you get other perks."
"I'll take it."
The regulars figure it out eventually.
The way she looks at me when I come in. The way I stay after closing. The way we arrive together on Sunday mornings looking like we haven't slept.
"You lucky bastard," Frank says one night. "Every bloke in here's been trying for years."
I look at Gemma—all tattoos and attitude, pouring pints like she owns the place.
"Yeah," I say. "I know."