Drunk Girl

DRUNK GIRL MIGNON MYKEL Copyright 2023 by Mignon Mykel All right reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a media retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the publisher of this book, excepting of brief quotations for use in reviews. The San Diego Enforcers ™ is a fictional sports team. The name and logos are created for the sole use of the owner and covered under protection of trademark. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental. Cover Design and Formatting: oh so Novel All images and vectors have been purchased. CONTENTS Preface Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Epilogue Cameos About the Author Also by Mignon Mykel PREFACE Because it may confuse some people, Drunk Girl takes place the March/April right before Butterfly Save—so yes, Jonny is still in the goal. Also yes, that means you’ll get some Enforcers references in here, too. Happy reading! CHAPTER ONE Jake Mid-March “Welcome to O’Gallaghers,” I mumble to no one, unlocking the back entryway to the Irish-American pub I’ve been working at for the better part of a year. We’re not supposed to open solo, but my opener, Ben—who also happens to be my roommate—is making a run to the grocery store down the street for limes at the suggestion of last night’s closer. It’s better I sent him now; we won’t get a third body in the pub for another two hours, and by that time, our kitchen order should be arriving. Once the truck comes we’ll have other things to worry about. It’s not like this area is riddled with crime. It’s a pretty safe neighborhood. I do, however, lock the door behind me as I move into the kitchen. My first tasks this morning include a preliminary check of the pub, which I do as I make my way to the alarm system. Nothing seems amiss. Next to do? Inventory. Beyond checking stock in the back and where we keep kegs, I do a quick visual sweep of the bar area. When Ben gets here with the limes, he’ll prep and refill the condiment bar but I double-check that the only thing we needed from the store was limes. Inventory and setting up will take the majority of my time but I know, at about ten minutes before unlocking the door for the day, I’ll need to get the register till in place. There’s a fifteen minute time-delay to open the safe and remove the till, but I’ve been opening twice a week for the last eleven months. I have my tasks down to a science and know precisely when to set the safe for opening. It's not long before there’s a pounding that directs my attention to the front. The main door to the pub is old and wooden, with frosted glass in the top half. I don’t know that it’s original to the building, but it’s been in place as long as the O’Gallagher family’s been here. Unlatching the set of locks, I open the door wide, allowing Ben in. “How many d’you grab?” I ask, resecuring the locks. “Just four.” Ben tosses the bag on the bar, then ties his hair up in “man bun” at the top of his head. I’ve been giving him shit about the hair for the last year. Ben and I met a few months after I started at O’Gallaghers—he took a position shortly after I did. He needed a place to stay and I’d recently had a roommate move out. Worked out great. Worked out even better that he’s an all-around good guy and easy to get along with. That, and the fact we keep very similar schedules. The guy’s only negative is he’s a modern day Snow White and the stray cats at our apartment complex gravitate toward him. Now my dog Boo, a mostly-white American Bully mix, herds cats around the apartment and has given up her extra-large bed for a blind, white cat named Sully. “Figured the order is due to come today, isn’t it? So, more will be here in time for the St. Paddy’s shit.” Ben is now behind the bar, washing his hands as he gets ready to cut and prep the condiments. “Hopefully.” The truck drivers have been arriving later than usual. They used to arrive right when we unlocked the doors but the last few weeks they haven’t gotten here until closer to three. That’s four hours to potentially be low—or worse, out—of something. And with only two or three bodies in the pub, if it’s busy it’s not easy to send someone to the store. Hence, sending Ben before we arrived here today. While he has the front of house, I head into the office to start unlocking the safe and get the back of house ready. Fifteen minutes later, the till is in place and the day has officially begun. Early afternoons aren’t typically busy here, unless it’s a sport day. Everyone in town knows that the NHL Enforcers hang out here and regardless of time, we have their games on live. We turn on baseball and football, too—hard no to golf, sorry not sorry; I’ll play it, just can’t get me to watch it—and the occasional NASCAR race on Sundays, but when it’s not a sport day, it usually takes a while before people start piling in. We’ll probably see a few regulars that come in for lunch, and then the afterwork crowd will start walking through the doors at about three or so. On days I