Making random, obscure drinks didn't bother Emyli on most days. There was something fulfilling about creating a drink and watching the satisfaction wash over a customer's face. Tonight, she wasn't feeling it as much, but she liked working with Aiden and so she took over the obnoxious hipster orders. She figured Aiden could handle the usual orders; the regulars at the bar were ordering typical shots of whiskey with a nod of their head. The regular crowd was getting louder. Some of them were trying -- operative word there -- to sing along with the jukebox, but most were just trying to talk over each other. Emyli accepted her shot of tequila with a knowing smile. She nodded with a grin. "Don't I know it. Check my bag if you need any extra help making it til close."
She fished a lime dice out of the container behind the bar, downed the shot and shoved the lime between her lips, squeezing. She took her time sucking on the fruit for two reasons. One, she knew those hipster fucks were watching and two, she really didn't want to answer Aiden's question. It wasn't necessarily that she didn't trust him, just that she hated admitting that she was hurt by someone she so shamelessly hit on. Telling Toby was one thing, but she'd be damned if she said it aloud again. She spat the skin of the lime out into the trash and licked her lips. "Oh, you know me," she winked. "Got a little to frisky with a guy whose middle name was Kink and forgot my safe word. Dude had this whip thing and caught me in the ribs a little rougher than expected. It's bruised up all to shit. Told him next time he has to be the one tied up."
The lie fell easily from her lips and she knew that anyone who knew her knew better than to question her. Why? Because Emyli would go into explicit detail about her night with Mr. Kink. The more details, the more believable. Whether Aiden bought it or not, she didn't really know because the jukebox began blaring Sweet Home Alabama. The regular patrons shrieked with excitement and began to sing even louder. Their voices overwhelmed the actual jukebox and left the hipster party staring with disgusted expressions plastered on their pasty faces. The birthday boy ought to have left well enough alone, but Emyli could see false courage bubbling under his skin and she knew trouble was just around the trouble. The kid opened his mouth and it was really a miracle that his voice carried over the din in the bar, but his words were clearly heard over the music though they were slurred. He obviously wasn't about to let white trash ruin his night.
"Jeez, I wish I got this excited over hick garbage."
Emyli didn't see who threw the first punch; all she knew was somebody scoffed, somebody laughed, and somebody shouted with all the offense they could muster -- "How dare you!" -- as if their religion had been insulted. Then the birthday boy went flying into his friends and all hell broke loose. Emyli half-laughed and rolled her eyes. Bar fights were not uncommon and the douchebag had it coming, so the dream eater was less than concerned. To prove it, she reached over and claimed the unfinished beer and took a swig. She grimaced. "Jesus fuck. He should have been punched for ordering this piss."