Firecracker

ors. “Wanker bankers,” I mumble to myself grumpily noting their sharp suits that probably cost more than most people make in a month, before plastering on a ‘happy face’ in

n. Typical, I think to myself as they high-five and slap each other on the back for having finally made it across t

hile I studiously listen to their jumbled requests and start pulling pints, my attention is suddenly grabbed by a guy standing at the back of the group. In contrast to the others, he is wearing jeans and a light-blue button-down s

nkey, and I have to resist the urge to pour the pint that I am holding all over him. I scowl, using my deadliest look, perfected since working in the bar. A look essential when you are a five-foot blonde working in a bar frequented by the lords and ladies of the financial world. Yes

ake a seat in one of the large, raised booths. Taking advantage of the brief lull, I finish cleaning up the

our even in the most stressful situations but tonight is an aberration. I briefly consider calling out to one of the other bar staff or even Finn, the bar manager, who disap

f my mother’s death, and all I feel is anger and a simmering irritation with anyone whose life seems better than mine. Usually, my sister would be around, and we would hole up for the day in my apartment with ice-cream and chi

cat that got the cream, but little does she know that Finn is probably the biggest man-whore around and the only cat around here is him; this little canary is nothing more than a half

flying and landing ungracefully on my arse. We bonded over my apology coffee and have remained firm friends ever since, so h

and doing my best to temper my emotions. A stray tear escapes and I hurriedly swipe it away, not wanting any weakness to be

on, Kat, I think to myself. Let’s just pretend it’s a day like any other. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I hiss, hating the fact that I’m feeling so vulnerable today. I close my eyes and visualise putting on a suit of armour. As each element clicks into place, my