All you have to do is shout it out.

She scratched at her neck feverishly. Her blue eyes twitched nervously as the crowd began to grow. Five years, she still felt nervous about the crowd that swamped the place. Five years and she was still hoping for a familiar face to show itself to her. Her cascading brown hair framed her face as it moved to the side. She had caught a glimpse of short and choppy black hair; but it wasn’t her. It had been like this for her ever since she left. It was hard to watch your old friends become famous while you barely made the newspaper. Her hues flashed to a newcomer who had waltzed in; blenchingly white hair longing down her face. It wasn’t her. The bark of an order for a drink disrupted her thoughts and she moved obediently to get it. This bar she had owned; purchased by her father. She didn’t like it, but yet it was the only way to get her name put out there. She moved the ingredients of salt, vodka and lime juice together and slid them into a shot glass. A tip was slapped down in front of her; routinely, she slipped it in her back pocket.

The Fire Squad bar; her father’s purchase and gift. It was a scary gift after a scary and still unrecovered experience for her. She was only sixteen when experienced. And yet…her father bought her this; a bar. After everything, he had bought her a bar. Too polite and stunned to deny it, she accepted it. Who was she to deny it either way? Her father had invested money to fix it up and even buy it. Her eyes grew vacant and wide, but snapped to attention as a customer waved a hand in her face.

“Miss, you alright?”

“Fine, perfectly fine.” It was horrid that being the owner of the bar and club; meant she also had to put in hours. “What can I get you?” she said through lightly brushed lips. It was like the woman was in a daze completing her routine and daily tasks again and again. She needed to be awoken from this reality. Her arms raised and found the drinks ingredients; known by heart. Her hands pulled her hair into a ponytail as she placed the drink in front of a different man, taking a different wage of money.

The bass of the music turned up several notches; vibrating her entire body. It continued like this, drinks being exchanged with money. Whoever got to the customer first got the tip. Most of the time it was her; she was the fastest mover. It didn’t really matter anyways; they still made minimum wage regardless of tips or not. Her flesh was hot from the heat of the bar, her ear tips coloring slightly. A low hum took over the back of her throat as the setting of the place tuned down to mild. How peaceful.

“Roxanne,” a voice called through her thoughts. Her head turned to face it. “Go on, go home. You’re shifts over.”

The brunette twenty one year old nodded, and took off. Her jacket over her body, she counted the tips she had made and smiled softly to herself. Roxanne Maslatia was what you would call a ‘rich bitch’. Roxanne Maslatia, was also lonely. Her friends thought she was dead. Especially what had happened after she had blacked out that night, five years ago.