Andy Beckett

Emma’s mouth parted. It was barely noticeable. Honestly, it was all to do with her composure, but all the same, she nearly disputed the sardonic jabs. They were all ones she deserved– she’d done this. The bed she now lied in wasn’t quite as comfortable and sexy as the one prior had been. But what the hell? That’s not exactly how things had gone down. Andy had meant so much to her. Sure, some days she couldn’t reckon the intensity of it– nor had she wanted to on those; however, she’d felt something iron clad for her. At the end of the day, Emma’s only fault was that she’d loved herself more. “Pfft, who needs a back burner when I can just have the whole buffet,” she smirked, keeping it firmly in place. Even as she witnessed peak pettiness from her ex. She was impressed by the animosity she still possessed. Andy was nothing if not determined. In the back of her mind, she knew that spoke volumes. It told a tale of just how much Andy didn’t hate her– at least at one time, she hadn’t.

Her eyes squinted, soaking up her pitiful glass. Emma’s stomach churned just looking at it; and yet, there was no way she was going to let the other see. She placed a crumpled up five-dollar bill on the counter with the cheekiest of nose crinkles. The way she brushed her brown locks over her shoulder was done under the guise of being ‘sweet and innocent’. Though, her demeanor nearly and abruptly switched two or three gears. But she kept together as the foam and tasteless beer went down her throat. When she managed to actually swallow it, she took another masochistically. “Mm, if only you’d tasted almost as good as this.” Another drink. Lies. It tasted like the bottom of a trash can. Likely. “What a shame,” she shrugged.

Maybe Andy would’ve noticed the slight change in expression, the tiniest shift, had she swallowed her pride enough to actually look at Emma for more than a few seconds at a time. Andy had always been a woman of sharp edges — take, before you get taken, and give harder than you got. She was a hard person to give a shit about. She knew that. She had even convinced herself that it was by design, and out of necessity. Despite all of it, Emma had, for a time, had the audacity to give a shit about her anyway. That had been the worst part, Andy told herself — to have that taste of something real, and maybe even something good — and have it ripped away. Brows crept up at the response, throat closing around an acrid laugh. "What do they charge for the whole buffet down on Sunset nowadays? 25 for the night? I didn’t know you’d gotten that desperate, Muller.” She hummed, flashing the other another sardonic grin. 

It was with rueful satisfaction that she watched Emma choke down the ‘drink.’ Prideful little shit. Andy, despite herself, felt a pang of something almost like attraction, though she’d never admit, at the other’s absolute stubbornness as she tried to choke back the drink’s head. She leaned over the bar, her better assets deliberately in Emma’s eye line as she retrieved the cash. At the second quip, the bartender did let out a breath of laughter. She was going to need a drink herself to get through this. “Baby,” she feigned a pout. “If I’d known bitter was your type, I would’ve tried a little harder.” Ducking beneath the bar to produce two shot glasses, Andy poured two shots. Well tequila — it somehow tasted worse than it smelled — but she was going to put Emma’s extra $2 to good use. Sliding the second across the bar to the other, she raised a brow in challenge. “If you’re going to drink at this bar on my shift, you’re going to have a real fucking drink.” She added, raising her own small glass.

in the last several months, emma muller had been in the process of living her best life. she was free to come and go as she pleased. none was the amount of times she had to care for anyone or anything. her life; her rules. consequences for her actions were particularly irrelevant. none was as blatantly so as the woman behind the bar. since their break up, if one could call it that, she was constantly reminded of her own carelessness. some would even argue it was more on the heartless side. if emma had a shred of concern for anyone else’s feelings, contrary to what she believed, she would have left right then. so easily she could be an adult and leave andy to her work. it was the noble thing; however, there weren’t a lot of things she claimed to be. she didn’t like boxing herself in– but noble undoubtedly not a word she’d use either. that was clear by how flippantly she nosily plopped down opposite andy. when she finished her coors light, she wiped her the edges of her mouth. leave. the word was on repeat in her mind. it desperately pleaded with her. ultimately, she won the battle with herself. “don’t spit in it, beckett,” she smirked, sliding her empty glass across the bar. @andybeckett​

She was, above all else, selfish. It was a trait that was fostered deep inside Andy Beckett, a product of both nature and nurture. Her needs first, fuck anyone who dared to tell her to reprioritize. But there were moments — fleeting and spread thinly across her lifetime — when someone else shoved their way in. Despite herself, and despite her best efforts, Andy wound up giving a shit about another human being. Dark eyes flickered up, brow already raised in question at the patron who was so passively demanding attention, Andy’s jaw set as her gaze landed on one of the few who had managed to work themselves in. Her first instinct was to ignore the smiling woman and her demand, and Andy heavily debated doing just that. She froze for a moment, eyes narrowing in consideration. She could give her a bar mat shot — seemed fair. Instead, lips pulled into a tight smile, Andy grabbed the glass. “You sure you don’t want two? Unless keeping one of the backburner isn’t your style anymore. Wouldn’t want you to get bored with it.” She hummed, giving the bottle a bit of a shake before pouring it into the glass. 

“She started it.” Andy defended, shaking her head. “’The customer is always right.’ No, sometimes the customer is just a raging bitch. You drink it, you don’t get to walk out on the tab. Especially not for the third time this month. I’m easy going enough, you work with me, I’ll work with you, you dig? But come on.” She reasoned as she poured herself a shot. It wasn’t entirely true — no one in the the history of Andy Beckett had ever called her ‘easy going.’ But that wasn’t the point. Before taking her drink, though, the bartender glimpsed at the clock to confirm that her shift had come to a dramatic close, hopped the bar, and settled into the stool beside the person she’d been ranting to. “Anyway,” she started, flashing the other a smile as she leaned back over and took back the amber liquid. “How’s your day?” She asked, unmistakable levity in her voice, as if she hadn’t just been part of an argument loud enough that the business next door surely heard it. 

whaddup my friends. i’m excited to bring you guys my absolute garbage can of a gal andy. more on her —