They better fill the jar, as being the only bartender on a Wednesday night sucks. It’s been a week since Reed shared the news that Joe and Stella eloped. There’s no news about their plans. Financially that’s great news, I’m earning double what I usually make. However, I don’t think I’ll have any time off until they’re back.
Today is Open Mic Wednesday, and Reed added a one-dollar draft promotion to make up for the slow customer service. We don’t need any incentives. What we need is more employees.
“What can I get you?” I wait on the guy who squeezed himself between the crowding bodies. His penetrating green gaze meets mine.
Oh, it’s Mr. Whiskey Sour—Good tipper, bad temper.
Usually, I don’t remember a two-time customer, but something about him just stuck with me. Tonight, he’s wearing a strikingly sharp and intimidating dark suit—I like it. Okay, maybe there’re more reasons on why I remember him. The attraction between us. The darkness in his eyes, the emptiness in his soul.
I want to soothe him, unbreak him, and… can I even help him when I’m beyond repair?
“Your usual?” I swallow, composing myself.
He leans closer to the counter. “You know what my usual is?”
I give him a sharp nod and prepare his drink, then hand it over.
He takes a few gulps and smiles at me. “I could use someone like you.”
“Thank you for the offer,” I say, with my sweetest voice as I grab his hundred-dollar bill, “but I’m happy where I am.” I show him his money. “Planning on keeping them coming?”
“Nah, maybe I’ll order a second one. The rest is yours.” He looks around the bar, reaches again for his wallet, and hands me his business card. “I’ll be opening a place next year, and I’d be happy to employ you.”
Tristan F. Cooperson
There’s an email address and some phone numbers. No company name or position. I scan the card, then focus on his dark green eyes.
They study me, and I feel as though some kind of force is trying to pull me toward them. As if they’re trying to trap me. The sensation makes every cell of my body buzz, sucking in the air around me.
“Bartender!” I break our stare and glance to the left, where a funny-looking dude is waving at me. “Dudette, I need my beer.”
Right, I’m the only bartender working tonight. I push the card inside my back pocket and resume working after that brief trip to… I don’t know where he sent me.
Limbo?
His dark places call to me. Maybe we recognize each other as fellow fighters. There’s something within him that I empathize with, and… I push those thoughts away and remember that I have work to do. The voices asking for drinks and demanding service take me back to the present, where I should always be.
“Hey, Butterfly.” I hear that typical greeting, and my lips stretch. Matt. I check the time. Ten at night. Damn, time flies, and tonight I’m not having fun. “How’s the music?”
“Would you believe me if I say I have no idea?”
“Another crazy night?” He squeezes my hand, making me smile and drop whatever walls I tried to put up when I heard his voice.
I give him a slight nod, losing myself in those enticing eyes. Seeing him daily must stop soon, or the anti-Matt shield will break beyond repair.
“Hey, bitch, where is my drink?”
Matt’s nostrils flare. I shrug it off and move to the guy who just screamed at me. Some college dude who looks barely legal. I wish I could check his ID, but I don’t have the time, and I trust our bouncers. They do a good job checking at the entrance, catching fake IDs, and marking whoever is under twenty-one.
“I’ll take it from here,” Matt says so close to my ear that he caresses the sensitive skin on the back of my neck. “You’re in charge of the hard shit. I’ll be in charge of the drafts and sodas.”
There’re a lot of orders waiting for me to fill. For the first time, I pay attention to the music playing on stage.
“True Colors.” An acoustic version of an old ’80s song with a dreary-slow pace.
“You’re hard to please,” Matt says while pouring a draft of lager.
“I’m not.” I fill Reed’s tray with a few margaritas and start with the next order.