by Kate, Jiffy
“I promise, you won’t regret it. And,” he adds, cocking his head to the side. “Wyatt, the owner, he offers a one hundred percent satisfaction guarantee on this. If you’re not completely satisfied, even if there isn’t a drop left on the plate. You let him know and it’s no charge.”
“Wow,” I reply, nodding my head. “That’s confidence I can get behind.”
We both chuckle as he walks off, leaving me to my bread pudding. My sweet, sweet bread pudding. Maybe, since I’ve recently crashed and burned at a relationship, I should consider one with this piece of work in front of me. I mean, he’s sweet, warm, delicious, and he doesn’t look like he has a mean bone in his body. I smirk at my ridiculousness and dig in, stifling a moan as the decadent goodness touches my tongue.
Just as I’m finishing up my dessert, practically licking my plate—I totally would’ve had I been alone—my gumbo and crusty bread is served, along with a tall glass of good, southern sweet tea. Everything is delicious and exactly what my shattered psyche needs.
“How was everything?” A curiously dressed gentleman walks up to my table, with genuine interest on his face, just as I’m pushing my clean plate away and setting my napkin on top. His suspenders and seersucker shirt are a unique combination, causing me to peruse the rest of him. I smile when my eyes take him in and notice the scuffed up cowboy boots topping off his ensemble.
Ahh. You gotta love New Orleans.
“It was great. Best meal I’ve had in a long time. Hands down,” I tell him.
His eyes light up. “That’s great, just what I like to hear.” When he crosses his arms over his chest and continues to stand there, I realize our conversation isn’t over and it makes me fidget with the used up napkin.
“Are you new here? Visiting?”
When I look back up at him to respond, because my mama raised me to look people in the eyes when I’m talking to them, he doesn’t seem to notice my black eye and split lip. If he does, his expression doesn’t change.
“I’m new...not visiting, at least, I don’t think I am,” I ponder aloud, to him and myself.
“A transplant?” he asks, cocking his head and quirking his eyebrow in curiosity.
“Uh, I don’t really know. I’m just...”
“Drifting?”
I bark out a laugh, but he’s right. I’m kind of a drifter. Even though I came here intentionally, I don’t have much of a plan past getting a job. Clasping my hands together in front of me on the table, focusing on my short nails and chipped bright-blue polish, I think to myself this is a place I’d like to work. Everyone seems so nice and inviting.
“I’m looking for a job,” I blurt out, wincing up at him in apology for the abruptness and awkwardness. I can’t help myself sometimes. I just say what pops into my head. “You wouldn’t happen to have any openings?” I try to sound confident, but my words come out tentative and hesitant, not necessarily what one should be shooting for when soliciting employment.
Fortunately, Wyatt doesn’t seem bothered. His expression is neutral as he lets out a loud sigh, his lungs completely deflating as he twists his lips. “I really don’t have anything...not even a dishwasher position,” he says, looking over his shoulder. “We don’t have a high turnover rate here. Most of my employees have been with me for years.”
Inhaling, I smile, nodding my head. “I kinda figured. I’ve worked a lot of odd and end jobs. I always know a good working environment when I see one. Just thought I’d take a chance.”
“As you should,” he replies thoughtfully. “Always take a chance.”
We sit there in silence, not awkward, just contemplative. I turn my attention back toward the window, giving him an out, but he doesn’t take it.
“I tell you what.” He drops his voice and squats beside the table, getting eye level. “See that guy over there?”
Following his line of sight, I see a man sitting alone at a table in the opposite corner of the café. He has dark hair and equally dark tattoos peeking out from under his shirt. The beard covering his face hides any expression, leaving him appearing even more mysterious than the waiter I had earlier.
“Yeah,” I breathe out, still letting my eyes rake over him while he’s not looking.
“That’s Shaw O’Sullivan. He owns and operates a bar down in the French Quarter. Are you familiar with the area?”
“I’m renting a room off Marigny Street,” I offer.
“Perfect. His bar sits off St. Ann. It’s called Come Again.” He takes out an order pad and jots down information as he continues talking. “He’s been known to help people who are looking for a hand up, giving them jobs...taking them in off the street.”
“Well, I’m not on the street, yet,” I add with a light laugh. “But I could really use a job.”
His blue eyes meet mine and there’s nothing but sincerity there. “I’d give you one if I had anything to offer. And if this doesn’t work out,” he says, handing me the slip of paper, “come back and see me in a couple weeks. I’ll see if I can fit you in somewhere.”
Taking the paper, I scan it and look back up at him. “Thank you.”
“No problem.” He stands from his squatting position and sticks out his hand. “I’m Wyatt, by the way.”
“Avery Cole,” I tell him, shaking his hand.
“I’d tell you to talk to him today, but he keeps to himself on the weekends—being Sunday and Monday for him. So, I think you’d have better luck if you approached him on Tuesday when the bar opens back up for the week.”
“Tuesday,” I repeat, unable to take my eyes off the man across the room.
“Good luck, Avery,” he says with a tip of his imaginary hat.
“Thanks, Wyatt.”
A few minutes later, my waiter, Tripp, I believe is his name, is back. “Can I get you anything else?” he asks, clearing away my bowl and saucer.
“No, I’m stuffed, but everything was delicious.”
“That’s what we like to hear.” Taking a check out of his back pocket, he places it on the table in front of me. “I’ll be your cashier when you’re ready, but no rush. Can I get you a coffee or anything?”
“No, I’m good.” I smile at him, at this place. I think I just found my Cheers.
Reaching across the table, I pull my backpack over and look at the check to see how much I owe. The bread pudding has been marked off with a smiley face and a Good luck, Avery written beside it.
Yeah, I love this place.
Chapter 2
Shaw
“Hey, boss,” Paulie calls out when I walk through the back door of the bar.
I nod my head in response but keep quiet otherwise. I haven’t had my coffee yet, so it’s best for everyone if I keep my mouth shut for the time being.
Stepping into my office, I toss my messenger bag onto the floor and flip on the light. Because I’m running a little late, I only have a few minutes before my weekly staff meeting begins, so I use the time to sit at my desk and decompress.
It’s a fucking shame that, at nine-thirty on a Tuesday morning, I’m already fighting a personal case of asshole-itis but sometimes it can’t be helped. While most people dread and complain about Mondays, my week starts on Tuesday and let me tell you, the name of the day doesn’t mean shit. The start of the work week is rough, no matter what.
My weekends fall on Sundays and Mondays. I love my time off and I make a point to spend it wisely, whether it’s taking my motorcycle out on long rides or staying home and pigging out in front of my television watching sports. I do whatever the hell I want to do and, usually by Tuesday, I’m ready to get back to work.
But, not today.
Today was predetermined to be a shitty day, for reasons I’m not acknowledging at the moment, but to make matters worse, I ran out of coffee at my house. I pass by some amazing coffee shops on my way to work and thought I could get a cup to go, but everywhere I went was packed. This is New Orleans. People here should either be at work already or still in bed recovering from last night
. I mean, what the fuck?
I even contemplated hitting up Café du Monde but knew it’d be full of tourists. Don’t get me wrong, I love that place and most days I’m grateful it’s located close to my bar, but it’s not the kind of place you go to for a quick cup of coffee.
So, here I sit, trying to focus on all the shit I have to do today while fighting off the beginnings of caffeine withdrawal.
“Good morning! Y’all haven’t started without me, have you?”
I recognize the sweet voice of my sister and let out a sigh of relief. Sarah is my rock and I rely on her more than I should.
When I walk out of my office, I immediately notice a sweet aroma. Sarah runs the cooking school next door to the bar, so she usually smells like food, but this is different. I know this scent. Picking up my pace, I waste no time in getting to the bar because my sister—the best fucking sister on the planet—has donuts with her.
And coffee.
I grab the large cup from her hand and bring it to my nose, letting the smell of chicory soothe my nerves, before taking a drink.
“Thank you, Sarah, for the coffee and donuts,” Sarah says, mocking my bad manners.
“You know how he is before he gets his fix, all grumpy and rude,” Paulie says. “He hasn’t said one word since storming in here. Shaw’s lucky we love him despite his moods.”
Finally ready to speak, I point to them individually. “You,” my finger finding Paulie first, “only love me because I pay you. And, you,” I look at my sister, “love me because you have to.”
I wrap my arm around Sarah’s shoulders and lean down to kiss the top of her head. “Thank you for the coffee and donuts, love. You’re a lifesaver.” This causes her to blush and swat her hand at me.
“Oh, stop. I didn’t do this for you; I did it for those of us that have to work with you.” She gives me a wink before speaking quietly so only I can hear. “You doing okay?”
“Yeah,” is my quick response before stepping away and grabbing a donut. Sarah knows me better than anyone, and although I know she’s not happy with my brief answer, she knows that’s all she’s gonna get from me.
Two more of my bartenders show up and grab a donut before settling down at the bar, waiting for the meeting to start.
“So, what’s on the agenda for this week’s meeting? Is this everyone?” Paulie asks.
“No, Jeremy is supposed to be here, too. Today is his first day of training.” I look at the front door before glancing at my watch. “If he ain’t here in five minutes, he’s out.”
Paulie chats with the other guys while I finish my coffee, waiting to see if my new hire shows up or not. I won’t be surprised if he doesn’t show, but I will be disappointed. The guys I hire to work here at Come Again are chosen for a reason and I don’t like feeling I’m wasting an opportunity on someone who doesn’t want it.
With two minutes to spare, the front door chimes, alerting us to Jeremy’s arrival.
“Hey, new kid!” Paulie yells and waves him over to where we’re all gathered. Jeremy looks nervous, scared even, and rightly so. I watch as he gingerly sits on a stool, not making eye contact with anyone.
Normally, I would’ve laid right into him, calling him out on being late and wasting my time, but something tells me to use a different tactic with this kid. All eyes are on me when I grab a couple of donuts and a napkin and walk over to where he’s sitting. I drop the food in front of him, ignoring how his body flinches in response.
Speaking only to him, I ask, “Are you clean?”
He glances up at me before nodding his head.
“Good. You’re late. I’ll allow it this time, but if it happens again, you’re out. You got that?”
The speed of his nod increase. “Yes, sir.”
I eye Jeremy carefully, taking in his long, stringy hair and dirty clothes. “Eat up,” I nod toward the donuts. “After the meeting, I want you to go upstairs and take a shower. Get yourself cleaned up and find some clothes to wear. If you need anything specific, you let me or Sarah know. After that, I’ll start your training.”
He lets out a shaky breath and looks me in the eye. “Thank you.”
I nod before returning to my place at the head of the bar, my good deed for the day taken care of.
The weekly meeting doesn’t last long. We go over the schedule for the week and talk about events going on in the city. Come Again isn’t far from the infamous Bourbon Street, but we’re not really a part of the party scene. While we do get a lot of tourists and stragglers, our clientele consists mostly of local regulars. Still, it’s always good to know what’s happening around town so we’re prepared.
After Jeremy gets cleaned up, I start showing him around the bar. It’s not a huge establishment but this place has definitely seen some great times. Opening a bar had been a lifelong dream of mine, so when this space became available back when I was in my mid-twenties, I jumped on it. It was a rough start but after a much-needed makeover and much-appreciated word of mouth, Come Again began to thrive.
“Now, back here is the stock room. It’s where we keep supplies, kegs, and the extra bottles of booze. When Paulie or one of the other guys need something, this is where you’ll find it. It’s imperative we keep this room neat and organized so that when there’s a rush and we run out of something, it can be replaced quickly. Believe me, you don’t want to make customers wait too long for their drinks. When the natives get restless, things get ugly.”
Jeremy quirks a small smile, the first I’ve seen from him, and nods his head. “Will do...I can do that.” His words are quiet, just like his demeanor, and I’m afraid he might get eaten alive if he doesn’t show some moxie. I know guys like him, though. Most have been beaten down by society until they can’t think further than putting one foot in front of the other.
I slap a hand down on his shoulder, sparing no expense. His whole body shakes but I get his attention. “Listen, all I ask is that you stay clean and show up on time, just like I mentioned earlier, but if you want to thrive, you’ll need to dig deep and find your balls.” I pause for a second, letting my words sink in and give him a chance to catch my drift. “They’re there. I promise, yeah?”
He nods.
“Don’t let people walk all over you or make you feel like you’re less than them, because you’re not. We all put our pants on the same way. So, for anyone who’s put you down or made you feel like they’re better than you, fuck them.”
He swallows before giving me another slight nod. I quirk an eyebrow at him, my face probably looking menacing under the dim light of the storage room. Finally, he tilts his chin up and mutters, “fuck them.”
“That’s right.” I nod my approval, giving him another slap on the shoulder, but not as hard this time, following it up with a squeeze of reassurance.
I’m not the touchy-feely type. I don’t hug. I don’t have flowery words of motivation. I have real talk and tough love, and it’s worked so far. Not for everyone, but those that can be saved, I’ve saved them.
“Shift starts in an hour.” Turning on my heel, I depart the storage room and leave Jeremy behind. My day really hasn’t even started yet and I’m already ready for it to be over. Not that I don’t love this place. I do. If it weren’t for the bar, I’d spend my days doing nothing and that would never work, so I appreciate it for what it is—employment, an outlet, a resource for the less fortunate, and some days, it’s the only thing I have to look forward to.
When I approach the front of the bar, I hear the telltale creak of the front door and check my watch. It’s early. We always leave the door unlocked once we’re all here for the day, even though we don’t technically open until later. Every once in a while, we’ll get an early straggler—someone having a bad day at work or someone searching for the hair of the dog. We’ve got remedies for both.
Glancing up, I expect to see a regular, a familiar face, but instead my eyes meet those of a young girl. She barely looks old enough to be in here, legally. “Can I help you?” I ba
rk out, my voice sounding a little rougher than I anticipated.
The way she straightens her back lets me know she heard that too and I inwardly cringe. It’s not like I’m intentionally trying to be an asshole. For a second, I think my greeting was enough to scare her off, which would’ve been fine by me, but then she squares her shoulders and clears her throat.
“I’m looking for a job,” she says. Her words come out quickly, like she’s ripping off a Band-Aid or taking a dive before she chickens out. “I spoke with Wyatt at The Crescent Moon and he mentioned that you might be looking for some help.” The more she talks the braver she gets.
“Well, Wyatt was wrong. I’m not looking for anyone.”
I’m actually impressed when she takes a couple steps toward me.
Now, there’s some moxie.
“He said you help people who are down on their luck,” she challenges with a tilt of her head, like she’s inspecting me—testing me to see if any of the things she’s heard about me are true.
“Are you even old enough to work in a bar?” I ask, squinting my eyes in her direction, but not giving her much of my attention. However, I do look close enough to see the fire in her eyes spark and burn a little brighter, and I have to admit, I like it. But there’s no way in hell I’m hiring her. I’ve never had a female employee...at least, not since...
“I can mix drinks, wait tables, wash dishes—” She starts trying to sell herself and her skills, but I cut her off.
“We don’t cook. The only dishes we have are glasses and it’s every man for himself,” I retort, emphasizing the word man.
Her eyes widen and her nostrils flare a little before she huffs, “That’s very sexist of you.” I watch as her chest rises and falls with deep breaths and she bites down on her bottom lip, as if to keep herself from spewing out any more words of rebuttal.
“Listen, sweetheart, this isn’t Bourbon Street. We keep our clothes on here and we don’t do body shots,” I practically growl out, because she’s getting under my skin. How dare she come into my establishment on a Tuesday and challenge me. “If I only want to hire men, then I’ll do as I damn well please. Go find yourself a club to work at. That’s where the tips are, anyway.”
