by L E Franks
The only thing unclear was if it’d be a death sentence for our relationship or just a slap on the wrist.
A slap would have called me by now.
Fuck.
It was time for some serious groveling. A waiter came by waving a plate and ticket to catch my eye before dropping them on the bar as I stood six feet away, brooding over the blank screen in my hand. I barely acknowledged him, turning away as I thumbed the only two words I had.
I’m sorry.
I hit send before shoving the phone back in my pocket. Distracted and more than a little heartsick, I absently cleared the end of the bar and began pulling a draft for the cute stockbroker across from me, currently jiggling his empty in my direction. It was easier fixating on the angle of the glass and the speed of the pour to ensure I gave him the perfect head than to waste anymore time fretting over my latest relationship fail—after all, I shouldn’t be surprised, I could be considered an expert in that field.
I slid the pint over to the man and was startled by his broad white smile and husky thanks in return. I felt a twinge. A month ago, I’d be giving him directions to the cold room by now. He was probably older than me by a handful of years, but he had that floppy preppy look that made the expensive suit seem like he was dressing up in his old man’s clothes for Halloween. The watch on his wrist screamed new money, not old. The bluebloods down Memphis way would be horrified by the ostentatious display, so he was probably very good at charming money out of them over the phone.
I barely had time to deliver his pint and take a margarita order from the parched gym bunny who’d been circling the man for the better part of an hour, before Simone our waitress pounced. Racking my brains, I tried to figure out what I’d missed before she made me regret choosing bartending as a profession.
“Where’s my order for table four?”
For a being so small, she came off as terrifying.
“Order?” I said automatically, my attention slipping back to the stockbroker gazing at me under his two-hundred-dollar fringe. He was apparently appreciating the extra effort I gave polishing the bar in front of him. The pain of her slap drew my focus back to her.
“Shit, Simone, you have to stop with the headsla—”
“I will, the second you start using your brains, Nick. You’re like that old Dodge Dart I learned to drive in—the starter in that junker only worked if you hit the dash really hard when you cranked it—”
“See, that’s the problem, you have the wrong equipment to crank me.” I ducked in time, which was handy. From my current angle hunched under the bar, I noticed the same waiter working his way back to the kitchen.
Popping up like some rodent from a carnival game, I threw a dirty bar towel to get his attention, catching him in the face. His startle was priceless.
“Hey, did you take my order back?”
I pointed to the empty spot on the bar and the waiter stared at me like I was a new variety of stupid that he didn’t want to try.
He’d been carrying a tray loaded down with dirty salad plates—a faux pas in the world of snooty waiters—whoever his busboy was, they were going to be feeling his pain very shortly, until then he was going to make do with me.
He set down the tray, carefully tossing the sopping towel behind the bar. I’d used it to clean up sloshed beer from Stockbroker’s glass—Bunny had made her move on the man, pressing her well-endowed cleavage against his arm as she hugged it, leading to a loss of half his pint in an eruption of unpleasant surprise.
She’d have better luck moving on to the table of five college frat boys drinking in the back.
My gaydar told me Stockbroker wasn’t lingering just for my witty commentary, but Bunny was hanging tough—hope springing eternal and all that—hovering at his right elbow but conspicuously avoiding his wet shirtsleeve.
“I dunno, Valentine, maybe if you stopped flirting long enough to do your job, you wouldn’t lose your things.”
My attention caught up with his words and I silently counted the number of appetizer plates stacked on the frat boys’ table—six, matching the number of pitchers. I made a mental note to double check with Simone that she’d already confiscated their keys or found them a designated driver. I’d offer them Bunny, but they looked like they’d be red meat to a lioness.
I turned back to the waiter now dabbing at his face with a wad of black cocktail napkins, clearly annoyed. He’d followed my eyes and wasn’t impressed.
“Use the big head for a change, and you’ll figure out that no matter where they are now, they’re cold. Just have Marco fire you another order.” He didn’t wait for my answer, hefting his tray and backing into the kitchen, he abandoned me to a fuming Simone.
“Dammit, Nick! I swear if you don’t start keeping your dick in your pants at work—” She left the threat unsaid, but it was so unfair. I'd done nothing but keep my dick in my pants lately—at work or otherwise—and it was getting old.
There was nothing to be done about it so I went back to brooding, this time including the waiter.
“D’ya think he’ll put in an order for me?” Apparently, my hope was still springing, as well.
“Honey, you’ll be lucky if you see that man again this month. You’ve seriously exceeded his maximum Valentine quotient with your bullshit.” Simone disappeared into the kitchen, leaving me with a stack of drink orders and my thoughts.
By the time I was done, both Bunny and the Stockbroker were gone, leaving behind a pink lipstick-stained margarita, the frozen ice flow now an unhealthy yellow slush at the bottom, and a business card of heavy cream vellum. Picking the card up, I ran my thumb over the embossing of his name before turning it over. On the back were his cell number and a note to call, scrawled in thick black ink.
It felt like a jab as I swept it up along with his empty glass. I missed FatBoy, and was regretting letting my tongue run loose for the second time in a day. Turning to dump everything into the tub, I froze.
Sitting on the top of a stack of dirty dishes was the missing plate. If onion rings and a burger could have attitude, these would be smirking at me.
Simone was right. I needed to get my head back in the game. Too bad no one shared the rules with me, because as of this minute, the only one losing was me.
Chapter Two
Tuesday March 12
I woke—the dream wrapped like a fist around my neck, choking me. I had that moment of awareness when you know you’re dreaming, but wonder if it’s real after all. And with all the angst I’d been feeling since FatBoy left me the day before, filling my nocturnal life with mixed messages, I found myself jerking awake long before my alarm, my pulse pounding in my throat, the dream rewinding and playing in an endless loop in the dim morning light.
The first thing I remembered was finding myself wrapped in his arms again. He was so tender I shivered under his kiss, the longing and remorse swept away with his tongue, until my body blazed with need.
It felt so real—he was back and he’d forgiven me, but then the scene shifted and we were in the dimly lit cold storage room with FatBoy bending me over the stacked cases of beer, stripping me down, leaving me bare to the world, his hand on the small of my back pressing me flat, the dominance turning the dream from erotic to nightmarish. Juan was laughing from somewhere behind me, witnessing my humiliation as FatBoy leaned in, whispering words that still rattled around in my head hours later.
“Forgive you? I think you’re confused about what’s going on here. You’d have to mean something to me first…
“You’re just a backroom boy, Nick, that’s all guys like you are good for. You’re not the kind of guy I’d bring home to meet the family—or anywhere else for that matter…
“But you’re cute and I don’t mind giving you what you’ve been begging for—in fact, I’ll give you everything you deserve… just a quick fumble in the back of the bar. So relax, let’s get this over with so I can move on. Juan’s been very patient.”
I never did get back to sleep. I lay in bed
staring at the ceiling, occasionally checking my silent phone for messages that didn’t come and waiting for the alarm to release me into the comfort of my routine.
At least behind the bar, I knew what I was good for.
* * * * *
By the time I arrived at work, most of the shadows lingering from my dream had faded. FatBoy had sent me a text explaining his silence. He’d left his charger at home and hadn’t thought about it until his phone died twenty miles outside of Knoxville. He’d waited until the drive home to buy himself a new one.
Unsaid was the rest of the explanation—that he’d assumed we’d be together and he’d borrow mine or we’d be together and he wouldn’t need it.
I apologized again for ruining our date. Left unsaid from my side was the fact that Knoxville and his gran both had other phones he could use if he really wanted to call. Or the fact that texting didn’t count as calling.
I tried not to think about how badly he’d used me in my nightmare—no matter how unreasonable it was to blame him, there was still truth in the subconscious thoughts expressed by his dream self.
Missing from both sides were any words of affection. He probably had one of those old-fashioned texting plans that charged by the letter.
I tried to shrug it off, arriving at work early enough to eat a late lunch with the staff and visit with Marco in his kitchen. I was mostly back to normal, ready for whatever came my way, which given my luck was as good as spitting in the eye of fate.
* * * * *
They drifted in by twos and threes until they filled up the space in front of my bar. There had to be twenty, no, thirty of them—men. Hot beautiful men—no, not beautiful. Once I got over the sheer quantity of them, I could take in a few of their features.
Ruddy skin and the sea of eyes staring back at me spanned the spectrum of blues and greens and hazels—more than one nose had the slightly thickened bridge and imperfect symmetry that bespoke snapped cartilage indifferently set in the past, which just added to the hotness.
Most of them were taller than me—a few even topping FatBoy’s height—but they all had hard wiry energy about them that screamed “team” as they stood, expectant and with near-identical grins on their faces. That and the matching rugby shirts and large identical athletic bags they each held pretty much confirmed it. I tried to place the sport or the team, but nothing jumped out at me.
It could be rugby. They all looked a little banged up and like they needed a drink and maybe a nap. There were several black eyes, and one with a cut on an impossibly high cheek looked like a kid still in primary school. As I watched him, the cut oozed a little blood—the skin around it looking torn and raw.
All this testosterone was revving me up, reminding me of my dry spell, so I focused on him while snagging a clean bar towel.
I filled it with ice, twisting and tying it secure and gestured the boy closer. He seemed nearer in age to fifteen than twenty-one—at least until you looked in his eyes. I almost pulled back my offering in the face of the fierce strength I saw pooling in mossy green depths until his blush, springing across his cheeks as I drew close, brought out my flirtiest bar persona.
“Wonder what the other guy looks like.” I gestured to my own cheek, mirroring where the injury would be, and his face flamed as I held the ice pack out to him.
“Thh—anks.” He barely got the word out, but it was enough to hear the lilt of an Irish brogue. Ahh… sweet. I love a man with an accent.
The thought gave me pause as the memory flashed of FatBoy reciting eighteenth-century poetry in the original French over after-hour shots.
I really did love a man with an accent.
Probably…
Maybe…
I sure liked one a lot.
I felt my brow wrinkle, and whatever thinking of FatBoy did to my face, it wasn’t good, because the boy took a quick step back from the bar, carefully holding the towel against his freckled cheek. A few of his teammates eased in a little closer and the temperature dropped a degree from their looks alone.
Dammit.
I needed to settle this thing between FatBoy and myself—it was affecting my work.
I glanced at the clock. Three thirty. He wasn’t scheduled to show up for another couple of hours, and wouldn’t be any time soon unless he wanted to—so far it was back to radio silence from my Tennessee Volunteer.
I waved the kid back in with my best smile—the warm, reassuring one that I usually saved for the awkward wing-women dragged into the bar by their more socially adept roommates before being dumped.
“You look like you could use something stronger than an ice pack—what’ll it be?”
“A pint o’ cider, if you’ve got it.” His smile was back—a little more guarded, which was for the best. Despite hair that would be at home frosting a strawberry cupcake, something about him reminded me of Juan—like he wasn’t to be toyed with. You could practically see his heart beating on his bloody sleeve.
“Hmm… I got a case of pear cider in the back…” I trailed off at the horror widening his eyes. Honestly, straight men sometimes. I waved away his panic, dismissing it.
“Don’t get your shorts in a twist. I won’t make you drink it.” I could feel the smirk underlying my reassurance. Really, he was just a baby, but it seemed to mellow out the rest of the bunch as they started jostling and teasing the man about his “dainties.”
“Look, I’ve got Guinness on draft—though you’ll be standing around dry for an hour if you all insist on that, I do a proper pour—but I can get you the first one. Or we have English brown ale…” It was funny to see them all wrinkle their noses at that one. “Indian pale ale, a good porter from Deschutes, the usual American drafts.” I quirked my brow, hoping to speed up his thought process and held a glass at the proper angle for the stout. If he didn’t want it, someone would.
I let the brew settle and did a quick calculation, lining up a dozen pint glasses to get started while waiting for him to decide.
A large tan hand slid over the bar, lightly touching my forearm to draw my attention. He towered over the kid in front of me, still swaying in indecision, apparently a “one-drink man”, which I respected as long as his ‘drink’ wasn’t a flavor found only in juice boxes.
The man’s blue eyes were glowing a shade of turquoise I’d never seen before, and I might have lost a moment staring at his sable brown hair falling thick across a broad forehead. He had a white scar bisecting one finely arching brow and a nose that wasn’t one of the battered ones dotted around the bar—he looked too tall to get hung up in whatever action they all seemed to be getting up to—but its tip had the slightest upturn that kept him from being classified as ‘scary’, giving his face an air of approachability. The overall effect was friendly, sexy… sexy?
I looked up into the man’s eyes in surprise. I’d been so occupied with FatBoy drama ever since Valentine’s Day that I’d been neglecting my favorite hobby—checking out the men wandering into the bar.
Something about the man leaning there, grinning at me—arm slung over the wiry kid next to him—had my gaydar pinging. I shook it off. The echoes from the fight with FatBoy yesterday were still hitting me hard.
His voice, when he spoke, was rich and low and filled with laughter. “Get the wee cunt a pint o’ ale. We’re dying o’ thirst here.”
“Fuck off—call me a cunt again, Corwyn, an’ I’ll use your ugly mug fer practice…”
“That scrawny bit? I’d rather kiss yer dog,” Corwyn sneered back.
Pissed, the kid was cute. Like a Corgi puppy barking at Godzilla. Well, at least as a hotter, sexier version of the walking nuclear-disaster-cum-lizard…
Cum-lizard. I snorted.
I needed to get laid.
The redhead turned his attention back to me, dropping the bloody towel on the bar. This time his freckles faded in the brilliance of his grin. Drawing himself up to his full height—still well short of the other player, but still full of pride.
“I’m Rory. A
nd, aye, I’ll take that pint.”
I slid the ale across the bar to the redhead. “Thankee.” This time, Freckles’ smile was more open—the gapped and chipped front teeth making the whole effect adorable rather than sexy.
I slid the pint of Guinness over to tall, dark, and hovering and watched as they took identical sips and sighed together.
Practice must have been rough.
“Anything else…?” I was anxious to get moving down the bar before I had a riot on my hands, though a quick glance reassured me that the rest of the team seemed to be relaxed, letting the big guy take his time. Must be their captain. Or their king.
“Corwyn. Call me Corwyn.” He threw me a dazzling smile, which showed off the chipped tooth that just added to his rugged charm.
“Nick Valentine. At your service.”
“Well then…” Corwyn leaned farther over the bar, elbowing the little ginger back. While he paused to inspect the head on his pint, I marveled at how the long fingers he wrapped around the glassware shrank it down to the size of a juice glass, and watching him tilt his head back and take a deep swallow—the muscles of his throat undulating—almost sent me sprinting back to the storage room.
Fuck the dream.
I had FatBoy on speed-dial. I didn’t care if he was on the road or still painting gutters on his grandmother’s house, I was sure I could talk him into a little phone sex—for a good cause. And I’d been so very, very good—all this abstinence was killing me.
Corwyn’s brogue drew me back to the present and my sexless state of being. “Best to go with pitchers of ale, doncha think, Nick—a dozen to start?” Just like that I felt all the moisture in my mouth evaporate.
Nodding, I tried to put my head back in the game. Simone was in the background shoving tables together and bullying Irishmen three times her size, moving their bags out of her way. The bulk of the new arrivals were evenly split between crowding the bar and sitting by the windows and keeping an eye on their gear, and throughout this chaos, Juan moved like a wraith—shuttling glasses and pitchers back and forth between Simone and me.
