One for the Road (Barflies Book 3)
Page 1
One for the Road
Katia Rose
Copyright © 2020 by Katia Rose
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (or lingering between those two states), or actual events is purely coincidental.
This book has been licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Please respect the author’s work
Cover design by Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations
Contents
1. Zach
2. DeeDee
3. Zach
4. DeeDee
5. Zach
6. Zach
7. DeeDee
8. Zach
9. Zach
10. DeeDee
11. DeeDee
12. Zach
13. DeeDee
14. DeeDee
15. Zach
16. DeeDee
17. Zach
18. DeeDee
19. DeeDee
20. Zach
21. DeeDee
22. DeeDee
23. Zach
24. DeeDee
25. DeeDee
26. Zach
27. Zach
28. DeeDee
Save An Indie
Up Next
I. Glass Half Full
1. Renee
2. Dylan
3. Renee
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Club Katia
Also by Katia Rose
One
Zach
GARNISH: an addition made to an alcoholic drink to enhance its presentation
“Esti. It’s locked.”
I pause where I’m pulling a crate of lemons off the shelves and turn to face DeeDee. We’re gathering garnishes from the bar’s walk-in fridge so she can get her station prepped for tonight’s shift. The chilled air has already raised goose bumps on my skin, but that’s not enough to stop the rush of heat that comes from being this close to her in a cramped, dim space—even one that’s filled with crates of fruits and vegetables.
“Locked?” I ask, turning to face her and hoping against hope that the heat hasn’t risen to my face.
She yanks on the handle again, but nothing happens. I watch her throw her weight against the door next, grunting with the effort. The thing doesn’t budge. She gives up and leans her back against it instead, crossing her bare arms over her chest and blowing a lock of candy pink hair out of her eyes.
“Locked,” she repeats.
Don’t look down. You are a gentleman. Don’t look down.
My grip tightens on the lemon crate. There’s no way she won’t notice if I let my eyes drop to her cleavage, but damn it, with her arms crossed like that, it’s like being told there’s a world famous celebrity across the street and forcing yourself not to turn your head.
Yes, DeeDee Beausoleil’s chest has celebrity status in my world, and probably the world of anyone who’s ever met her. DeeDee herself holds something of a celebrity status around Montreal. Not a day goes by at this bar where I don’t watch someone new walk through the door only to fall under her spell in five seconds flat.
She’s arresting. Intoxicating. Electrifying. Whatever you want to call it, she’s got it. Trademark bright pink hair and a diamond stud in her nose, husky laugh that always sounds like the start of a crazy adventure, the damn cutest Québécois accent I’ve ever heard, and curves that do not quit: she’s—
“Zach?”
I catch myself just before my eyes drop from her face, jerking back like I’ve been caught sneaking in somewhere I shouldn’t be.
Of course, I send the lemons tumbling out of the crate and onto the floor.
DeeDee cackles, a throaty, smoky sound that has me ready to tip another crate of citrus fruit over if she gets any closer.
She steps closer.
“You dork. What did you do that for?”
She nudges a lemon with her toe, and I focus on the tip of her black, non-slip sneaker instead of the goose bumps on her midriff. DeeDee’s other trademark is crop tops, and even in the relentless frigidity that is late March in Montreal, she’s still got her stomach—and electric blue belly button ring—on display more often than not.
Do. Not. Look.
Normally I’m not frothing at the mouth like this. Normally we’re friends—good friends, friends who’ve known each other for two and a half years. We have regular human conversations. We send each other text messages. We make jokes and pull faces whenever I walk past her station behind the bar. We cheer each other on when we’re dealing with the occasional shitty customer and high five when we make big tips off the good ones. She’s the only person I know who can make an eight hour shift fly by and leave me wishing it were longer.
Being around DeeDee makes every colour in the world seem a little brighter, bolder, and more beautiful. Normally that’s enough to stop me from wishing for more. Normally I can function—or at least pretend to function—around her, but when she’s three inches away in an enclosed space with just one fluorescent light bulb casting shadows on her skin, when her shivers are just begging for someone to wrap their arms around her and pull her close...
“Zachy Zach, what’s the matter with you?”
I raise my eyes from her foot, doing my best to block out any distracting curves on the way up to her face, and find her staring at me with an eyebrow raised and her mouth pursed in a suspicious grimace.
“I, uh, just figured that since we’re apparently stuck in here, we should give ourselves something to do.” I gesture to the fallen lemons.
To my surprise, she raises a finger and jabs it straight at my face, shouting “HA!” before another throaty laugh bursts out of her.
“What?” I demand. “Did you have a better idea for how to fill the time we’re stuck in the fridge?”
That came out wrong. Or right? No. Wrong. Definitely wrong.
She keeps laughing to herself as she makes her way back to the door and reaches for the handle.
“Joke is on you, mon ami. I can’t believe you fell for that. Everyone knows it doesn’t lock from the inside.”
Everyone does know that. Restaurant safety 101: ensure employees can’t get stuck in the fridge.
As my mother would say, “You’re a fool, Zachary Joseph Hastings.”
She would also probably be echoed by my two sisters. It’s a favourite phrase for all three of them.
DeeDee cracks the door open an inch and turns to warn the kitchen staff that she’s exiting. The sudden view of her tight black pants has me letting out a sound similar to someone getting punched in the stomach. I cover it up with a cough.
A fool, indeed.
“This is what you get for not appreciating my meme,” DeeDee calls over her shoulder. “Now you have to pick those lemons up and cut them for me.”
She steps out into the kitchen. The sounds of clinking dishes, chatting cooks, and a hip hop anthem blasting on the stereo seep into the fridge before the door swings shut. I’m engulfed in silence again, alone save for the faint buzzing of the bulb above my head.
I’m still standing there, thinking about how cute her accent sounds when she says ‘appreciating’ when the meaning of her words catches up with me.
“Right. That meme,” I mutter as I crouch down and start gathering lemons.
I love memes—possibly too much. In addition to working at Taverne Toulouse, I’ve been running an ecommerce business from home for over a year now, and the single biggest threat to my productivity is the way being on the internet gives me constant access to memes.
I stand by my fixation. Call me crazy, but I believe memes are one of the most undiluted essences of our culture there is. When the anthropologists of the future are trying to piece together what exactly the hell happened to our society, I’d bet everything I own they find the answer in memes.
Plus, memes are hilarious.
I get the lemons all gathered up into their crate and head out, calling “Door!” so I don’t accidentally slam anyone in the face as they’re rushing by with an armload of appetizers. I nod to the two cooks on duty as I pass by. It’s still early in the night, and they’re both busy working their way through prep tasks.
“Here you are, Mademoiselle Beausoleil.”
After making my way down the short hallway between the back and front of house, I drop the crate onto the lacquered surface of Taverne Toulouse’s giant three-sided bar. DeeDee turns from where she’s sliding pint glasses onto their shelf and gives me a look that’s the definition of unimpressed.
“Those don’t look chopped, Monsieur Hastings.” Her accent makes her miss the ‘H’ in my last name.
“I’ll get on it.”
“Good.” She makes a show of tossing her hair over her shoulder. “And maybe next time you will be nicer about my memes.”
“I’m always nice about your memes!”
She shakes her head. “You don’t think they make sense.”
I rest my elbows on the bar. “Well, it’s just sometimes they’re a little confusing.”
She brandishes a pint glass at me like it’s a weapon. “Whatever, bro. English is dumb and confusing.”
Then she reels something off in French too fast for me to be sure I follow, but I think it’s along the lines of, “And it’s not my fault my brain operates at a higher level than yours.”
“The pizza one was funny!” she adds, switching back to English for me.
“You sent me the ‘Ermahgerd’ girl when I told you I didn’t know what kind of pizza to order last night. I think I was justified in asking what that means.”
A sly grin spreads across her face. “How about asking what that memes?”
I do my best to look scandalized, but I can’t help laughing even as I place a hand on my chest like I’m offended. “Oh, DeeDee, that was so bad I don’t even know if it counts as a pun.”
“See!” She waves the pint glass around some more. “You’re mean!”
I can’t help myself. “No, I’m meme.”
“Tu es fou!” she shouts, calling me crazy. “Tu es complètement fou!”
“What’s all this revelry?”
I look over my shoulder to see Monroe, the owner of Taverne Toulouse, striding out of the hallway. She grabs a spot beside me, hiking herself up onto a stool. Even from that vantage point, she’s still way shorter than me. She’s way shorter than most people, but that doesn’t stop her from being one of the biggest badasses I know. She went from being the underpaid and overworked manager of a grimy student bar slowly going out of business to buying the place for herself and turning it into a Montreal nightlife Mecca—at just under thirty years old.
“Zach is being mean to me!”
Of course, dealing with her insane staff is probably the hardest part of Monroe’s job.
“I am not!” I turn to Monroe and put on a fake whiny voice. “DeeDee tried to lock me in the fridge.”
Monroe gets in on it, tutting and shaking her head. “DeeDee, what did you do to poor Zach?”
“Poor Zach?” DeeDee shelves the last pint glass and puts her hands on her hips. “Poor Zach? Everyone is always going on about poor Zach. Just because he looks like a cute little farmer—”
“How many times do I have to tell everyone?” I cut in. “I grew up in a small town, not on a farm.”
“You do wear a lot of flannel,” Monroe points out.
“Flannel is not just for farmers! Kurt Cobain wore a lot of flannel. Flannel can be grunge. Flannel can be lots of things!”
Monroe crosses her arms and pretends to appraise me as she taps her chin. “I think it’s the combination of the beardy thing and the flannel. It’s just very...wholesome. Not that that’s a bad thing!”
I attempted to grow a beard so everyone would think I look like less of a benevolent farmhand. I can’t manage much more than some blond scruff, and apparently it’s not having the intended effect.
“This bar is a hostile environment today,” I accuse.
“Oh, come on.” Monroe scoots herself off her stool. “You two know you’re both the shining stars of the staff. Now play nice while I’m gone. You’re closing together, aren’t you?”
I nod as DeeDee gasps and starts clapping her hands.
“We are?” She does a little wiggle to the rhythm of the indie rock anthem pumping through the bar’s sound system, and I have to avert my eyes. “Oooh, this is going to be fun! We haven’t closed together in so long, Zachy Zach!”
I cut down my hours at the bar a few months ago, after my ecommerce business started taking off. In truth, being here tonight is going to mess up my whole schedule for the week, but Monroe needed someone to pick up a shift, and I’m not really one to say no to a friend in need. Plus, DeeDee’s right: we haven’t closed together in so long.
Monroe laughs. “Glad to see you’re best friends again.” She pulls her phone out of her jacket pocket and swears. “Shit. It’s later than I thought. I’ve been locked in the office training Lisanne on manager stuff all day. It’s like a time warp in there.”
“Gotta get home to the hubby?” DeeDee jokes.
“He’s not the hubby.”
DeeDee winks. “Not yet.”
We all know it’s only a matter of time before the power couple of the century gets hitched. Monroe’s boyfriend is almost as big of a workaholic as she is, but I’m sure they’ll fit a wedding in there somewhere.
We say our goodbyes, and DeeDee and I settle into getting our stations prepped. We duck and weave around each other while tossing out jokes and friendly insults, falling into the comfortable co-working rhythm we have down to a science. I get the lemons sliced before doing a final sweep of the seating area, checking the mismatched coffee tables, leather couches, and clusters of chairs for any stray napkins or spilled drink residue that might have been missed.
I know she had a lot of people help her bring it to life, but as the mastermind behind the overhaul of Taverne Toulouse’s decor, Monroe really is a genius. The new space has held onto Taverne Toulouse’s signature dive bar charm with things like our neon ‘Please don’t do coke in the bathroom’ sign and the infamous graffiti wall covered in years and years’ worth of drunken signatures and pictograms, but the space has been classed up with her additions.
The swank new bar station, casual furniture arrangements, and yards and yards of string lights casting a warm glow over it all make evenings spent at Taverne Toulouse feel like hanging out in your trendy friend’s living room. It’s the kind of place you go to kick up your feet and let loose for a while, to sit back with friends or party until last call on our tiny dance floor. It’s the kind of place you can waste time without feeling like it’s wasted, and the whole city knows it. We’ve been packed every weekend since the reopening.
“Duh duh, duh duh. Doot doo doot doo doo.”
DeeDee sings out the instrumental opening of the Sheepdogs song that just came on, loud enough for me to hear her all the way across the room. I look over to the bar and see her doing some kind of hair-flipping, hip-shaking routine that stops me dead in my tracks.
If there’s music on, DeeDee’s dancing. It’s an unwritten law of the universe. She might just be tapping her foot or nodding her head, but if there’s a beat, she’ll be moving to it. More often than not, she’ll be doing an all-out performanc
e that’s enough to knock the wind out of anyone who might be watching—but that’s the thing: she does it whether anyone’s watching or not.
When DeeDee dances, she does it for herself. Sometimes I’ll come around the corner and catch her spinning around with her hands thrown up and her head thrown back, and I swear it’s like I’m watching the surge of the sea, some eternal pattern filled with power and purpose and a meaning too deep and secret for any one person to grasp.
Then she’ll catch me looking, and the spray of the tide pulls me in, pulls me closer, pulls me down into something I can’t find the will to escape.
“Hey, pervert. You think this is a free show?”
Ah, there we go. Magic moment over.
“I thought it was an appreciation dance for me cutting your lemons.”
“That was your, uh...What is the word for when someone does something bad so you make them do something for you?”
I move closer to the bar and squint while I think. “Punishment?”
She bobs her head. “Yeah. The lemons were your punishment.”
She plucks one of the slices out of the garnish station and sucks it between her teeth.
Another DeeDee quirk: she loves lemons. I’ve seen her go through an entire lemon’s worth of wedges in one shift.
“Good thing I cut extra for you.”
“Aww.” She bats her eyelashes after tossing the rind into the trash. “You know me so well.”
I wish I knew you better. I wish I knew everything.
I don’t say it. I never do. I let the opportunity float right by us and get swept away, just another magic moment I didn’t have the guts to seize.