by Kylie Scott
"Thank you," she said. "Honestly, I'd be lost without you, Eric. Everyone's been great, but you've ... you've really gone above and beyond. I wish I had a medal or a cookie to give you."
Geez.
"I'm serious."
"Jean. Really, I'm happy I'm here to help," I said, bumbling along, searching for words. "You two, you mean a lot to me. Sorry I disappeared on you when I went to California. That was shitty of me when I'd said I'd be here for you."
"You're forgiven." God, her smile and the soft sweet look in her eyes. Bury me six feet deep, I was officially dead.
"You're not like I thought you'd be," she said, voice low. "That day we met, you seemed..."
"What?"
"Well, you're nothing like Nell said."
I turned away. "Shit. Shoot, I mean. Really, Jean, don't get carried away trying to make me into a good guy. I've gone out with a lot of women. Just, you know, having fun. Good time, not a long time, and all that."
"And here I thought you were a virgin like me."
"Smart ass," I muttered. "What I'm trying to say is, with you in the situation you are, a guy like that would be useless to you. You need someone dependable."
She said nothing.
"You deserve the best."
"Eric, having a baby doesn't mean I'm helpless or that I belong on a pedestal."
"I know."
Pink tinged Jean's cheeks. What emotion it was, I didn't know. Suddenly she stood, taking the bowl of salad and putting it back into its container before placing it in the fridge.
"Not hungry?" I asked carefully.
"I'll eat it later." She turned, putting her hands on the kitchen counter at her back.
Neither of us said anything for a minute.
"So, seen Andre lately?" I asked. Just making conversation. Not digging for information at all.
"Um, no. I think he's busy with a new girlfriend." No trace of a frown on her face or anything. Guess he'd been right about them only hanging out and being neighborly.
"Good," I said. "For him, I mean."
"Yes." She rolled her shoulders, stretched her neck. "He's a nice guy."
"He's okay."
She frowned. "I thought you two were friends."
"We are. Sure, I just..." I scratched at my head. "Yeah, no, we're friends."
"All righty," she said, gaze confused. "At any rate, I've been thinking. I'd like to make you dinner next time you've got a night off. What do you say?"
Normally I'd run a mile from such an offer. Science (sort of) showed that meeting a woman in a public setting then relocating somewhere private only for the sex portion of the evening was safest. It cut down on opportunities for drama. Excessive attachment and shit like that. If sporting teams were stronger on their home territory, then surely the same applied to women. Only I'd already been in Jean's apartment plenty of times. Hell, I'd even rolled around on her living room floor. Fully clothed. The boundaries in this kind of friendship were far different from what I was used to. But I'd continue to do my best to keep things on the up and up. How I felt about her didn't matter.
"That'd be great," I said. "It's in two days."
She licked her lips and drew a breath, as if she were going to say something big and meaningful. But then didn't. "Okay."
"I'll look forward to it then."
She just smiled.
CHAPTER TWELVE
A tie or bow tie would have been too much. But T-shirt and jeans seemed to send the wrong impression. Like, "Thanks for inviting me for dinner, not that I give a shit." It was a hard call. In the end I settled for navy trousers and a gray sweater. Long hair tied back because Ada was starting to grab at things. A splash of cologne and all good.
Jean opened the door in sweats. "Hey. Hi. Come on in."
"You okay?"
"Yeah." She smoothed back her ponytail, smile hesitant. "We had a bad day, but she's asleep now. She had a mild fever."
"Poor Ada," I said, keeping my voice down. "Want to put this off for another time?"
Jean crawled onto the corner of the couch, knees drawn up to her chest and arms wrapped around them. That she was comfortable enough around me to just be herself got me a little high.
"Or I can grab something from downstairs?" I offered.
"I had such great plans for tonight," she said. "I'd picked out recipes and was going to go grocery shopping and everything."
"You know, I'd be happy with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich."
"Typical." She sighed. "I'm out of bread and I ate the last of the peanut butter for dinner last night. Straight out of the bottle with a spoon. It was glorious."
"Ha. All right, so what have you got?"
Her brows rose. "How do you feel about chicken nuggets?"
"Are you kidding? I love them."
"Right. I'll get them cooking." She jumped off the couch and got busy turning on the oven and stuff. "You find us something to watch."
"Yes, ma'am." I sat down and grabbed the remote, started flipping through the channels. No to hockey, home shopping, news, and cooking. But eventually I struck gold. "Top Gun?"
She paused in the act of pouring a box of chicken nuggets onto a baking tray to shoot me a look over her shoulder. "Really?"
"It's an absolute classic," I said. "Come on, you can't not love Top Gun. That would be un-American. Tell me you've seen it."
"Have I seen it ... sheesh." Her lips twitched. "Do you feel the need, Eric? The need for speed?"
"Exactly!"
Giggling, she put a finger to her mouth. "Sleeping baby."
"Sorry, sorry," I whispered.
We settled in side by side with a safe amount of space between us. On the big television, jets flew, doing all sorts of amazing shit.
"What would your call sign be?" I asked.
"Hmm. How about: help, I don't know what I'm doing in this thing?"
I snickered. "Nice."
"Otherwise, I guess I'd have to stick with the Jean Genie."
"Good one." I nodded. "I always wanted to be Maverick."
"It is the cool name."
Of course, we had to sing along with the bad karaoke of "You've Lost that Loving Feeling." It was a must. I may have given Jean slight side-eyes during the volleyball scene. Jealousy is a bitch. If she asked, I'd be more than happy to get rid of my shirt and flex some muscle for her to ogle. This thought didn't make me feel lame and pathetic at all. Much. The action scenes kept us oohing and aahing, and the soundtrack had us tapping our toes. And seriously, Top Gun had been an excellent choice. A great time was being had by all.
Right up until the sex scene. I'd never been so hyperaware that two actors were pretending to get it on ever in my life. We were even munching down on the last of the chicken nuggets by then, and you'd think such a highly unerotic food choice would have helped keep things PG. But it didn't.
"Great song," she murmured.
"Mm."
The screen was blue and gray with the characters in profile and tongues and kissing and oh my god. This was the worst movie choice ever. My dick stirred and my skin tingled. I was such an idiot.
"It's interestingly shot." Jean shifted in her seat. "Very atmospheric."
"Yeah." I searched for something to say. "Really great song. Like you said."
"So great." She nodded, licking her lips and tucking her long hair back. Then she peeked a look at me out of the corner of her eye. "Just ... great."
Like I'd be checking out the naked woman on-screen when she was sitting beside me. Jesus. Why couldn't they just go back to flying jets and blowing shit up? Or they could kill off the best friend already. Spoiler alert. Yeah, we should maybe fast-forward to that. Surely they had to quit screwing soon.
Jean cleared her throat, squirming some more in her chair.
Meanwhile, I crossed and uncrossed my legs. Nothing felt comfortable.
The damn scene was going on forever. Typical HBO. It just wouldn't end. On-screen, the woman dug her fingernails into the guy's back and he was moving
over her and holy shit. Much too much. Was the movie X-rated or something?
I shook my head, turned away.
"I know, it's disgusting," said Jean with a half-smile.
"Like people actually even do this," I joked.
"Right? If someone put their tongue in my mouth I'd just bite it off."
"And you would be well within your rights to do so."
"Incredibly unhygienic," she said.
"God only knows what he's been licking," I said. "Could have been the floor for all she knows."
"Or worse."
"Yeah."
"Body parts are covered in germs and fluids. Just because we can't see them, doesn't mean they're not there." Her face had pinked and she kept biting the side of her thumbnail. "It's all completely gross."
"Totally," I said. "And we don't sound the least bit like twelve-year-olds."
She laughed. "Not at all."
Finally the fucking scene ended and we both sank back into the cushions, breathing a sigh of relief. Post-movie coital trauma or something, I guess. At least it hadn't only been me who'd weirded out. No one warned me watching sex scenes with a female friend would be so hard.
Just really hard.
Jean exhaled quietly. "I think maybe I do miss sex after all."
Kill me now.
"It's still good, isn't it?" she asked. "I mean, I haven't blown it up in my mind into something it's not?"
"Yeah..." Shit. "I'm, ah, taking a break right now, so maybe the wrong person to ask."
"You are?" Her eyes widened in shock. "Why?"
I lifted one shoulder, playing it cool. "I don't know. Rethinking life and stuff."
"Wow."
"Hmm." It wasn't a complete lie. Just a partial truth. "No big deal."
She said nothing, going back to staring at the screen. Thank God I'd been let off the hook. Phew. Stuff happened in the movie. I wasn't even really watching.
*
The trouble happened at work a few nights later.
We were only about half-full, pretty normal for both this time of week and year. I'd been meant to finish at eight, but had hung around to help Joe out for a while. Or just to keep him company. A woman and her friend were hanging at the bar, chatting with us. Basically, we were just having some fun with customers, talking and laughing about stuff. It was harmless. The friend was a bit flirty, but whatever.
Most people, they have a few drinks in them, they get relaxed. Our job was to stop serving long before things got messy.
"You go to Shape Fitness?" she asked, playing with her straw.
"No," said Joe. "A different place."
"Where? Because you two definitely look after yourselves," the woman purred. "I can see that."
Joe smiled, moving on to another job behind the bar. He looked about ready for a break. If I didn't know better, I'd have thought he was taking on all the extra shifts to save up for buying something big. Something for his girlfriend, maybe.
"Thanks," I said. "How's the martini?"
"Dirty always gets the job done." The woman flicked her hair and right on cue her friend laughed hysterically. Christ, the girl almost fell off her stool she was cackling so hard.
I grinned. "Great."
That's the things with puns and jokes, people always think they're the first to tell them. Trust me, as a bartender I can say with absolute authority that they're usually not. Alcohol and subtlety do not go hand in hand. If it did, there wouldn't be cocktails with names like "slippery nipple" and "screaming orgasm." But I'd take getting hit on by some batting eyelashes to being cried on by some poor, brokenhearted schmuck any day of the week. Breakup sob stories were the worst, especially when the person was obviously to blame. Like, I'm sorry she left you because she found out you'd been screwing her best friend, your secretary, and the mother-in-law behind her back. How totally unreasonable of your wife to kick you to the curb. Yeah, no. Still, hazards of the job. It's not all flying bottles and flourished pours, though that's part of it too. Along with giving folks their change in one-dollar bills, of course. Got to get those tips.
Bartending was far from being the worst job in the world. But like anything, it had its highs and lows.
"Let me feel," demanded the woman, waving her hand in the general direction of my biceps.
"Eyes only," I said, before giving them the gun show. Even with the long-sleeve T-shirt, it didn't look half bad. I was actually pretty happy with how my upper arms were going. All of the hitting the gym with my brother to burn off steam I wasn't otherwise using had been paying off.
"What the fuck are you doing?" snarled some guy.
"Huh?"
"Are you flirting with my girl?"
"Troy!" The one who'd almost fallen off the stool from laughing grabbed at the dude's arm. "We were just talking. Baby, I would never--"
"Bullshit." He was big, ugly, and angry. "I knew you were up to something, telling me you were working late."
Add paranoid asshole to the guy's list.
The woman sputtered, shaking her head. But it was the genuine fear in her eyes that got me. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Joe had braced himself, edging nearer the entryway at the end of the bar. Just in case the guy needed moving on.
"Calm down," I said. "There's nothing to get upset about. Your girl and her friend were just having a drink together after work. Nothing's going on." I smiled disarmingly at the brute. "How about I fix you a drink? On the house, just 'cause we're all friends."
And that's when the asshole leaned across the bar and hit me. Straight in the fucking face. Pain filled my face, and for a split second, white dots covered my vision.
By the time I'd snapped back to reality, Joe was already behind the guy, wresting the thug's arms behind his back. My brother didn't have any proper security training or anything, but he'd had to muscle more than a few guys out of the Dive Bar before. Plus it helps if you're the size of a truck. Once Joe had the guy's arms pinned hard behind his back, the fucker gave up his struggling, and let Joe march him toward the door. The women had scattered, getting out of the way. Which was good. Last thing we needed was someone else getting hurt. Ignoring the pounding in my face and the feeling like my eyeball was about to explode, I jumped over the bar and followed. Moving fast rather than carefully, just in case Joe needed backup.
He didn't. Like I said, sometimes size matters. Joe tossed the fucker out the door.
I covered my right eye with my hand. Ow. "Cock-sucking son of a..."
"I called the cops," said Lydia, turning to the kitchen. "Curt, grab an ice pack for his face, please."
A woman was crying. The idiot's girlfriend probably. And the otherwise happy hum of conversation had been replaced by a frenzy of whispers. The bartender had gotten punched in the face. Exciting times! Not.
My brother came back inside, rubbing his arms to get some warmth back into himself. "Dickhead took off in a car. I've got the license plate number."
A wail from the idiot's girlfriend and she ran out too, followed fast by her friend. Good. Not only was my face pounding, but we could definitely do without the drama. Though she and her friend had probably just stiffed us on their bar tab. Dammit.
"Show's over," Rosie announced with a smile. "Sorry about the interruption to your evening, folks."
A heavy rock song was replaced by something a little calmer and happier. The Dive Bar had a playlist for just these sorts of occasions. Eventually, all of the nosy folk who'd left their tables dispersed. Things slowly started to settle back to normal. But my heart was still thumping in my chest, adrenaline pumping around my body. I glared after the dickhead, wishing I'd had a chance to give him one back.
"You all right?" Joe clapped me on the shoulder.
"More annoyed he got the drop on me than anything."
"What can you expect? You're getting old."
I just gave him the finger while he walked back over to the bar.
Curt ran over with an ice pack and I held it to my abused eye. Better to
hide out in the kitchen until I was presentable again.
"What the hell happened?" asked Nell, moving the ice pack aside for a moment to check out the wound. "No blood. Just swelling and bruising."
I grunted.
"What are you doing? Keep the ice pack on."
"Asshole accused me of flirting with his girlfriend. Then he leaned across the bar and punched me."
"Were you hitting on her?"
"No," I snapped. "Joe and I had been chatting with a couple of women. One tried to get handsy, but I stayed back. She seemed to get the message. No different from any other night."
"Hmm." And you had to know the noise was loaded full of doubt.
"I'm a bartender, Nell. People expect me to talk to them."
"Yeah, but how heavy on the charm exactly were you?"
"Nell, that's enough," said Lydia, her face unimpressed. "Eric's the victim here."
I just shook my head. "Forget it."
Once the cops had been by and I'd given my statement, I was out of there. What a night.
*
"Talking to people is part of my job, right?"
"Keep still," said Jean, holding a new ice pack to my face since the last one had turned to sludge. I sat slumped on her couch, my head back against the cushion, feeling deeply sorry for myself. All while she played nurse. Or at least, knelt by my side, holding the ice over my eye. Maybe the playing nurse thing was more a figment of my imagination. But it had definitely been worth knocking on her door. If a beat-up face can't get a bit of sympathy from a pretty girl, then life would be too grim to bear.
"We were just having a laugh. I get that it's a fine line between a little harmless flirting and actually hitting on a woman," I said. "I'm not an idiot. Nothing I was doing was crossing that line. I've thought about it, a lot."
"Okay. I know you've been putting a lot of effort into moving away from the whole frequent different sex partners thing."
I nodded.
"Not that there's any excuse to hit anyone anyway," she said. "But if you say you weren't coming on to the woman, then I believe you."
"Nell didn't," I grouched.
"Yes, well. Nell and you have a complicated history." She winced. "It might take her longer to come around. Plus, she's not exactly at her best right now. The pregnancy has her anxiety sky-high."
I said nothing.
"Sounds like this girl is dating a violent jerk."
"Hope she's got the sense to dump his ass," I said.
"I hope she has people to back her up in case he decides to retaliate against her." Jean sighed particularly heavily.
