by Kacey Shea
“Work at the bar?” I tap my toes across the sleek hardwood floor of my brother’s posh uptown office and run my fingers over the whiskers that cover my face. I should shave soon. They’re getting a little long, even for me. “You think he’d be up for that?”
“Sure. Business is booming. We went down there last Saturday and it was insane. He mentioned bringing in more security. Hell, I know you put in fifty-hour work weeks as it is, but it’s not like your gym’s open on Friday and Saturday nights. He might even need help Sundays. It’d get you cash to get by.”
“I’ll hit him up. Thanks, Danny.” Standing, I grab the ledger from his desk and tuck it under one arm while I reach out to shake my little brother’s hand with the other.
His brow pulls to a frown as he releases my hand. “I’d loan you the money, but Nikki would kill me.”
A deep chuckle escapes my lips when I think of my brother’s girlfriend. She’s a handful, a bit of a diva in my opinion, but she seems to make him happy. That is, when she’s not driving him insane. “No worries. I didn’t ask. You have your own life to live. My problems are mine.”
“But you’ve done so much for me.”
“And you return the favor by hooking me up with financial advice. I couldn’t have opened South Side without you, Danny. I hope you know that.”
“Hey, I’m glad I could do something for you for once. Guess I’m killin’ this adulting thing pretty hard, huh?” He glances around the room. It’s impressive what he’s achieved with this firm just a few years post-college.
“Like a beast.” I pull my lips up in a smile that matches his, the only real physical characteristic we share. Where his skin is dark, mine’s light. He’s average height and lean. I’m tall and built. I like to rock the five-day-old scruff, but he prefers to stay clean-shaven. It fits with the monkey suit he has to wear daily. “Now, I’ll let you get back to corporate America. See you tomorrow morning?”
“Shit. I hate that you have classes that early, man. But yeah, I’ll be there. Nikki’s digging the results.” He stands from behind his desk, running his hands over the rigid abs he hides beneath his dress shirt, and then flexing his arms so they bulge against the fabric.
I shake my head and stand. “You’re fully whipped, little bro. You should be proud of your muscles. After so many years of twig arms, I’m surprised you had it in you.”
“Yeah, well, we can’t all be UFC champs.”
“I can’t claim that title anymore.” It’s difficult to not taste the bitterness when recalling how my fighting career ended. To not feel slighted. But shit happens in life. Sometimes you win and sometimes you lose. It doesn’t do any good to wallow in something that was. “Later, brother.” I wave and he does the same.
“See ya ’round, Matt.”
When you taste fame for a hot second there’re people from your past life, the time when no one knew your name or gave two fucks about you, who glom on and can’t wait to tell everyone how they know Matt Haywood. But when you fall from grace, and inevitably you will, those people fade back into the pockets of their horribly boring existence. The small circle of individuals who don’t need you for anything, what’s left after the fallout . . . those are the people who always have your back.
Isaac Zigalenko—Zig for short because no one can fucking pronounce his last name—is one of those people. He still lives in the neighborhood we grew up in and he took over his old man’s bar after his pop started forgetting things. Or maybe he was botching biz on purpose, but either way, filling the vodka bottles with water was enough for Zig to take over management.
“Hey, Zig.” The door bangs shut behind me as I wave to where he stands behind the bar and walk further inside the dimly lit space. A glance around tells me Zig has been busy since taking over. The bar itself hasn’t moved, but the interior feels fresh, vibrant, not at all the worn down, men only, speakeasy type of establishment from our youth.
“Matt!” He finishes loading a row of clean glasses as I walk over. “How the hell are you, brother?”
“Still breathing. Can’t complain. Business good?” I slide onto an empty barstool.
“Pays the bills. Can’t complain.” He grins. “What can I get you?” He reaches for a glass but I stop him with a shake of my head.
“Actually, I’m here for a favor.”
Zig reaches back to the bar top behind him and leans against the wood. “Sure. Whatcha need?”
“A job,” I say, but when his brow shoots up I quickly amend, “I’m still running the gym, just looking to pick up a shift or two. If you have the work.”
“You mix drinks?”
“Only in my apartment. But I can learn.”
Zig’s fingers tap against the bar a long moment. He’s always been a thinker, not one to jump into a fight until he’s calculated the risk. Probably why he’s the owner of a profitable business. I wait patiently. He taps the counter one last time and leans forward to meet my stare. “Hate to ask, because I know it’s shit work, but I could really use your help with security. Friday and Saturday evenings if you have them.”
“I’ll take it.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just too much work to train you for behind the bar, especially if you’re only looking for temp w—”
“Zig. Stop. It’s good. Just what I need. Thank you.”
“No, thank you. I’ve been meaning to hire someone. I’ve just been too swamped to even look. When can you start?”
“Tonight.”
“Hell, yeah. Can you stick around? I’ve got to finish a few things before we open and my cook is late, but I need you to fill out new hire paperwork.”
“Sure. Can I help?”
“Yeah, actually. I’ve got these cases of beer that need to go into the cooler.”
I stand and come around the bar, taking instruction before Zig glances at his watch. I wave him off. “Go. I’ve got this.”
“Cool.” He nods to the door. “If anyone comes in, just take their order until I get back. We don’t get many customers at ten in the morning, but since I said that, there’ll probably be a whole slew of people.”
“I’ve got it covered, man. Do what you need to do.”
“Thanks, Matt. I won’t be more than thirty minutes.” He walks along the bar and disappears behind the swinging door at the opposite end.
I busy myself with unloading bottles of brew, following the organizational pattern of whoever did this before me and hoping it’s right. My phone buzzes, a text from Aiden, one of the trainers I employ, asking when I’ll be back. I type out my reply and ask him to lock up the gym. I’m scheduled to teach a noon class, but I’ll be back in time to reopen for that. Before I can re-pocket my cell, the front door bursts open and daylight streams in, temporarily blinding me from making out more than a few boisterous silhouettes as they enter Zig’s.
Several blinks and a glance away from the doorway clears my vision in time to catch a group of zombie-fied twenty-somethings. The makeup along with the ripped clothing make me do more than a double take, but they’re all too absorbed in their conversation to notice my gawking. Strange. I guess the zombie craze isn’t only for movies anymore. I need to get out of the gym and my apartment more often.
I glance back at the kitchen doors and debate whether I should call Zig out now, but since the guests don’t appear to need help, I go back to the work at hand. The music over the sound system clicks on and drowns out their voices. Not wanting to be rude, I check on them every few minutes, but they’re all more interested in the screens of their cell phones than making eye contact or ordering food and drinks.
With the beers and clean glasses fully stocked, I’m moving the empty boxes and dishwasher crates out of the way when the front door opens again. This time I’ve learned my lesson and don’t ruin my eyesight by looking up at the entry. Instead, I grab one of the clean rags and wet it to wipe down the counter. I turn around and it’s then I’m met with the deathliest pair of plump lips, heart striking deep brown eyes, and lusciousl
y exposed cleavage. She’s so sinfully gorgeous I can almost ignore the open flesh wounds painted onto her forehead, shoulder, and hand. She’s the hottest little cosplayer I’ve ever seen, and I’m suddenly very thankful for deciding to spend my morning at Zig’s.
Her manicured brow lifts as if she’s waiting for me to speak first. That or take her order for a drink. Not wanting to waste this moment of divine intervention, I set the rag on the bar and nod my head.
“Hey there, sexy zombie girl. How’s your day going?” I let my lips part in that way that says I’m interested and let’s flirt. Only she blinks twice and turns her chin away as if she’s searching for another employee to appear. Tough luck, I’m all she’s got.
“Oh, I see how it is. You’re a pretentious little thing.” A chuckle leaves my mouth and her gaze snaps back with fire in their depths. Hoping to diffuse them with a little humor, I lift my brow and try again. “You look thirsty. What can I get you?”
Her eyebrows arch but she doesn’t miss a beat. “Oh, I see how it is, you’re a Neanderthal who memorized the book of lame ass pick-up lines. That is what you’re attempting here, right?”
“Ouch. That stings a little.” I play it up and wince as I rub the center of my chest. It doesn’t escape me that her eyes follow the movement, darkening as she wets her lips with her tongue. Good. I’ve got a shot. “Let’s start over. I’m Matt.” I reach out to offer my hand, my smile wide and inviting. Sure, I came on a little strong. It’s been a long while since a woman caught my attention.
“That’s nice.” The words pop from her mouth and she ignores my hand. The front door opens and her attention follows. I take the extra moment to study her without judgment. She’s giving me the brushoff, but there’s something about her that’s got me okay with going for another round of rejection. It’s probably that short as sin orange mini skirt she’s wearing. The tailored cut showcases her long legs covered in ripped black tights. The torn off the shoulder black top calls to my inner alpha. I consider myself evolved when it comes to my male counterparts, but outfits like hers scream, “Look over here!” and like an idiot I eagerly step in line.
“Meeting friends?” I ask, but she’s already off the barstool and strutting over to the newest zombie-clad couple to enter the bar. She never even glances back as they find a table across the room. I’d know because my attention is fully piqued by the sassy little woman, dressed as dead as her apparent attraction to me.
Tough luck. I shake my head because I’ve got enough shit going on in my life. There’s no room for a woman. And something tells me this one is a handful. Still, it doesn’t cost a thing to fantasize. I may spend the rest of my time at the bar stealing glances and memorizing every single detail about her. It’ll make my shower for one later tonight even more satisfying.
As soon as Rae and Jared walk inside I step away from the bartender who is attempting, unsuccessfully, to hit on me. He calls after me, asking where I’m running off to, but I don’t look back. I’m not like most women, sure, but I find it difficult to believe those lines work for him, even with his stunning good looks.
Jared’s eyes are wide with interest when we slide into one of the empty booths. “What was that about?” His lips, painted along with half of his face, pull up with his mischievous smirk.
“What?” I shrug, my gaze skirting his to glance at Rae’s raised brows.
“You with that fucking hot piece of man meat.” she says.
“Oh, the dickhead.” I wave my hand across my face. “Nothing.”
“Ugh. Why? Why do you do this?” Jared throws his hands up and slams them onto the table. His arm is crowded with intricate paint that mirrors an open flesh wound.
I glance back to Rae, pointing to what’s certainly her handiwork.
She blinks, tilting her chin with a slight smile. She’s too humble, but the woman should be working on movie sets, not as some assistant to an assistant buyer. She’s so talented with hair and makeup. It’s all self-taught from working in the fashion industry.
“Mia,” Jared says sternly.
“What?” My gaze goes back to his pointed stare and I feign stupidity.
“All the hot guys hit on you and you don’t even care,” he whines and Rae’s laughter fills our corner of the bar.
My lips pull wide with my smile. “You’re right. I don’t.” I shrug while both my friends stare off behind me. They’re openly ogling the bartender. I don’t even have to turn to know. He was really attractive. Tall. Fit. A little more than a five o’clock shadow. Full lips that smile a little too easily. Dirty brown hair with slivers of blond catching the light. Let’s not forget eyes that were made for getting lost in. Too bad he was a typical douchebag.
“But it’s not fair. He’s so pretty. Why are all the good ones straight?” Jared complains.
“Look at that hair. I bet he can pull it back into a manbun.” Rae exhales, a deep sigh with a pout of her lips.
“You really need to get over your Thor obsession.” I shake my head.
Her hand goes to her heart. “Never.”
Their eyes flick to the door again and Jared winces as Rae’s eyes widen a beat before turning her big blues on me. “Shit. I forgot to mention . . .” Her voice fades and I’m thoroughly confused.
“What am I missing here?” I say and Jared won’t even meet my stare.
The table jostles as one of Rae’s best friends . . . and the most annoying human on the planet, props her giant designer bag on top of the table. Violet. She’s an anti-Mia. Bubbly, blonde, flirtatious and everyone’s best friend. Except for me. Because there’s just something about her that rubs me wrong. Rae and Jared know my distaste for this woman, even though I try to hide it—at least from Rae—and I have no doubt they intentionally failed to mention her attendance for today’s outing to save face, or an argument.
“Hey! What’s happening?”
“Mia shooting down hot guy at ten o’clock.” Rae’s gaze darts between us and begs me to be nice. I’ll try.
“Bartender guy? Fuck, Mia. Why do you do that?” Violet smacks her lips and turns to shoot the man of contention a sultry, flirty little smile and wave. “I’m no lumberjack, but I’d down that tree.”
Rae gives her a high five and they all laugh.
Everyone except me.
Violet slides in next to Jared. “But really, Mia. You aren’t getting any younger. A man like that shows interest? You need to get on that.”
“Or under it.” Rae sighs.
“Hell, yes. Please, Mia. If you won’t do it alone, let’s go together. I’d go bi for him. Purely unselfish, of course. To be there for you. Emotional support.” Jared winks, causing Violet and Rae to giggle.
“You guys! Enough! I won’t lower my standards simply because someone looks fantastic in their birthday suit.” I cough when Jared’s grin widens with a raise of his brow. “I mean, I imagine he does.”
“Yeah, he does.” Rae licks her lips.
“He’s not my type.” I say.
Violet eyes me up and down with a thoughtful gleam. “What exactly is your type?”
“Someone who doesn’t act like an asshole.” I retort.
Jared scoffs. “Yeah, good luck finding one of those.”
“Jared gets me.” I blow him an imaginary kiss across the table.
“Jared gets laid regularly. You don’t.” Rae points at me and it’s then I wish I could slap her.
“More to life than sex.” I say.
“Yeah, but . . . manbun. Muscles.” She sighs again and Violet nods.
I restrain myself from rolling my eyes all the way in the back of my head. “How about holds conversation? Has similar interests—”
“So, you’re looking for a walker. Lucky for you we’re joining a pack of them,” Jared interrupts and shoos Violet out of the booth. “Let’s run, chickadees. We can start lining up at eleven o’clock sharp.”
Three hours later we’re still in this godforsaken line. Not surprising, though. Chicago is filled with
Walking Dead fans. What we didn’t anticipate, ironically enough, was that so many were also willing to blow off work for the chance to get on screen. Volunteers instruct us to line up, and the crowd wraps around the building three rows deep within minutes.
The first hour goes by quickly. Jared and Rae together are hilarious and outgoing, making friends in line and keeping everyone entertained with their banter. Next, we resort to trading coffee runs to help stay warm and to keep moving on this cloudy September morning. My stomach rumbles, hunger grating on my already unsteady nerves. But there isn’t enough coffee in the world to mute Violet’s twinkling laughter. She’s so damn chipper and I’ve been holding back my snark to keep the peace. That, and not to hurt the cheerleader’s feelings.
The line finally moves and everyone cheers. Excitement, so thick in the air I can taste it, replaces my earlier irritation. I don’t even care that Violet won’t shut up, or that I’ll be working overtime to make up for missed worked today. This is notably the most exciting thing that has happened all year.
We shuffle forward, much like the zombies we portray. As the end of the line comes into sight, extras are selected and invited behind the roped off barrier while others are sent packing—rejected to wander the city in their ripped clothes and face paint.
“Dude, that totally sucks. I might die if we don’t get in.” Violet speaks aloud the worry we all feel.
Rae shakes her head. “No. Don’t even think it. We need all the positive vibes on our side. The universe is being kind today. Look up.” She’s right. The sun, a forlorn lover, has decided to grace the Chicago skyline.
We shuffle closer still and the man in charge evaluates the group in front of us. He’s a tall, skinny, attractive guy with blond hair and blue eyes so light they’re probably contacts. He holds all the power as he chooses who gets to stay and who must go. We hold our collective breath as he sends five more hopefuls packing and only accepts two. Two security men flank him and hold the line. They’re huge, but I have to wonder what good they would do if this entire crowd decided to riot.
