High Stick

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  “There’s no—” she began.

  “Do you have a Coke open?” he quietly interrupted her.

  Coke? “Yes.” She handed him the can. He poured in a little of the soft drink, added a straw, and garnished it with a lemon slice. “For you, madam.” He handed Mrs. Davenport the drink and a cocktail napkin.

  “Lovely, Jarrett. Have a wonderful holiday.” She gave Merry a smile and nod as she walked away. “You too, my dear.”

  “There was no iced tea,” Merry said after Mrs. Davenport had faded into the crowd. Merry might be a fool, but she wasn’t stupid. For whatever reason, this hockey player had saved her.

  He shook his head. “Long Island iced tea doesn’t have tea. It has rum, vodka, tequila, gin, triple sec, sweet and sour mix, and Coke.”

  No tea? “Then why?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe because it looks like iced tea.” He emptied the drink she had made him, poured two fingers of fresh scotch, and added a tiny bit of water.

  “So I guess you don’t like your scotch and water half and half?”

  “No. Nobody does.” He sipped the drink and, dear God, he reached up and rubbed his neck.

  “Thank you.” Better to be thankful than to think about his neck.

  He raised his glass to her. “My pleasure.”

  “But you can go now. If Gwen or Emory Beauford catches me letting you mix drinks, I’ll get fired for sure.” Go. Take your neck with you.

  He barely smiled before it was gone. “If I don’t help you, you’ll get fired for sure—unless it’s only scotch and water and Long Island iced tea you don’t know how to make. If I were to guess, I’d say you know more about making lattes than mixing cocktails.”

  “Most everyone has wanted beer or wine.”

  “But only most and the party’s just getting started.”

  “Maybe not,” Merry said hopefully. “As I said, I know Amy a little from Foolscap and Vellum. She doesn’t strike me as the party type. She might want to leave pretty soon.”

  “She might,” Jarrett agreed. “But she won’t. My friend Emile loves a good time only slightly less than he loves to be the center of attention. Many dances will be danced and much liquor will flow before the rice flies.” He lined up some glasses of different shapes and sizes and began to mix drinks—fancy, elaborately garnished drinks in different colors.

  She watched silently for a few minutes. Amazing. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d pulled a rabbit and a bouquet of roses out of the tequila bottle.

  “You’re really good at that. Best parlor trick I’ve ever seen. Way better than hanging a spoon off your nose.” She was pretty sure the other bartenders at this soirée didn’t have flashing hands and the ability to make a bird out of an orange peel with two swipes of a knife. “Where did you learn that?” He’d said he used to tend bar in Wisconsin, so presumably there, but this wasn’t ordinary bartending. It was better than a Japanese steakhouse hibachi show.

  “Have you ever been to a supper club?” He was buzzing something up in the blender now.

  “You mean where people get together at each other’s houses once a month? No.”

  He shook his head. “Not that. Supper clubs in Wisconsin are like restaurants, but with a different atmosphere. There are hundreds of them. My grandparents own The Shooting Star. Like ours, most are family owned and have been around for a long time. We only serve dinner and people come for the entire evening. We don’t take reservations, and people start out in the bar where they order their food and have drinks while they wait for it to be prepared. Brandy old-fashioned sweets are traditional.”

  That sounded tasty, but it wouldn’t be. Maybe Jarrett’s neck wouldn’t be either. Maybe it was like liquor; it would fool you until you actually had it in your mouth.

  Jarrett went on talking. “Customers don’t leave the bar and go to their tables until their food is ready and waiting for them. After eating, most go back to the bar for ice cream dessert cocktails like grasshoppers or golden Cadillacs. My job was to escort people to their tables and pour water until I got old enough to tend bar. My grandfather taught me. I’m not as good as he is, but I’ll do in a pinch.”

  “And this supper club has been in your family for a long time?”

  “Since the 1930s. Descendants of some of the first patrons still come.”

  “And you have to be a member? Like at a country club?”

  “No. There aren’t any members. Supper clubs have their differences, but that’s something that’s common. No members. Some are fancy, some casual. The Shooting Star is nice, but not overly posh. Comfortable, and there’s live music on the weekend. ” He raised a blue drink in a martini glass in the air. “Emory! Come have a blue lagoon. It matches your dress.” He turned and said out of the side of his mouth to Merry, “Matches the whole room.”

  She might have laughed under different circumstances, but he’d actually called Emory Beauford over here. Merry was sunk. Emory was coming toward them with her husband, country music star, Jackson. Emory had been friendly when Merry had met her briefly earlier, but Merry hadn’t been letting a guest do her job at the time. Though Emory owned Around the Bend, tonight she was a guest. Emory smiled, but looked confused. Not only was Merry going to get fired, it was going to be in front of two famous people—a hockey player and a country music star.

  Emory took the drink. “I don’t believe I’ve ever had a blue drink before.”

  “How about you, Jackson?” Jarrett held up a tall apricot-colored frothy drink covered in whipped cream. “Frozen bourbon creamsicle?”

  The man laughed. “You’re kidding, right?” He turned to Merry. “Can I please get a Sam Adams? No cherry, no whipped cream. And don’t bother with a glass. I like the bottle.”

  “Of course.” At least she was able to illustrate her ability to use a bottle opener and wipe away the condensation from the bottle before putting it in Jackson Beauford’s superstar hand.

  Emory sipped her drink. “Mmm. This is good.”

  “Thank you,” Jarrett said.

  “So, Jarrett, how did you go from groomsman to bartender?” Emory asked. “Are you on my payroll?’

  And here it comes. Merry might as well turn in her apron and look for her coat.

  “You couldn’t afford me, Emory,” Jarrett said lightly and began to mix a pale green drink. “My bartending skills far surpass my hockey playing. That’s why I decided to bulldoze my way in and donate my talent for the good of the drinking community. I want to raise the consciousness of imbibers so they may think beyond the margarita and the Moscow mule.” He cut his eyes at Jackson Beauford. “Beyond the Samuel Adams.”

  “A noble pursuit, for sure,” Emory said. “What does Merry have to say about your invading her territory?”

  Merry’s heart rate picked up. She didn’t even care if she earned any money tonight—at least not very much. She was no stranger to Ramen noodles. She didn’t even dislike them. If she could avoid humiliation, that would be enough.

  “Well, you see, Emory, here’s the thing. I didn’t so much ask Merry as I just busted up in here and started making drinks. I couldn’t help myself.” He smiled and made exaggerated puppy dog eyes at Emory. “Please don’t take this from me. I haven’t felt this useful in years.”

  Emory turned to Merry. “Is he annoying you?”

  “No. I don’t mind.” No, Emory, he’s saving me. Talk about an understatement.

  “All right,” Emory said. “I don’t care if she doesn’t. But Merry’s the boss. If she tells you to scram, don’t make her have to say it twice.”

  When they’d gone, Jarrett turned to her. “So, Merry, are you going to tell me to scram?”

  “More likely, I’ll beg you to stay. I owe you.”

  “No payment required.”

  “How did you know I was in over my head?”

  “No rocks for fine scotch, no mixing it half and half with water. But don’t worry. I’ve got your back.”

  “Why are you helping me?
”

  He closed his eyes and sighed. “The truth or the noble answer?”

  “I think I’d like to hear both.”

  “The noble answer is you needed help and I wanted to practice my skills since I’m going to Wisconsin tomorrow for Christmas and I’ll be tending bar while I’m there.”

  That was nice—that he still helped out with the family business. “And the real answer?”

  He took a sip of his drink. “I had to have a sanctuary or I had to leave this party. Leaving is out of the question. Emile is one of my best friends.”

  “But why?”

  “My teammate’s wife just followed me into the restroom, put her hands on me in an inappropriate manner, and told me in no uncertain terms what she was going to do to me. And that is never going to happen.” He began to mix another drink—purple this time.

  “That’s terrible!” she said like she’d never heard of freewheeling sex. Every once in a while, Beaver Crossing snuck up on her.

  “It is terrible. There are some things I can’t learn to be blasé about.”

  “There are things no one should be blasé about. It seems like your truthful answer is also a noble one.”

  He nodded. “Thank you. That she hit on me doesn’t make me special. Her husband is a nice kid. One of the youngest on the team. We try to protect him, but it’s going to end nasty. However, that ending won’t be tonight, at this wedding, three days before Christmas. Not if I can help it. Of course, there’s plenty of other fresh meat here tonight, so her work may not be done.”

  “We could tie her up and throw her under the bar.”

  He laughed. “You’re fierce.” He put an umbrella in the purple drink and set it on the counter with the others. “I’m scared of women with headsets and clipboards and there’s one headed this way. Should we run?”

  “Maybe. That’s Gwen, the catering manager. Emory might own the business, but I don’t think Gwen answers to anybody.”

  “Well, if it’s not The Saint mixing up a rainbow of drinks,” Gwen said. “Emory told me but I had to see it for myself.”

  The Saint? What did that mean?

  “I couldn’t stop myself. Sorry.” He started mixing another drink. “If you had ice cream, I could make some fine Wisconsin supper club-style dessert drinks.”

  “No one seems to be drinking the ones you’ve already made.”

  “We should send them around on a tray. Are you here to shut me down?”

  “Yes, but only temporarily.” Gwen turned to Merry. “Take a break, Merry. Get something to eat in the staff break room. The boys will restock you and bring up the Champagne for the toast. Come back in a half hour so Morgan can take a break.” She gestured to the bar across the room. “When he gets back, they’re going to cut the wedding cake, so be ready to pour the Champagne for the servers to pass.” She looked at the growing cocktail smorgasbord. “Meanwhile, I’ll get someone to pass these drinks.”

  “Would you like me to do it?” Merry offered.

  “No,” Gwen said. “Take your break. I’ve got it. The break room is the third door on the first floor north hall.”

  This would be the part where Jarrett would go back to the party, Merry would go eat some cold, congealed wedding leftovers, and then she’d be on her own with the drink mixing. Probably for the best, what with that luscious looking neck. There was no time for men with kissable necks in her life. She reached under the counter and put the bartender’s guide in her pocket so she could study it during the break.

  “Thank you for your help,” she said brightly.

  “Do you have a good sense of direction?” he asked. “Enough to know which way is north?”

  What was that about? “Yes. Why?”

  “Because I have no sense of direction. If we have to depend on me to find the north hall, we’ll never get fed.”

  So he was going with her. That was more pleasing than it should have been.

  “You’ve already been fed.”

  “I’ve never let that stop me from eating again.” He looked dead serious. “I love to eat.”

  “Follow me, then,” Merry said.

  “Do you want to go out and smoke first?” he asked.

  “What makes you think that? I don’t smoke. And I surprised you do, since you’re an athlete.”

  “I don’t smoke. I was just trying to find out if you do. I don’t like to kiss women who smoke.”

  Unholy hell! “It’s irrelevant. I’m not going to kiss you.” Tempting, but he wouldn’t want it to stop there, and she always stopped. Her body, her business, but it pissed men off.

  He grinned. “Are you in a relationship?”

  She nodded. “A very serious one.” Was it her imagination or did he look a little disappointed? “With Vanderbilt Law School and my two jobs. Three if you count bartending tonight.”

  He smiled a big white smile. “I wouldn’t want you to cheat on Vandy and all that work ethic, but if you won’t kiss me, will you eat with me?”

  “Yeah. I can do that.” But I wish you’d cover up your neck.

  She hurried across the room and down the stairs without looking to see if he was following.

  Chapter Two

  What had he been thinking—flirting with and threatening to kiss a woman whose last name he didn’t know?

  As he followed her down a long hallway, Jarrett MacPherson tried not to enjoy the sight of Merry’s swaying bottom, but only so much could be expected of a man who hadn’t had sex in almost a year, and he’d already had to physically remove a woman’s hands from his private parts tonight. The Saint, his teammates called him because he was known for being a straitlaced rule follower.

  They’d be surprised if they knew just how un-saintly his thoughts were right now. There was something about a redhead—especially that soft, coppery color—that set him on fire like nothing else could. Of course, these days it didn’t take much. The wood was stacked, soaked with gasoline, and just waiting for a spark. Wood stacked. That was funny. And people said he wasn’t funny.

  “What?” Merry turned and looked at him, eyes wide. He’d never seen eyes that color—like the skin of a lime. Maybe she wore colored contacts.

  “What about what?” he asked.

  “You’re laughing. What are you laughing at? It had better not be me.”

  “No. I was laughing at something in my head.”

  “What? Tell me.”

  “No. It wasn’t nice.”

  “Here’s the break room.” She turned into a small room with a row of chafing dishes on a long table and a round table with chairs around it. “Are you always nice?”

  “I’m the nicest person on the team—maybe in the entire world.” They were alone in the room. He was surprised no one else was taking a break. Maybe they were outside smoking. Or kissing. Or smoking and kissing—smokers kissing each other. That’s how it ought to be. “My teammates call me The Saint. Also, I’m tight with Mickey Mouse.”

  She shook her head. “Mickey Mouse? I don’t understand.”

  Didn’t she watch television? Read magazines? “I’m the celebrity spokesman for Disney World. You have to be nice to get to do that.”

  “Wow!” Good. She was impressed. He was all set to bask in that, when he noticed that she had lifted the top of a chafing dish and was looking at the contents with rapture. “This looks fantastic.” She walked down the length of the table inspecting the contents of the other dishes and announcing the contents. “Salmon, prime rib, and some kind of yummy-looking chicken. And it’s fresh. I thought we’d have nasty, cold leftovers.”

  So much for being the Mouse Ambassador. But he could understand. It was hard to compete with prime rib. She was already loading her plate up. He picked up a plate and followed suit.

  “This is the same thing we had for the wedding dinner. Emory wouldn’t give her employees nasty, cold food.”

  “So you know Emory well?” she asked

  “Not well, but some. You know our team captain, Nickolai Glazov? His wife
, Noel, is a friend of Emory’s. I first met Emory when we were in Nickolai and Noel’s wedding. I’ve seen her a few times since. If you like blue cheese, be sure and get some of the pork medallions and pasta. It’s really good.”

  “I do like blue cheese. I like everything except Cheez Whiz and licorice. But there’s no more room on my plate.” She took a seat at the round table.

  “Really? You like everything? His plate was full, too, but he shoveled a scoop of the pasta on top of his salmon anyway. “How about liver? Do you like liver?” He took the seat next to her.

  “That doesn’t count. Nobody likes liver, except fried chicken livers—which I like.” Merry looked at his full plate. “Did you not eat at the dinner?”

  “Sure. I eat every two hours. And I like liver, especially with Cheez Whiz.” She didn’t laugh, but he was used to people not laughing at his jokes.

  “I assume you were in this wedding, too.” She gestured to his lapel. “Since you have a flower.”

  “Oh, yes. I’m practically a professional.” Always a groomsman, never a groom.

  In his twenty-seven years, Jarrett had wanted to be a lot of things—garbageman, dump truck driver, fireman, and—finally—professional hockey player, but maybe what he’d wanted most of all was to be a husband. He didn’t trot that out much, as it didn’t seem to be a popular desire among his friends—which was puzzling, considering the number of weddings he’d been in.

  Merry took a bite of her chicken and closed her eyes, concentrating. “I’ve been a bridesmaid twice. But I’ve minded the guest book and served the wedding cake more times than I can count. Back in Beaver Crossing, that’s supposed to be a big honor, but it’s really just for women who don’t make the bridesmaid cut.”

  “I guess men who don’t make the groomsman cut are guests.”