The Bar Scene

by Ginny Frost

  Eric bumped her a few minutes later. “You’re going to wear a hole through the counter.” He nodded indicating the spot she’d cleaned three hundred times. Terese twisted her mouth, dropping the rag.

  “You wanna talk about it?” he offered.

  She scrutinized him. Eric was a nice guy and a good bartender. He’d probably be running Oakwood Tavern after she left, if she left, if the bar was still here in three months. Geez. Did Eric even know what was happening? She raised her thumbnail to her mouth but halted before gnawing on it again.

  “It’s okay,” Eric said, sliding back down the bar. “I understand.” His mouth turned down in a frown. They’d never been close friends, but lately she’d been freezing him out.

  “Wait. I…” She shrugged. “I need a beer.” Eric’s mouth twitched as he poured her a local microbrew and slid it down the bar. She raised the glass to her co-worker before taking a grateful sip.

  “So.” Eric sidled up to her again. “Talk.”

  She sighed. “You know about Alan’s problem, right?” Eric lowered his head and nodded. “I…I don’t think I can stick it out and wait for the dust to clear.” Chewing her lip, she spun her glass on the bar. Not raising her gaze to his, she added, “I can’t afford to be out of work.”

  Eric said nothing, his towel swiping over the bar in short strokes. She nerved herself to meet his eyes. His chest rose as he pulled in a deep breath. His bottom lip protruding as if he were thinking hard, he stared off at the ceiling.

  “You’d leave us?” he asked, sniffing loudly. “I knew this day would come…” He wiped mock tears, and Terese smacked his arm. He laughed, playfully punching her on the shoulder.

  “Did we talk about it before?” She tapped her lips, thinking. She didn’t have many girlfriends to talk about life issues with. Usually, she confided in Alan or her mom. And not often. As a rule, Terese dealt with her own crap without dumping on others. But some days, another opinion was gold.

  “Not really,” Eric said, returning to the chore of polishing glasses and scanning tables. He poured two Bud lights from the taps, putting them on the counter before Angelina even asked for them for table six. Terese grinned. She’d trained him well.

  “Honestly, I thought you’d be over at the new conference center already, but you haven’t said much,” he continued. When she didn’t answer, he narrowed his eyes. “Spill.”

  She sighed, guilt rumbling in her gut as if she were betraying Eric. “I have an interview coming up. I’m waiting on their call.”

  “So what like soon?” he asked. She nodded. “Very soon?” She shrugged. He threw his hands in the air. “Well, fuck. Warn a guy would ya? Shit…” He paused, rubbing his chin. “If you leave here, there’d be a giant vacuum on both power and common sense.” She laughed, but Eric seemed half serious. “Does Alan know?”

  “Of course. He set it up for me. We discussed it earlier in the week. He’s probably not selling the tavern, though some of the other bars…” Her words faded off at the idea of Alan losing his family’s tavern and the rest of his empire being sold at auction.

  Clearing her throat, she continued, “We talked about my job. Alan even offered to keep me on as manager for now, with a severe pay cut though. And as much as I’d love to, I have no money. Plus, I don’t want to schlep drinks my entire life.” She refrained from explaining further. Eric didn’t need to know about her embarrassing lack of personal finance skills.

  Eric chuckled. “Your entire life? Drama much? In ten years, you could be Alan, schmoozing from bar to bar, the elegant host.” He nudged her shoulder, and she swatted him.

  “But I have a degree collecting dust, and maybe I should use it at some point.”

  “Please! You use it every day you work here. Running this place takes serious organizational skills, which you have in spades.”

  She shrugged, loving the compliment. “Yes, but it’s college kids mostly. How can I run Thursday night shots when I’m thirty? I’ll be so out of touch by then—”

  Eric cut her off. “Don’t demean your work, even if it’s not your life dream. You do an amazing job, and if you wanted it, you’d stay and continue to kick ass on every shift. You have the best people working for you. Things run like a well-oiled machine. That’s you. Not Alan. He doesn’t hire, fire, or run anything. It’s all you.”

  Embarrassed, she stammered, “I do all right. Things are okay.” She twisted her fingers.

  Eric slapped his rag on the counter. “Listen to me, woman. You have no idea what it’s like at some of these other places. Rotten pay, total disorganization, food like shit…”

  She waved him off, hating compliments but knowing everything he said was true. She was good at her job but in debt up to her eyeballs. “Oakwood Tavern’s not so bad, then?”

  Eric laughed. “You know it isn’t. Good pay, decent hours. You’re a good person to work for—no bullshit and you’re not a complete hard-ass.”

  “I’m not?” She pouted. “I thought maybe I was a little tough.”

  Angelina slid up to the bar with an order. She tilted her head at Terese, a questioning glint in her eye. Terese never stayed behind the bar long on any night. Usually, she ambled, networked, and kept everyone watered. Terese shook her head in a “not tonight” gesture. Angelina nodded, put the drinks on her tray, and strolled off. Eric’s gaze lingered on Angelina’s backside.

  Terese raised an eyebrow. “You and her?”

  Eric let out a low whistle. “Ah, no thanks on that one. I’m not into being led around on a leash.” Terese lifted her eyebrows. “Not literally. At least I think, not literally. I overheard her talking to another server, listing the things she required in a boyfriend—total obedience, fat wallet, and rock-star looks. I can’t do any of those.” Terese tilted her head, a smirk on her lips. “I don’t want to either.”

  “Yeah well, fun for a weekend…” she teased.

  “You’re one to talk, with your new boy-toy in tow. You seem exhausted, by the way. Congrats.”

  Her shoulders raised and dropped half-heartedly. She didn’t want to talk about the whole crazy whirlwind relationship. Too many things plagued her brain without deciding what to do with Mr. Sex.

  “Back to our original subject,” Eric said. “You’re tough but in a practical, no-nonsense way. It works well here. Most of us are happy. No one wants to see you go.” Guilt pouring over her, Terese grabbed a rag to polish the bar again.

  “But,” Eric continued. “It’s better to get out before we’re out on the street.”

  She gazed up at him, waiting for him to say something more—something to add clarity to the bar situation. He said nothing, reiterating his message to get while the getting was good. She’d served her time here at Oakwood Tavern. The convention center might be a good change, more professional, better salary, and a way out from her debt.

  Terese patted Eric on the shoulder and strolled back to her office. The sight of her chair recalled Drew’s visit. She squeezed her thighs together, trying not to think too long about it. God, he made her horny. Inviting him over tonight could only be a positive. She grabbed her phone.

  Nothing like a little calming nookie before another day full of tax audits and possible life-changing interviews.

  Chapter Twelve

  In the boardroom, Drew stifled a yawn as George rambled on. Dad stared at the HR director, completely focused, but Drew blinked hard to ward off sleep. A catered dinner hadn’t improved the hiring strategy session any; neither had the crappy coffee.

  He and George had already conducted thirty interviews today, one monotonous paper-doll candidate after another. Whether male or female, they dressed the same—navy suit and short hair. They were “people” people, organized with communication skills. Too bad they didn’t have interview aptitude.

  Drew was ready to tear his hair out. The day needed to end. At least tomorrow’s interviews for the higher positions yielded fewer applicants. The people might be more interesting. George had the situation under con
trol. But for some reason, Drew remained, at a dinner meeting, to discuss today’s potentials with his dad.

  Drew’s phone buzzed, rousing him from his stupor. He glanced at the screen. Terese. Thank God. The text might get him out of here if he played his cards right. He’d planned to run over to Terese’s place tonight.

  The phone’s clock read 11:00 p.m. A soft grumble issued from his lips. No date tonight, then. Maybe a little sexting here at the table. He pressed his lips together, hiding his amusement.

  “Spencer, Drew, what did you think of Mary Harper?” George asked. Drew’s head snapped up from his phone.

  “Are we keeping you from something?” Dad’s eyes glinted. Drew never should’ve told him about his new girl. The man lived for details and pushed Drew at every chance.

  Ignoring his father, he rewound his thoughts, scrambling to remember the candidate. He shuffled the files piled high in front of him. “What position?” He was lost. He knew it. George knew it. And Dad knew it. Grimacing, he threw his hands up.

  Dad cleared his throat. “Maybe it’s time to call it a night, boys. What do you say?”

  George fluttered files in both of his hands. “But Spencer, there are so many people to sort out, and with the bigger interviews tomorrow…I don’t think we can wait any longer to go over these minor positions. I—”

  With a mild pat on George’s arm, Dad cut him off. “Look, George. You’re up to your ass in this. And with your team scattered to the four winds, it’s been difficult.” George harrumphed. “I know. Drew is trying to help you, but he doesn’t have the human resources background you do. So, my friend, let’s take a breath and let it sit until morning.”

  “But Spencer, setbacks are bound to happen if we don’t have the key personnel in place. The medical convention in two months is our first big show. The whole project could flop if we don’t do it right.” A fine sheen of sweat covered George’s forehead, and his cheeks held a red tinge.

  Spencer lowered his voice, grasping George’s arm. “I think we need to go home and get a good night’s sleep.” As his dad’s eyes darted to Drew for a second, embarrassment flooded over Drew as he caught his father’s innuendo. Yeah, he needed some sleep. They all did. “It’s after eleven, and we aren’t any closer to finalizing the junior staff than we were an hour ago. Time to stop.”

  Dad straightened his files and stood.

  “But, sir!” The HR director half rose from his chair, a look of panic on his face. “We can’t…we have to…”

  Dad said nothing, merely lowered his gaze on George. Drew had seen that expression a million times over the dinner table, his father’s “keep talking at your peril” look.

  “George, we are going home. Make your own decision.” He snagged his suit jacket from the back of his chair, putting it on with a flourish. “Good night, gentlemen.” With finality in his words, he left the conference room.

  Drew slowly gathered up his files, then his father’s. George didn’t move. He sat in his seat, red-faced and sweating, his eyes bulging from his head. He tried to speak, his mouth opening and closing, but no words emerged. Drew knelt beside his chair, placing his arm on George’s.

  “You okay?” he asked. George turned to him, such sadness in his expression.

  “I’m not built for this, Drew. I can’t staff two buildings and keep track of our own people by myself.” He sniffled, actually sniffled. “We’re going too big, too fast. Everything’s a mess.”

  Drew squeezed George’s arm, then dashed off to fetch some water for the poor guy. Handing him an icy bottle, he tried to sooth his co-worker. “I know the project has been a huge undertaking. In my department, we pulled our hair out over the finances and the construction. It pained us to see all that money go out the door week after week. But we’re almost there. Tomorrow’s interviews will be cake. The second batch of candidates will be easier to place than these blank slates.” He gestured to the piles of resumes for the lower positions.

  George studied his water bottle. “I don’t know, Drew. These might be tougher. We need building managers, event coordinators, head chefs and…” He downed his drink as if it were whiskey. “I just…”

  “George,” Drew said. “I’ll take the files home and go over tonight. That way you can sit back and relax tomorrow.”

  The HR director sat up straighter and grasped the pile of folders in front of him. “No! I have to study them tonight. I have to be ready. I wanted to have the other people in place before now. But your dad walked out and…”

  “Without your team, having everyone in place isn’t possible. You have me and Dad. We’ll do what we can.”

  “But what if we lose out on someone great because we hesitated and then the first convention is a disaster and then…” George totally panicked. Drew quickly retrieved another water.

  “Go home. Get some sleep. Come in early tomorrow, and we’ll make some decisions about the junior staff before the first interview.”

  “I don’t…”

  “George, it’s eleven at night. We both need some sleep or at least a break. Come on, man. The boss left.”

  George peeked up at him, pink-cheeked and rummy-eyed. He so didn’t want to let go. Drew understood the pressure. But Drake Industries and Spencer, especially, never turned the screws this tight on any employee. George was doing it to himself. Drew sympathized. After years of school, pushing himself to be the best, continuing that standard at work, these few days with Terese showed him life beyond Drake Industries.

  “Oh, all right,” George said, his voice hollow and empty. “I guess it can wait a few hours.” He gathered up his files and slumped out of the room toward his office.

  Drew watched him leave with a twinge of relief and regret. Poor George. He really needed to step back a bit. Drew sat for a minute, gazing into space, until his mind focused on one thought—Terese.

  He checked his phone. Her invitation text glowed up at him. He sat staring at the words, wanting to rush to her place and spend another night in heaven. The stack of files still on the conference table caught his eye. They hadn’t made much progress, and the deadlines were approaching. He cursed his father for throwing him into the fire.

  It was a test. They both knew it, and as always, Drew wanted to pass with flying colors. It meant skipping a date with the woman of his dreams. Grumbling, he declined her invitation.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Terese waited in the office. Pacing hadn’t helped. Sitting at her desk with her hands folded hadn’t helped either. The IRS guys were late, working her last nerve. Glancing at her phone, she noticed the message light blinked serenely.

  Maybe it was Drew. She could use a little pick me up right now. Swiping the lock screen aside revealed a text from Alan. She hadn’t heard from him since the night at her apartment. The press had escalated their smear campaign against him and Conrad with horror story after horror story of businesses shutting down. She’d wanted to call, to help, but what could she do?

  Heard they’re headed to the Tavern. Be there shortly—for backup.

  Her heart ached. The poor man was in the middle of losing everything, yet he rushed to her rescue. Alan didn’t deserve any of it. The Tavern’s books were squeaky clean. She should know, as she’d spent most of her work hours scouring over them. With luck, he would arrive before the suits.

  A sharp rap sounded at the door, and Agent Harris stalked into the room. He resembled an accountant today rather than a fed. Perhaps the black suits intimidated the public a little too much, but hell, they were IRS, the letters scary in and of themselves.

  “Thank you for your cooperation, Miss Brock. Hopefully, I’ll be out of your hair shortly.” His demeanor was calm and quiet, nothing like the hush-hush bully act he’d pulled before.

  The words “like I had a choice” formed in her mind, but smartly, she kept her mouth shut. Investigating Alan might lead to scrutinizing her finances. Not a can of worms she wanted to open, considering she didn’t know where she stood with the IRS.

/>   She’d never paid real attention to her taxes, or hell, any of her finances. Living month to month, paycheck to paycheck had been her style since college. Usually, she sent off her taxes with minimal effort to expend in calculating them. She might owe a grand in back taxes or need a refund of three times that. A dark question popped into her brain. Had she even paid taxes last spring?

  She stood, surrendering her desk and her files as she chewed her thumbnail. Her gaze darted back and forth between the ledger and the computer. A fine sweat formed on her neck.

  “Don’t worry, Miss Brock. Unless there’s something you’d like to tell me.”

  Terese bit her tongue, preventing herself from calling the agent an asshole.

  He seemed to take her silence for acquiescence and leaned toward her. “If there is something, you’d do better to tell me now. Keep yourself on the right side of this.” She pressed her lips. No way was she speaking, even to say she knew nothing. Harris frowned. “We’ll find out anyway, Miss Brock.”

  She rocked back on her heels, taking a breath. “Do you always use the pressure act?” Thoughtlessly, she spit the words at him.

  Harris straightened, all joviality absent from his expression. “Mr. Reid’s situation is very serious. Sharing what you know will make the job easier for both of us.”

  She scuffed her foot on the floor. “I know nothing about Alan’s financial situation. I run the tavern…”

  He glanced over the last sheet on her paper ledger. “Seems you run it well, Miss Brock. Don’t worry.” Harris flashed a bright smile, causing her stomach churn. His leering stare reminded her of the drunken college boys in the bar, the ones she bounced out when they caused trouble. Was he hitting on her? She wrinkled her nose. “You’re in good hands.”

  “Am I, as well?” Alan said from the doorway. He cut an impressive figure in the doorway, tall and sharply dressed. The stone quality of his expression charged the air. Alan never needed to say much. He told volumes with one look.