A Bluewater Bay Collection

by Witt, L. A.

  His wife and boyfriend were the creative ones, but Simon had the occasional moments of . . . well, attempted creativity. He’d get a hair up his butt and decide to “improve” something, which meant I’d be getting overtime that week while I unfucked it.

  There were days when I’d get a headache from rolling my eyes at him, but I wouldn’t trade this job for the world. He and Lydia were great people and solid bosses. I just wouldn’t be me if I didn’t butt heads with my boss once in a while. Or if I didn’t do my level best to drive Simon insane.

  So tomorrow morning, I’d be here at ass thirty to help make sure the displays were pristine and perfect in time for the Space Villager fans to show up and trash the place. Okay, that wasn’t entirely fair. The gamers weren’t destructive or anything, but when a new game or expansion released—especially that game—they’d crash through the front door as soon as we turned on the Open sign, and they’d descend on End o’ Earth like a hurricane of enthusiasm. A few casualties were inevitable.

  I smiled to myself as I walked out of the store. Never a dull moment in that place, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  On my way to my car, I hesitated, then looked back over my shoulder. Not at the comic book store—at the Alehouse.

  It was a Friday night. Garrett was undoubtedly working—they usually had all the bartenders working on Friday and Saturday nights. Would it be weird if I wandered in for a beer? Wasn’t like I could stay late tonight, but . . . one beer? Maybe two?

  I chewed the inside of my cheek. I was a regular. No one would look twice if I walked in. Well, aside from some of the other regulars who didn’t particularly like me prancing all over the place’s masculine vibe, but fuck them. I just didn’t want Garrett to think I was stalking him.

  Oh what the hell? If showing up twice in the same week made me a stalker, then half their clientele qualified, because the same people were in there pretty much every time I came in. I wasn’t convinced they ever left. Granted, they weren’t there to ogle one of the bartenders, but still. The alternative was going home and depressing myself on hookup apps, because Charlie’s bullshit still stung.

  Just the thought turned my stomach to lead. I hadn’t even been able to look at the apps the last couple of days because I couldn’t get the other night out of my head. From experience, I knew it would be a week or two at least before my skin stopped crawling.

  My gaze drifted to the Alehouse again, and I gnawed my lip. Hanging out with Garrett that night had staved off that feeling. I’d still been hurt and angry, still wanted to choke Charlie for making me feel gross, but talking to the hot bartender had tempered all that shit. Garrett had been exactly what I’d needed, and I’d been lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time to find him. Was I an idiot for thinking Garrett would want another round of talking while I drank?

  I swallowed, suddenly nervous. Suddenly shy. Suddenly full of reasons why I was pathetic and stupid and needy and—

  And really, really curious about the man who’d salvaged my fucked-up evening with a sexy smile and endless conversation.

  Fuck it. Wasn’t like I had anything to lose.

  So I took a deep breath and headed for the Alehouse.

  Chapter 4

  Garrett

  The Alehouse had a rhythm to it, even on chaotically busy nights like this, and I was confident I’d found my groove. The bar was getting more familiar, and I was struggling less to remember where things were. When I needed something from the back room, I could usually find it without much trouble. I didn’t have to hunt down the margarita salt or ask my boss—again—where we kept the cocktail straws. I had my station set up the way I wanted it, with the bottles in my well arranged so I didn’t even have to look at the labels when I reached for them. I’d learned how low I could let my ice bin get before I damn well better go get some more.

  Most of the things I’d learned from my college bartending days had come back too. I could still mix quite a few drinks off the top of my head instead of checking the computer for the exact recipe. During the week, most people just ordered beer anyway, but on the weekends, we attracted more than just the usual sports bar clientele. That crowd ordered Long Island Iced Teas, daiquiris, Kamikazes, Sex on the Beaches, and plenty of shit I’d never heard of. At first, I’d been overwhelmed and worried I’d never keep all the drinks straight, but I was doing all right. And anyway, I was pretty sure I’d botched a couple of Hurricanes earlier tonight, putting in a little too much spiced rum and completely forgetting the lime juice, and I hadn’t heard any complaints.

  I paused between mixing drinks and dabbed some sweat from my forehead with a towel I kept handy for that purpose. Then I started pouring the three drinks table five had ordered, repeating the names in my head as I went.

  Beam on the rocks. Dirty martini. Neat Scotch.

  Even as I poured the Jim Beam over the ice, more orders were coming in, so I added them to my mental list.

  Dirty martini. Neat Scotch. Whiskey sour. Miller Light.

  Just like in my college days, the busy nights were a blessing. Made the time go by so much faster than wiping and rewiping the bar, glasses, and every other surface. Time to lean, time to clean, after all.

  Not tonight, though.

  Dirty martini—done. Neat Scotch. Whiskey sour. Miller Light.

  I handed off the martini, the Beam on the rocks, and the neat Scotch to the server, and kept going as another patron ordered a Guinness.

  Whiskey sour. Miller Light. Guinness.

  The door opened like it had a million times in the last ten minutes, and I looked over.

  And my hands stopped.

  Jesse.

  Whiskey sour. Miller . . . Light? Or was it High Life—crap. Light. It was Light. And then a Guinness. Right?

  I shook myself and focused on pouring and mixing. Or, well, I did until I glanced up again and saw him coming toward my section of the bar. Though it was a busy night, most people preferred booths and tables, so there were quite a few open barstools. He could have taken any one of them, but he walked right past them like he didn’t even see them and took the last empty seat at my end of the bar.

  “Hey.” I flashed him a quick smile. “Give me a sec.”

  “No rush.” His smile erased the orders I’d been repeating in my mind. Didn’t just scramble them—completely erased them like they’d never been there at all.

  For a few panic-filled seconds, anyway. My brain recovered, and . . .

  Whiskey sour. Miller Light. Guinness.

  Once those were done, a few more orders came in, and I managed to keep them straight as I slowly adapted to Jesse being here. His presence tingled at the edges of my awareness even when I wasn’t looking at him, and every time I did glance his way, that tingle became a crackle. Somehow, I didn’t drop a drink or fuck up an order.

  As I put a couple of beers up for the waitress to take to a table, I glanced at Jesse. “What can I get you?”

  “Uh . . .” He jumped like I’d just put him on the spot. “I’ll . . .” He shook himself. “A Coke on the rocks is good. Thanks.”

  Well, that was easy enough. I wondered briefly why he came into a bar so often if he apparently didn’t drink, but I didn’t have time to give it much thought.

  I couldn’t stop to chat after I’d put the Coke in front of him. Not with so many drink orders coming my way. He didn’t seem to mind, though. And he wasn’t exactly focusing on the game on TV or looking at his phone. Every time I glanced at him, he was watching me.

  Mercifully, there was a lull after a while. It wouldn’t last long, but I’d take it, and as soon as I was sure everyone had their drinks, I stopped in front of him.

  “Sorry about that,” I said.

  “Sorry? About doing your job?” He shook his head. “It’s cool. Don’t worry.”

  I couldn’t help smiling, and probably looked like a fucking idiot, but whatever. “Well, it’s good to see you.”

  He smiled back, and even the neon glow coul
dn’t mask the color blooming in his cheeks. “Yeah. You too. I, uh . . .” he cleared his throat, “Got off early. Thought I’d come in.” Beat. “For a drink.”

  “Well, you’re in the right place.” I smirked as I gestured at the rows of bottles behind me. “We do drinks here.”

  Jesse laughed, and . . . wow. I hadn’t realized my heart was capable of somersaulting like that, never mind just because of a shy smile and a soft sparkle in someone’s eyes. Well, okay, I had known it was capable. Just didn’t think I’d ever feel it again.

  Holding up his glass, he said, “I might get something stronger after I finish this one.” He glanced around the bar. “Except you’ll probably get busy again soon, so maybe I should go ahead and order it.”

  I shrugged. “It’s up to you. Just, fair warning—the orders come in waves sometimes, so don’t take it personally if I have to dash off.”

  “I won’t. I promise,” he said. I must not have looked convinced, because he added, “We get rushes over at the shop too. I get it.”

  “Gonna guess your clientele isn’t usually shit-faced, though.” I made a subtle gesture toward a couple of guys who were probably getting cut off soon.

  Jesse laughed. “Not drunk, no. But sometimes stoned. Or high as a goddamned kite.”

  I raised an eyebrow. After a glance around to make sure no one needed me, I said, “Sounds like you’ve got some stories.”

  “Oh, yeah.” He trailed his fingers up and down in the sweat on his glass. “You want to hear them?”

  “Stories about people being high in a comic book shop? You better believe it. Do tell.”

  Mischief glittered in his eyes. “Well, we had a guy come in a while ago, and he was absolutely tripping balls on something. He’s a regular, but whatever he was on that day?” Jesse whistled and shook his head. “Might’ve been spice or shrooms or something, but whatever it was, that was some powerful shit.”

  “Yeah?” I grinned, leaning on my hands on the bar. “How’d that go?”

  “It was fine at first. He was sort of spacing out and wandering around muttering to himself, but then he got to the display of sculptures. We—” He paused, lips quirking. “We sell sculptures by Ian Meyers, the guy who does the mini sets they blow up on Wolf’s Landing. Anyway, they’re really realistic. So this dude is out of his head on whatever, and he stops in front of that display.” Jesse laughed heartily. “He was convinced they’d come alive.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit.”

  “So what did he do? Freak out?”

  Jesse nodded. “He started clawing at the case and screaming at us that we needed to open it. That they were going to suffocate and die. Next thing we know, he’s bawling on the floor that we’re killing the dragons.”

  My jaw dropped. “Wow.”

  “Yeah. And I mean, we were all kind of rattled after that. High as he was, he could’ve really hurt himself or done some damage, you know? But he came in a few days later to apologize, and when we told him what he’d done, he thought it was funny. So . . .” Jesse raised his glass. “If he can laugh about it after the fact, so can I.”

  I chuckled. “Fair enough.”

  “My boss doesn’t think so, though.” Jesse grimaced. “The sculptor is his boyfriend, and he seriously panicked when he realized the guy was trying to break down the case.” Into his glass, he muttered, “Thank God Ian wasn’t there, or he’d have had a coronary.”

  “I might’ve freaked out too if I thought someone was about to ‘liberate’ my work.”

  “Me too. But it wasn’t my shit, so . . .” He flashed a wicked grin.

  I laughed. “Why do I get the feeling you keep your boss on his toes?”

  “Me?” He put a hand to his chest and shot me one of those innocent looks that only the perpetually guilty could master. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Uh-huh.” Jesus, he was adorable. And mischievous. No doubt a handful for whoever he worked for, and probably anyone else in his life. He reminded me of my husband in that respect. Sean had been a pistol and—

  And I didn’t want to think about him tonight, because I was feeling too good to let grief take over. The familiar heavy weight of the past year started pressing down on my shoulders, and I mentally flailed in search of a safer topic.

  Across the bar top, Jesse brought his drink to his lips but stopped short. “You must have some stories from working in a place like this.”

  Somehow I kept my relief under the surface as I nodded. “A few, yeah.”

  Eyes locked on me, he took a sip. As he lowered his glass, he said, “Well? Let’s hear ’em.”

  I chewed the inside of my cheek, running through the dusty old memories of my previous life as a bartender. “Nothing very exciting has happened at this bar.” Nothing yet, anyway, but if you keep coming back—I muffled a cough. “Back when I was in college, though, I worked at a club in Seattle. Near the UW. And that place could get pretty wild.”

  Jesse tilted his head, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

  I gave the Alehouse a sweeping glance, and when I was satisfied no one needed me right then, I started talking. “It was the usual shit, you know? Watching drunk people make asses of themselves. Trying to break up fights. My boss used to get bitchy when someone came into the place smelling like weed, but I didn’t mind at all. Stoners aren’t nearly as violent as drunks.”

  He nodded. “I believe that.” His eyes darted around the room. “People don’t get too crazy here, do they?”

  “You tell me.” I smiled. “Sounds like you’ve been coming here longer than I have.”

  “Okay, fair. And no, I’ve never seen anything all that wild in this place.” He sipped his drink. “Well, except during a football game.”

  I groaned. “I am so not looking forward to football starting.”

  “Yeah. God help you if the Seahawks are having a shitty season.”

  “Uh-huh.” I rolled my eyes. “When I worked at that place in the U-District, we had people who’d go crazy over the Huskies and the Seahawks. I mean, that was back when the Seahawks still sucked, so things didn’t get quite as intense when they lost, but all it took was a couple of trash-talking Raiders or Steelers fans . . .” I shook my head.

  Jesse grimaced. “Well, now that the Seahawks are playing decently . . .” He waved a hand at our surroundings. “Good luck.”

  “Yeah. Thanks.” I glanced past him just as one of the waitresses was approaching the bar. “What do you need?”

  “Three Coors and an order of medium wings with an extra side of bleu cheese.”

  “Got it.” To Jesse, I said, “Give me a minute.”

  He nodded.

  I sent the wing order back to the kitchen, then poured the beers and put them on the bar for the waitress to grab. Once she was on her way back to the table who’d ordered them, I faced Jesse again. “Sorry about that.”

  “You should be!” He scoffed haughtily. “Abandoning a conversation for two whole minutes to do your job. What the fuck, dude?”

  I laughed, rolling my eyes again. “Uh-huh. So, stories . . . Oh! There was the time an ex-girlfriend crashed a bachelor party.”

  Jesse sat up, grinning. “Oh yeah?”

  “Yep. They were pregaming before they went to the strip club down the block, but then his ex-girlfriend and her friends come wandering in. She’s drunk, he’s drunk, and the next thing we all know, they’re screaming at each other about . . .” I waved a hand. “Hell, they were slurring so bad, I have no idea what they were actually saying. But she started crying, and he started crying, and that was right about the time the fiancée showed up.”

  Jesse’s eyes bugged out. “Holy shit. Really?”

  “I’m not even sure who called her and tipped her off, but she came storming in like she was ready to kill someone. It took two bouncers to hold her back, and one of them ended up needing stitches.”

  “Whoa.” His jaw dropped. “What’d she do? Shiv him with a busted bottle?” />
  “Her engagement ring, actually. While she was trying to get to her fiancé, she backhanded the bouncer with that big rock.” I gestured at my face, drawing an invisible line along the cheekbone. “Tore him up good.”

  Jesse shuddered. “Ouch. So what happened after that?”

  “I don’t even know, to be honest. I took the bouncer to the ER to get sewn up, and by the time I came back, you’d never know anything had happened.” The memory made me laugh. “I was behind the bar and back to work for five minutes before someone stirred up some more chaos.”

  “What happened?”

  I stared at the bar between us for a long moment as I tried to knock the dust off those memories. Finally, I shook my head. “I don’t really remember. It’s been a long time. That might’ve been the night we had to do the Heimlich on a guy who tried to swallow an eight ball, or it might’ve been—”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Jesse put up a hand. “Back up a sec. Someone tried to swallow an eight ball?”

  Chuckling, I nodded. “That . . . actually happened a lot more often than you might think.”

  He stared at me incredulously.

  I shrugged. “College town.”

  That got a sharp laugh out of him. “I guess what happens in the U-District, stays in the U-District.”

  “Unless it ends at the hospital, but yeah.” I paused. “You know the U-District, then?”

  “Yeah. When I lived in Ballard, I spent a lot of time in that area: the U-District, Green Lake.” He smirked. “The People’s Republic of Fremont.”

  I laughed. “Oh God. You know they still have that sign up, right?”

  “Of course they do.” Jesse smirked. “Pretentious fucking hipsters.” And didn’t that describe the neighborhood of Fremont to a T.

  I was about to make a comment about Fremont and its insufferable inhabitants, but some empty glasses a few seats down caught my attention. “Be right back.” I took care of the refills, then returned to Jesse. “Sorry. Anyway . . . yeah. I’ll try to remember some of the crazier stories from working in that bar. It’s just been a few years.”