Comfortable and cozy, the place exudes a homey, welcoming atmosphere with a gigantic rock fireplace that spans the girth of the entire back wall. Numerous loveseats and recliners are positioned around the room’s main focal point, giving almost a coffeehouse-type feel to the area. The dark mahogany wood bar lines one of the sidewalls, stopping just before a hallway, which, according to the signs, leads to the restrooms. Five U-shaped booths with hunter green vinyl benches line the opposite wall, each sitting six to eight people comfortably, and the center of the room is scattered with rearrangeable tables, like the one I’m sitting at.
Snowboards, skis, and poles hang from the ceiling, and the walls are covered in framed posters and photographs, every one of them a different action-shot inside a half-pipe, staying true to the place’s namesake. In one of the corners close to the door, a jukebox—currently playing one of my favorite Mumford & Sons’ songs, Below My Feet—is situated not far from a mall-style photo booth, both of which currently have small crowds hovering around them. All in all, the place looks exactly like I pictured a mountainside pub in the middle of a ski resort to look, and strangely, I feel relaxed in the unfamiliar setting.
“Hey, baby. How’s this hump day treating you?” A hot, college-aged ginger, wearing a plaid flannel shirt tied up underneath her boobs with tiny khaki shorts and knee-high furry boots—an outfit that shows off an ample amount of cleavage and even more bare thigh—approaches the table with an impish grin and unmistakable twinkle in her eye. Her breasts accidentally brush up against my bicep as she leans over to place a coaster on the table in front of me. “What can I start you off with to drink? A Screaming Orgasm your style, or do you prefer a Slow, Comfortable Screw?”
“I, uh, I’m here about a bartending job,” I stammer momentarily, feeling the tips of my ears burn with uninvited arousal, but quickly rebound. “I’m supposed to meet a Brody here today?”
Her sultry, brown eyes grow wide as she squeals and bounces on her tiptoes; at least, I think her eyes are brown...it’s hard to focus with her tits bobbing directly in front of my face. “Oh, yaaay! You’re the new bartender we’ve been expecting! What’s your name? Cruz, right?”
“Crew. Just Crew,” I correct her, unable to fight back my pleased smile at her reaction over meeting me.
“Oh, my God, you’re fucking perfect.” She reaches out and traces her finger along my jaw and up my chin, landing it on my lips. “Just wait ‘til the rest of the girls see you; there’s gonna be a catfight for sure. You make sure you tell them I saw you first. My name’s Tasha. Don’t forget that…Tasha, with tits and a toosh.” Winking, she spins around, damn near insisting I look at her ass, which is pretty fucking nice, I must admit.
“Okay, let me go get Brody for you, and after you’re finished with him, I’ll order you a Red-Headed Slut. Once you have that sweetness in your mouth, you’ll never want to taste anything else,” she damn near purrs in my ear before prancing away to the other side of the bar.
It’s only then that I notice all of the waitresses are dressed similar to Tasha, like they just walked out of Playboy’s Ski Bunny issue, and suddenly I’m not quite so relaxed any longer. I’m still not sure what exactly is going on between Hudson and me. We’re definitely not in any kind of committed relationship, so I can’t figure out why I feel guilty for the conversation I just had.
I don’t even have time to let that thought settle before a guy who could pose as Guy Fieri’s twin—spiky bleached-blond hair, matching goatee, and all—sits down across from me, extending his hand across the table.
“I’m Brody Tanner, general manager of the Half Pipe,” he introduces himself with a smile.
“Crew Elliott, sir. It’s nice to meet you. Thank you for meeting me today,” I reply politely, offering a firm handshake.
“Ah, I’m glad to hear you’ve got a nice Texas accent to match that pretty face. The women will go crazy for you, and you should make a killing here,” he remarks confidently. “I’ve got three rules to follow and we’ll get along just fine. First, show up for your shifts on time and sober. I know you can only work nights ‘cause you homeschool your brother, and that’s fine, but I expect you to be punctual. You can have a few drinks while you’re working, but I at least need you to start off running on all cylinders. Second, don’t steal from me. You can gift a few drinks to some ladies each night, but keep it under control.”
He stops talking as Tasha sets a pint of Guinness in front of him and some peach-colored fruity-looking drink in front of me, then continues once she walks away. “And third, no fucking the patrons or other staff while you’re on the clock, and yes, that includes getting your cock sucked. I’m a red-blooded male just like you, and yes, I realize the scenery around here is stimulating, some times more than others. I don’t care what you do when you clock out, but I’m not paying you to bust a nut. Got it?”
Struck silent by his bluntness, all I can do is nod my head, knowing I really need this job as my contribution to the family. The money should be good and they’re willing to work with my schedule; I’ll be hard-pressed to find that anywhere else.
“Great. I’ll get you the paperwork to take with you, and you can bring it back for your first shift. When can you start training?”
Clearing my throat, I answer, “The weekend before Thanksgiving.”
“Perfect, show up at three that Sunday. Welcome to the Half Pipe Pub, Crew. This will be the best job you ever have.”
I waited around as long as I possibly could to see Crew and Caleb before leaving for school, but considering I did absolutely zero studying for my Algebra test last night, at a little after nine, I hopped in my Crosstrek and headed down the highway toward Denver, more than a little disappointed. Arriving a couple of hours before class begins, I set up shop at a secluded corner table in the on-campus coffeehouse, arm myself with an extra-large piping hot cup of Colombian blend java, noise-cancellation headphones, and my trusty ol’ graphing calculator, and prepare to bury myself in the review materials.
Unfortunately, about a half an hour into my cram session, the chair across from me noisily skates out from under the table and an all too familiar body parks itself in it. Peering up from my textbook, I offer Beckham a half-hearted smile before dropping my gaze back to my notes, hoping he’ll get the hint.
Of course, he doesn’t.
Motioning for me to remove my headphones—which I do, not wanting to be an ass—he picks up the sheet of notebook paper I’ve been jotting notes down on and examines it. “You’re here early this morning, friend.” He looks up and winks at me like he’s just said the most clever thing. “You got a test today?”
“I do,” I reply tersely.
“Then that makes sense why you didn’t answer my texts last night. You were studying all night.”
I can’t determine if his comment was an observation—an incorrect one—or a question, so I choose to ignore it all together. Glancing down at my watch, I sigh. “Class starts in a little over an hour and I’ve still got three more chapters to review. So if you don’t mind,” I hold my hand out, “I need my notes back.”
“I do mind, actually.” He smirks. “The best way to prepare for a test is for someone to quiz you, so why don’t you let me help?”
Resisting the urge to tell him to take a hike, I find myself nodding in agreement, unable to be the bitch I want to be. The poor guy really hasn’t done anything wrong, and before Crew suddenly appeared in my life several days ago, I really enjoyed hanging out with Beckham. As a matter of fact, I was excited about going out with him. It’s not his fault God’s gift to me waltzed into the lodge last Sunday afternoon, stealing away my interest in him and every other guy that walks the face of the earth. The least I can do is to continue being his friend. After all, Crew isn’t really anything more to me than someone I’ve kissed a few times.