When I step inside, I’m assaulted by the smell of beer and overpriced cologne. Though it’s relatively early, the place is almost packed with most of the gleaming teak booths crammed with people. There’s a sense of urgency here, as if you don’t get here on time, the chances of getting laid go down with the rest of your beer.
And there, in all the chaos, I see Nicola behind the bar. Her back is to me but her hair is pulled back, exposing the perfect bare skin of her neck and her upper back as it dips into a loose-cut tank top. She moves with efficiency, whatever she’s doing, while a bunch of guys lean across the bar, bills wavering in their hands. They watch her every move, just as I am.
Something inside me burns hot as coals and I swallow down a surprising burst of jealousy. I can’t remember the last time I got jealous but it’s as if it suddenly dawns on me that I may not be the only one who wants to get in her pants. And of course I know I’m not, but it seemed that until she took the job here, she was relatively safe from roaming eyes.
I’m completely delusional, but I still stride over to the bar and stick myself right beside the guys, my hands stretched along the edge of the bar top.
The guy next to me, some punk with gelled blond hair that would give Zach Morris a run for his money, gives me the fuck off look but I don’t pay him any attention. My eyes are trained on her. They might think I’m here to get a drink but that’s not the case at all.
When she turns around, she plunks four bottles of beer down on the counter and smiles at the guys while she tells them the total. I want to be jealous over that smile alone, even if it’s just for show. Then as they pay, her eyes flit to me, a good bartender, always looking for that next customer and when she sees me, she does a double take. She’s jarred.
This could be good.
“Bram,” she says and then her smile goes wider than the world and I don’t feel jealous anymore. I feel fucking elated. Because that was no “give me a good tip, you wankers” smile, that was an “I’m really glad to see you smile.”
Please Lord, let it have been that kind of smile.
“Hey,” I say, suddenly feeling rather speechless. I clear my throat. “Thought I’d come see you in action.”
The boys take their beers and turn away. I notice they didn’t leave any tip, probably because I had to butt my way on in and hog all her attention.
I reach out and grab Zach Morris’s shoulder. “Listen,” I say to him and it looks like he wants to spit at me. “Just because you have zero chance of going home with her tonight, doesn’t mean you don’t have to tip her.”
“Bram,” Nicola warns quietly, eyes wide as a deer.
“So,” I go on to the wanker, ignoring her, “pay up if you thought her service was good. I was watching. It was good.”
The wanker eyes my hand on his shoulder but I’ve got height and breadth and he’s got…bloody awful hair. He looks at one of his friends who quickly whips out a five from the change she gave back and smacks it down on the table. I take my hand away and they walk off to a booth in the corner, shooting me daggers as they go. They can shoot all they want. If I survived Nicola’s death glares, I can survive anything.
“Bram,” she says again, admonishing me as I turn back to her. “It was fine.”
“It wasn’t,” I told her. “They would have tipped you but your smile for me was so much more beautiful than your smile for them. Jealousy makes dickheads do dickish things.”
She rolls her eyes and flips a dishrag over her shoulder. “I’ve been here long enough to learn some things, you know.”
“I also know you work part-time and tips are as important as blood. I did say it would be a hard job.”
Now there’s a hint of a smile, just a subtle lifting of her lips. “It was easy until you got here.”
I lean forward more on the counter until my eyes are level with her cleavage. She took that advice of mine too. Show off those beautiful tits for tips. But like the gentleman I am, I keep my eyes trained to hers. Even in this light I can make out the many shades of brown in them, the way they all snake in vibrant lines toward her pupil, the very pupil that’s widening before my eyes, as if she likes what she sees.
You better fucking like what you see, I think to myself, wishing now that we weren’t here at all, but back in her apartment or mine, sharing a bottle of wine. Oh the things I could do to try and break down that wall. I’d pull out brick by brick with my teeth until she’s screaming my name.
As if she can see the filthy images in my head, her cheeks grow pink and she looks away for a moment. “So now that you’re here, what will it be?” she asks, her voice now cheery but false. She’s back in bartender mode with polite professionalism.
“Make me something,” I tell her, straightening up. “Anything. Make a Bram McGregor.”
“I don’t think we have enough ego for that,” she says.
I grin at her. “I suppose I have enough already, don’t I? I’m serious though. Make me anything sour.”
She raises her perfectly shaped brow. “Sour? I would have thought you a sweet kind of guy.”
“There’s nothing about me that’s sweet, and you know it.”
But from the way she’s staring at me, I can tell she doesn’t agree with that. “Maybe a shot of sweet,” she concludes after searching my face like a puzzle. “But it’s definitely spicy all the way.”
“All right then, babe,” I tell her. “Take your best shot.”
Even though there’s a small line forming behind me (the other bartender is James and he seems swamped), Nicola takes her time trying to figure out what Bram McGregor tastes like. I wish she could find out for herself. I’ve seen that cute, pink little tongue at times and I think it could give me a real lashing. I tell her she should add some salt in there for good measure and I swear her cheeks go crimson.
When she’s finally done she slides the drink toward me.
“This is what I call the Bram McGregor. Mainly spicy with a kick of sweet and salty.”
I take the highball from her and my fingers brush against hers as I do so. I pounce.
“I found the kettle in my room this morning. When abouts did you return it and how did you get into my apartment?”
The question takes her completely off-guard but from the way she looks absolutely bashful and ashamed, I know she must have done it when I was whacking off.
“Just when I got home,” she says quickly, suddenly eyeing the next person in line. “I thought you were asleep so I just put it in the kitchen and left.”
Bullshit. But I let it go because even if I called her on catching me in the act, she would deny it – anything to get out of that conversation.
As she tends to the next person, I slip a fifty in the tip jar and take a sip of my drink. The Bram McGregor certainly has a fucking kick to it. It’s actually pretty damn good.
I leave her be for now and look for an empty bar stool and find one by none other than Linden who is at the end of the bar talking to James as he shakes a martini.
“Fuckface,” Linden says when he sees me saunter over, our usual term of endearment. “What the hell are you doing here?”
I shrug. “Bored.” I look at James and pass him the drink. “You have to try this.”
James’s brow piercing raises as he eyes it. “What is it?”
“Your new bartender made it,” I told him. “Try it.”
James does so and then considers it with a tilt of his head. “Not bad.”
“It’s called the Bram McGregor,” I tell him.
“Of course it is,” Linden says with a groan.
I go on, “You should give that gal a raise. Anyone that can make something this tasty on the fly is someone to hold on to.”
“Well I am trying to get her more shifts,” James explains, “but it’s not easy when I had full staff to begin with. I gave her the job to help her out but I’m not sure what else I can do.”