Page 5 of Vesper Martinis

They are all talking about something. The questions circling in my mind are drowning out their voices. Mostly, I’m thinking of the odds. What are the odds out of every person on earth that he would be my new boss?

By the time introductions are done, everyone leaves the office. But I’m still stuck in place. When the door closes, I shake my head and then walk over to Pierce who’s about to leave the office as well.

“Yes?” he asks, seemingly confused about what I’m still doing here. “Do you need something?”

“Dude,” I say, my arms out like I’m getting ready for a hug or something.

Okay, you could have done better than “Dude,” dude.

“Excuse me?” Pierce narrows his eyes and I feel a little ball of anger forming in my gut.

“What are you doing? It’s me. Wesley. From the bar in New York? It was only a couple of months ago. You couldn’t have possibly forgotten it already.”

“I’m sorry, but I have no idea who you are. Maybe you’ve mistaken me for someone else,” he says, walking past me and opening the door.

He holds the door open for me, indicating that I must leave, too. And I do. Because I don’t know what else to say. So I walk past him—and his heady cologne—and head downstairs to where all the bartenders are chatting.

I brushed it off after that, thinking that maybe it wasn’t as memorable for him as it was for me. But some part of me thinks he’s lying. Something about the way he keeps looking at me from his perch on the second floor.

He watches me—more than the other bartenders. I’ve noticed that when I flirt with the customers, he gets mad. But I’m not sure why. The last manager didn’t mind, in fact, he told me it was good for business.

Is he jealous?

I don’t know him well enough to be sure, but if he is the type and remembers me, perhaps he does. But he says he doesn’t remember, and I’ll have to take his word for it at some point.

Every time he asks, well more like demands, I go into his office, I ask him if he’s sure he doesn’t know me.

I get the same answer every time.

“No.”

I don’t know why I keep asking. Maybe because I can’t believe it. Or perhaps because I don’t want to think I’m crazy. It is the same guy. I just know it. And I don’t know about the rest of the world, but if I had mind-blowing sex with someone, I wouldn’t forget who it was with.

At some point, I gave up. But that doesn’t explain why he’s picking on me.

Pierce treats me differently than the other guys. He’s harder on me even though I’ve been working here longer than the other guys. And I’m not an idiot. I know how to be a bartender.

At around 10:30 p.m., I take a small break and head to the break room for a bottle of water and a snack. There are generally two of us at the bar at one time unless it’s a weekend or a holiday, and then there are three of us. Marco is usually the one with me. We’ve become pretty good buddies, and we work well together. We can put on a show for the people, tossing bottles and shit, and it gets the crowd pumped, which makes them buy more drinks and overall benefits us all.

I sigh, taking my first seat since I got to work.

I’ve always been a night owl, so the hours aren’t bad, but being on my feet for multiple hours can be challenging. I work out quite often, so I’m not out of shape. I look down at the brown loafer that I wear every night.

I blame the shoes.

The old manager had a specific way he liked his bartenders to dress, and Pierce didn’t bother changing the rules. White button-ups, slacks in dark colours, and dress shoes or loafers. The bar even gives us money to buy the clothes. Which, considering the prices of some of these items, is a relief. I hear the door to the breakroom open and close, and then I hear the sound of a chair scraping on the floor.

I look up to see Derek sporting a smile from ear to ear.

“What’s up?” he says, slapping me on the leg.

“Nothing much,” I say slowly. Judging by the way his knee is bouncing and the light in his eyes, he wants to say something. Generally, I don’t particularly appreciate talking during my break, but he looks like he’s about to burst.

“What?” I ask.

“I got it in,” he whispers like it’s a secret.

“Got what?” I ask, confused.

---