Page 7 of Dangerous Devotion

“How are you feeling?” I ask as I swing my car into a parking space behind the bar.

“Like shit, how you think I feel?” he says with a chuckle that’s a bit of a wheeze, “you know you don’t gotta go into the bar every night. Foz could run the whole thing except the books. You can do that from your computer these days and be at home in comfort.”

“Thanks, Ron. I got it covered.”

“You gotta be getting, what, four hours’ sleep now? If you’re running straight to the bar from the office that’s putting you at eighteen- or twenty-hour workdays. You’re the boss, you oughta get somebody else to do the long hours for ya.”

“Don’t worry about me. Just get back on your feet and do everything the doctors tell you.”

“Barb said thank you for the food and the flowers. I guess those were the biggest flowers they ever seen at the hospital. They got a cart to wheel them in on.”

“Just wanted to make sure you know we’re thinking about you is all,” I say. “Did Barbara get the stuff my secretary sent over?” I ask.

“The blanket and slippers and stuff? Yeah, she’s been doing those crosswords all day. Asking me stuff like what movie won the Oscar in 2021, like I know that even if I’m not doped up on pain meds!” he gives another wheezy laugh.

“I’m glad she’s enjoying the gift basket.”

“How’s the bar gettin’ along? Philly got plenty of business?”

“More than enough. Receipts are on par with last month’s take, and Foz hasn’t been swamped or said anything about it.”

“Good, good,” he says, “Just checkin’ in. Thanks for taking over my job like I never thought I’d see a Marino man do, to stand in my spot,” he sounds emotional, and I want to throw the phone in the floor of my car and leave it behind.

“Don’t mention it,” I said, meaning it literally.

“Has there been any trouble? I wondered why you gotta go in every night?”

“I like to keep an eye on things, deter any troublemakers, you know, just by making my presence known.”

“That’s smart thinking. Thanks again for everything. I’ll be out tomorrow morning, and I can stop by and check in—”

“Don’t you even think about it. You try and show up before next Monday and I’ll have Foz change the locks on you,” I say firmly. “Get some rest, take your meds, and follow doctor’s orders.”

“Okay, okay, I see how it is,” he says fondly.

“I’m going to head on in, maybe look over the scheduling for next week. It’s gotta be past your bedtime,” I say gruffly.

I want to get off the phone and go inside. Not because I’m so fascinated by the spreadsheets, but because Serena Mayfield will be there waiting tables.

The reason I’m spending my nights at Bettino’s isn’t for the atmosphere, that’s for damn sure. It’s for the scenery and the few minutes of conversation that I have with the newest barmaid. She and Lisa get along fine. Lisa’s been there for years and so has Heather, the other full-timers.

They’re paid too good to have any complaints, and Ronnie keeps Vito or Ryan on the door every night in case there’s any trouble. Philly holds court at the big table in the back underneath the TV. He has his own muscle to carry the briefcase of money and manage any disagreements that might break out regarding the terms of a wager.

I take a seat at my spot, a table for two between the office and the bar. I can watch both exits and keep an eye out for what goes on around me. It’s quieter on that side of the room if you don’t count the scratchy background of Springsteen and Bon Jovi—the down-on-your-luck blue collar music from the eighties and nineties that appealed to this sad sack crowd.

As soon as I sit down, Foz clocks my appearance and gives me a nod. Though my table is in Lisa’s section, she just winks and moves on, knowing Serena will bring my drink. Just one, not a double and never a refill.

Serena leans over a table under the neon Bud sign. She’s talking to a woman sitting with Craig Barger. A barstool regular, but tonight he has on a clean shirt and took a table with the lady, so I guess it’s a date.

After Serena points toward the bathroom, she turns back and her gaze falls on me. Recognition clicks in her face and the warm smile she had given the customers recedes leaving an expression not quite of resignation but not quite anything better either.

“Water?” she asks me when she reaches the table.

Three nights in a row now she’s greeted me the same way. I give her the same answer. “Whiskey neat.”

We don’t exchange pleasantries. I don’t ask her how her day has been. She doesn’t smile at me, at least not at first. She’s wearing jeans tonight. Night one was the red dress and heels. The next two nights she wore a billowy skirt and tank top. Tonight, it’s down to jeans and a Jets shirt with flip flops. Her hair is pulled back, and I miss seeing it loose, miss the way she tucks it behind her ear when it falls across her face.

I tense at the memory. Four nights in a row I’ve gone home dead tired at two in the morning, wanting to sleep. Unable to fight the restless urge, I had to take my cock in hand and tame it to thoughts of Serena riding me, her hair wrapped around my hand as I drive into her. I wish I’d taken her up on the offer of water, because the slow burn of whiskey does nothing to cool my body.

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