Page 26 of Bidding War

JUNE

Ican’t believe I’m going to work a shift at my old bar again. And with Kelsey! I thought he’d sell the place or something. Bartending is a tough business to be in long-term, but I guess if it’s in your blood, you don’t quit. It’s not in my blood, but it’ll be fun and pay the bills for now. Right?

Doesn’t matter. I’m going to try it out for a night and see how things go.

Digging through my closet, I find a low-cut black blouse that will work. Bad for the weather, but perfect for increasing my tips. I go a little heavy-handed on the makeup because that’s what patrons like, especially after a few too many. Nothing garish, but a bright red lip and a little extra eye liner never hurt anybody.

Nervously, I stop for a triple espresso on my way in. I don’t want to be the one dragging the team down with my lack of energy. All the other bartenders are younger than me, and I’ll die of embarrassment if I’m the one slowing us down. I even slept in this morning just to be sure. Can’t disappoint Kelsey. He’s taking a chance on me, and I appreciate that a lot. Feels like no one else will.

Once I’m at the bar, though, it’s strange. I double knot my black half apron around my waist and get started taking orders, and it’s like I never left. At first, it’s after-work office workers—the martinis and vodka tonics crowd. Back in the day, they were a nice way to start a shift. Generally pretty mellow.

Then come the younger office workers. The ones who went home to freshen up before coming to the bar. In other words, the single businesspeople. No one is waiting at home for them, so they’d rather go out and try to hook up. It can be a rowdy crowd, but usually, they’re just good tippers who appreciate a drink special.

After that, it’s the college kids. Oh, so many college kids. They slow us down because checking IDs becomes more of a thing. Most are good about it, and the ones who aren’t are the ones we don’t want to stay. From behind the bar, I smile at one in particular when I keep a hold of his fake ID. “You’re forty-eight?”

His eyes nervously widen. “Uh, yeah. I know I look young for my age?—"

“That’s interesting because according to your license, you’re thirty-eight.”

“Um, uh, well, I’m bad at math.”

I snort a laugh at him. “That’s not all you’re bad at. Go on. Get out of here.”

“You can’t talk to me like that! I am thirty-eight?—"

But I motion for the bouncer to come by. “Tell it to Bruno.”

“I want to talk to the owner! Is he the owner?”

“I’m Bruno,” my favorite bouncer growls in his baritone voice.

When the kid turns around and sees a former footballer with forearms the size of his own thighs, he bolts out the door.

Bruno grins at me, and I smile back. “Thanks.”

“Anytime, Devlin.” He returns to his post by the door.

A dipshit at the end of the bar snaps his fingers at me. He’s been trying to impress his date by ordering wines he mispronounces, and she seems bored. I plaster a smile on and grumble to Kelsey. “Duty snaps.”

“Don’t be afraid to snap back.”

I nod and trot to the dipshit. “How’s the tempranillo?”

“It’s dry,” he says with a curling lip.

“Tempranillos are dry.”

“Well, I don’t like it. Too harsh on the palate. Bring me something better.”

“You got it.” Beneath the bar, we keep a bottle of Manischewitz to soak maraschino cherries in, so I pour him a glass of the soaked cherry juice. It’s the sweetest thing I have ever tasted in my life, like liquid candy. Generally appropriate punishment for people who annoy us. “Try this.”

He sips it, and his eyes light up. “This is excellent. What is it?”

Of course, he likes it. He has the palate of a teenager. The man ordered a well-done hamburger to go with his wine. To avoid him googling it correctly, I tell him, “Manisck-He-Wiss. It’s German. In fact, you might want to stick with German wines. A lot of them have a similar profile.”

“Thanks.”

Kelsey, having seen what transpired, asks, “Another happy customer, eh?”

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