Page 16 of The Associate

“No,” he said. A good idea, though, if ever his company greenlit a project to film on this side of the ocean. “If you haven’t already guessed, the ailing owner of this pub is my father.”

“I see. I’m sorry about your dad.” Joe drifted over to the bar and eased onto one of the middle stools. Conor slipped around to meet him face to face. “So you’re a locations manager and a bartender. Quite a Renaissance man there.”

Conor twined his fingers and rested them on the polished counter between them. “My parents started this place before I was born. It is their legacy. I worked summers here as a teenager, until I left for school.” He looked over Joe’s head to the framed photos on the opposite wall. “So many memories here, and not just belonging to me and my family,” he added. “Da hosted wakes for old friends, and more than a few couples got engaged here.”

He pointed to the back corner booth. “One summer my da saw a woman hiding in that booth behind a drinks menu. She had barely enough to buy a soda, and he took pity on her. Turned out she’d run away from her abusive husband, left everything behind to save her life. Da hired her on the spot, and she waited tables until the day he collapsed.”

“Holy shit.” Joe exhaled, as though trying to whistle.

“Yeah. Few people knew her story. Maybe that’s changed in the last few years, since she’s far removed from that nightmare and more comfortable telling it.” Conor side-glanced the taps. Tempted to treat Joe to a beer, he held back. Lonnegan’s needed paying customers, but he could put his own money into the till this one time.

“If so, I ain’t heard it.”

Hell with it.Conor wanted a drink, and a ten-dollar bill burned in his wallet. He pulled two cold pint glasses from the underbar cooler and gestured to Joe with one. “That’s Hugh Malloy in a nutshell,” Conor said after Joe nodded his thanks. He poured Irish stouts for each of them and gave Joe the glass with the lighter head. “He never met a stranger, and if ever he were down to his last dollar he’d find a way to give you two more.”

“Malloy.” Joe stared at the thick layer of tan foam floating atop his dark beer. “Your dad.”

“I wasn’t a hundred percent honest with you,” Conor said. “Jacob’s my middle name. I didn’t think we’d run into each other again.” Not that he didn’t wish for it. “I’m not much for nightlife like JT’s, and Da’s more than sick. He’s set up in home hospice, so it’s only a matter of time.”

“I’m sorry about that, and it’s okay.” Joe raised his glass and Conor tapped his to it before drinking. After a long pull, Joe said, “You never owed me your story, though I appreciate you telling it. Assuming you had a good time last night—”

“I did,” Conor cut in. He leaned back and stretched, catching Joe’s appreciative stare as the hem of his shirt popped upward to reveal a flash of his tummy. “I was reluctant to go out at all, and my father scolded me from his deathbed.” That earned him a laugh, and he added, “It helped that there was something to look forward to on the other side of the river.”

Joe eyed him over the rim of his glass. Conor saw the thin line of beer foam coating Joe’s upper lip and longed to lick him clean. He hadn’t known the man a full day, and yet Conor sensed an aura about him that gave him comfort. Words poured out of him with ease, whereas in the past Conor had trodden with care when getting to know potential partners. Joe was supposed to be a one-night fling, however.

He studied Joe’s eyes, a color that fell in the spectrum between the rich dark brown of the stout and the lightness of the dissolving foam. A lovely amber like the liquor in the many bottles shelved behind them. Beautiful and, like whiskey, addictive.

“I don’t intend to dump my problems on you,” he told Joe. “My parents understood that I had no interest in taking over Lonnegan’s, and they were supportive in my career choices. It’s why I’m compelled to take over for a while, you know? Give back.”

“So, what? You’re quitting your job and moving home?”

Lord help him, Conor read Joe’s expression as hope. “It’s complicated,” he said. He liked Joe, and wanted to spare him the horrible truth. No sense in getting any more people entangled in this Mafia mess. “Basically, my parents need to make…reparations, and I thought if I kept the pub open while they focused on my father’s health, I could solve one problem.”

“Makes sense, I think. You don’t have to say anything more if it’s personal.” Joe was down to half a glass when a pair of men walked in. They spotted Conor behind the bar and their faces brightened. Regulars, Conor guessed, old enough to have remembered his summer nights wiping down tables. He called for them to have a seat anywhere and he’d be right over.

Thethunkof Joe’s glass touching the bar brought his attention back to the handsome Sicilian hunched in his stool. Joe turned up his lip in a charming smile and lowered his eyelids. “I suppose this means you’re busy tonight.”

“Trust me.” Conor closed the distance between them, sensing the faintest connection made at the tips of their noses. “I’d take another roll in the backseat of your car over this anytime. But duty calls, and all that.”

“I wish I could help you out. I’ll pay for the beer, at least. Yours, too.”

More customers filed in, approaching the bar. Chatter increased in volume, happy noises celebrating the reopening of their favorite hangout. Promising, but Conor foresaw his exhaustion.

“Actually,” he said to Joe, “are you free the rest of the day?”

* * * *

He must have been out of his fucking mind to say yes.

The one-two punch of Conor’s pleading aquamarine eyes and his cock-stroking accent had Gio conscripted into service before his brain sent the signal to rein in his hormones. Conor showed him a small room in the back where Lonnegan’s former staff kept their personal belongings, and Gio took care in wrapping his gun and holster in his blazer before shoving everything into a locker.

All the while he took orders from the floor, served drinks and wiped down spills, he convinced himself to file this night away as practice for when the San Gaetanos took possession of Lonnegan’s and put him in charge. If they wanted him to operate the bar, he might as well learn the business from the lowest position upward, right? Wasn’t that the playbook of most self-made CEOs?

Conor Jacob, his sweet redhead conquest, was Hugh Malloy’s son. Conor JacobMalloy.What were the fucking odds? Gio surveyed his stations, watching pairs and groups converse over various libations and bowls of pretzel sticks. He ought to have guessed at the man’s identity last night when he’d caught Conor staring into the empty pub. In retrospect, his wasn’t the expression of a disappointed visitor in want of a drink. He had already started mourning his father and his childhood.

Seeing Conorinsidethe pub had been a shock to the system, confusing Gio’s body. Don Salvatore and Aldo expected him to convince Conor to hand over the place.

He watched Conor chat with a gray-haired woman on the stool in front of the taps. The man’s smile and fluid movement seemed natural. Conor didn’t have to consult his phone or a bartender’s manual when people ordered cocktails, either. He free poured into copper shakers and filled conical glasses with finesse. Damn it if he didn’t belong behind that bar.

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