Page 2 of The Cartographer

Oh, for fuck’s sake, did he have to saysir? If I hadn’t wanted to pin him over the bar and fuck him senseless already, that would do it. God have mercy on my damned soul. Though, who am I kidding? I’ll have so much more fun in hell, being the fucking cruise director of the River Acheron. “I don’t want an apology.”

I lean across the bar and school my features. It wouldn’t be the worst idea in the world to get this guy on his knees in the alley behind the bar after he finishes his shift, would it? “I want a name.”

“Name’s Hart. I’ll make you another one.”

I want to laugh, but his earnestness curbs my less charitable instincts. I do, however, let my eyebrow kick up. “I’d rather you didn’t, actually. Besides, you’re going to have your hands full in approximately ten seconds.”

He glances over his shoulder at the swarm that’s about to hit the other end of the bar before looking back at me, hopeless.

“Go on.”

How quickly this happens. Sometimes. Not all the time. Maybe too much of the time. I came here not to be responsible for anyone, not to have another person’s wants and needs heavy in my hands, and already I find myself giving permission. While a break wouldn’t be a bad thing, I can’t bemoan my lot in life. Who am I kidding? I fucking love it. It’s really goddamn good to be me.

Hart. I should’ve asked for a first name. Time enough.

I watch as he struggles to juggle the dozen orders getting slurred at him, and I want to beat the horde back, force them into a neat, orderly queue that will have some fucking manners.Ask him nicely, savages.Instead, I wait. But when a glass shatters to the floor because he’s too overwhelmed to pay attention to where he’s left things, I can’t help myself.

I shuck my suit coat, strip off my tie, roll up my sleeves, and vault over the bar. Coming up behind Hart, I grip his arm. He’s got a couple of inches on me and probably about thirty pounds of pure muscle. It’s a joy to feel his biceps flex under my touch. I’d like to harness that power, have it be mine. His secrets too. Whatever weakness is lurking under all that power. Tender nerves I’d like to expose and then soothe.

“What’s the order?”

Confusion muddles his face, and he looks at me like I’m a nut job.Just you wait, Hart. You have no idea what else I’m going to ask you for.

“Tell me the order and I can help you.”

“Three Hoegaardens, two cosmos, and an appletini. More coming.”

I can’t help but roll my eyes, but this should be no problem. “I’ll get the cocktails, you get the beers.”

When I haven’t been staring at Hart, I’ve taken inventory of the bar, so it’s not hard to find what I need and shake up the trite cocktails. I bet they order the same damn thing at every bar they go to, and they’re not even good. If you can trust the bar, order one of the house cocktails. Always. If you can’t, go with a classic. Which is what I thought I’d been doing, but I should’ve gone with a gin and tonic. Even Hart shouldn’t be able to mess that up; name’s on the tin.

Hart’s handed over the bottles, and I pass him the cash and cards to deal with while I take orders from the rest of the swarm. Two lemon drops, three Stellas, a G&T, and a long, slow screw up against a wall for a woman who is trying far too hard to attract the attention of some moron with her risqué drink order.

I mix the orders, pass them over, get lost in the easy rhythm of it. I’m not Matthew, who’s a genius behind the bar, but I manage well enough. While Hart’s finishing up at the register, I dump the hideous concoction he’d made and make myself an actual Manhattan and sip at it.

When he turns and sees me leaning up against the bar, he laughs. “Thank you. You’re drinking on the house for the rest of the night.”

I nod, knowing this is the only one I’ll have. Have to get home to my Matthew, and I don’t want to be sloshed when I do. Also, there’s the possibility I’ll get a phone call from India and have to go straight back to Kona, and flying blitzed is no fun.

“So tell me what you’re doing here, Hart. You’re not a bartender.”

His mouth turns up in a wry half-smile. “That obvious, huh?”

“You can’t make a classic cocktail, your ice is running way low, and you couldn’t manage a handful of orders at one time. No way. So tell me, what are you doing here?”

“A favor.”

His voice changed when he answered, gotten somber, serious. Who is he protecting?

“For who?”

“My sister.”

“Younger?”

“Yeah.” The way he can’t meet my eyes when he says it and how his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat with a hard swallow makes me wonder.

“She in trouble?”

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