Page 33 of The Love Losers

I’m not the only one who’s watching Anthony. He doesn’t seem to realize it yet, but he has quickly and seamlessly become the centerpiece of this bar—and all of the women who were murmuring complaints and shifting on their feet have stopped. There’s a change in the air as their discontent sweetens to anticipation.

And he has no clue.

I feel another tug of…need is really the only word for it. This man is complicated. He’s unexpected. He’s handsome in a way that creeps up on you and then coils around you, tightening until you can’t help but notice, and notice again, and then notice some more. And he’s probably about to get married to another woman.

Go figure. I’ve unintentionally dated two married men. Maybe there’s something hidden in my DNA that drives me to them, the way people have genes that give them cancer.

I’ve never been one to let the doldrums pull me down into the mud, though, so I get in there beside him, my shoes crunching on peanut shells. Behind the bar, Dom has the kind of setup you’d expect in a teenage boy’s bedroom, from a box full of snacks to a pair of discarded socks, a handheld video-game console, and two sacks of peanuts.

“Oh, thank God,” he mutters as he makes room for us. “I flew too close to the sun. The last time I saw this many unhappy women was when I went speed-dating.”

I hear Anthony’s muffled laugh, and I shoot a conspiratorial glance at him, which he returns.

He may not be a crowd-pleasing type who performs for strangers, but when he’s allowed to be himself without study…it’s a beautiful thing. And I’m glad I’ve been given a backstage pass to see it, even if it’s only for a short time.

“What’ve you got for us to work with?” Anthony asks Dom, giving a serious glance to the dusty bottles of alcohol lined up on the shelves next to the beer taps. “Do you have any grenadine? Citrus fruit?”

“Uh…” Dom scratches his head again. “There are some shriveled oranges in the mini-fridge. I think maybe the last guy who worked here bought them.”

“When did you take the job?” Anthony asks, watching him with suspicion.

Dom keeps scratching. “Oranges last a long time.”

“Okay, so no citrus fruit.” Anthony looks through the bottles, his hand glancing off the glass necks.

I’m staring at him, soaking him in, and so is everyone else. The murmuring has started up again, but it sounds more positive.

“You know how to mix a drink?” I whisper to him.

He looks down at me, his face inches away, his beard tempting. I want to pull it. I want to feel it rub between my thighs. I’m a woman entirely without reason. It’s this night—there’s a weird alchemy at play, between this bar, suddenly crowded, and this man, a prince in disguise. “I’ve been mixing cocktails for my mother since I was a teenager,” he says with a glimmer of amusement. “I can muddle through.”

And he does. It’s obvious he’s not comfortable with the attention he’s given, or the phone numbers that get slipped across the counter to him and, in one case, written onto a five-dollar-bill used to tip him, but he mixes a fine drink. I mowthrough five pieces of strawberry gum while I watch him and occasionally assist.

Most of the women don’t stay long. After all, the bar’s a dirty, dumpy dive, Anthony is gracious but not particularly receptive to flirtation, Gene is zoned out in the best booth in the bar, and Dom looks like he’s about five seconds away from a stress-induced panic-attack or explosive diarrhea. Even so, it’s probably more business than this place has gotten in months, and I feel a swell of satisfaction that’s soured by the knowledge that it might end up being a last hurrah.

If Anthony gets his trust fund, this building—and the bar—will be bulldozed.

After the last customer leaves, Dom heaves the sigh of a tri-athlete at the end of a race and slaps the dish towel he’s had slung over his shoulder onto the bar. “Well, goddamn. If this wasn’t a case of be careful what you wish for… Who’d like to get baked?”

I glance at Anthony, eyebrows raised. “Is that going on your list too?”

He laughs a little. “What? You don’t think I’ve ever smoked pot before?”

“It’s a little hard to imagine, yes,” I say. “Is that why you had to clean all those floors at your house?”

“One of the reasons. I’m a bit of an expert at cleaning floors by now.”

“No takers?” Dom asks.

I shake my head.

“No, thank you,” Anthony says, which has to be the most polite rejection of cheap skunk in history.

Dom gives a “suit yourself” shrug and looks beyond us. “Gene?”

Gene, who’s been asleep, more or less, for the last hour, stirs in his booth. “Change isn’t always good,” he grumbles. “Some gal tried to steal my seat when I went to the can.”

Dom makes a gesture indicating the back room, and Gene sighs as if it’s another imposition, and gets up to follow him back there, the two of them leaving Anthony and me alone with a mess.

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