Page 1 of Taming Waves

Audrey

“Hey, boss man, we need to sit down and go over the schedule,” I say with a yawn as Brew walks out of his office.

Brew, also known as Brewster Cartwright III, is the grandson of Brewster Cartwright Sr.—the billionaire CEO of Cartwright Motorsports and owner of Carolina Automotive LLC. They own over a dozen speedways nationwide and are heavily involved in stock car racing. Brew and his father, Brewster Jr., work for the family empire. Brew also owns Whiskey Joe’s, his passion project, which is a large country-themed bar and music venue just outside his hometown, Sandcastle Cove—an island off the eastern North Carolina coast.

Whiskey Joe’s began as a small restaurant and bar and offers pub-style lunch and dinner options—such as pizza, wings, and sliders—along with a comprehensive bar menu featuring thirty beers on tap and top-shelf spirits. Today, it has grown into the largest venue of its kind on the Carolina coast. Thanks to our dynamic owner, during the peak tourist season, which runs from Memorial Day to Labor Day, it attracts some of the country’s best bands.

I’ve worked for him since I graduated from high school a decade ago. I started as a cashier in the foyer, collecting the cover charge from patrons after dinner once a bouncer checked their IDs at the door. On my twenty-first birthday, I was promoted to a server, and by the time I turned twenty-two, Brew sent me to Raleigh for bartending school, where I received my mixology certification. I’ve been bartending ever since. Five years ago, I took over as the head bartender, and along with Van—the general manager—we manage the day-to-day operations while Brew is on the road for the lengthy NASCAR racing season, which keeps him busy for ten months each year.

Brew pauses in front of me. “It’s six a.m., Audrey. You need to go home and get some sleep,” he says.

From Wednesday to Sunday, last call is at one thirty in the morning, and the lights are turned on by two. We begin shutting down and cleaning as the patrons finish their drinks and slowly make their way out. I usually drag my exhausted self home around four, except on Sundays.

Because I come in early on Mondays—to review our liquor inventory, place the order with the distributor, and create the schedule for the bartending and serving staff for the following week—I typically take Sunday evenings off, usually heading home around nine after the dinner rush. At least, that’s the plan. However, being the head bartender means that I have to pick up the slack when we are understaffed. It’s now Monday morning, and I’ve been here since five o’clock yesterday evening.

I give Brew a weary smile. “I will as soon as we discuss this,” I say as I incline my head to the laptop in front of me.

He walks around to glance at the screen where I have this week’s schedule up. He looks it over, and his brow furrows. “You’ve got yourself working double shifts every day,” he points out.

“I know, and if we don’t hire someone and get them trained by this weekend, I’m afraid I’ll have to toss Van behind the bar.”

His eyes cut to me.

“Randy quit yesterday without giving notice. He took a job at his girlfriend’s dad’s company in Wilmington. Apparently, she was tired of him working nights and weekends. And we hadn’t yet filled Sara’s position,” I explain.

“Sara quit too?”

I shake my head. “No, but she transferred to the University of North Carolina this year, remember? She left for Chapel Hill on the first of September. She’ll work some hours when she’s home during breaks and holidays, but we’re down to one full-time bartender and me at this point.”

“Shit,” he mumbles as he rakes his hands over his face.

“I posted the job online before Sara left, and we have a few good candidates coming in this week to interview. However, we need to add another full-time position to the listing, and unfortunately, I’ll be needed behind the bar, so you or Van will have to handle the interviews.”

He shakes his head. “I have to be in Charlotte on Thursday, and I’ll be heading to Bristol, Tennessee from there,” he says.

I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and exhale slowly. When I open them, he turns to face me and clasps my shoulders reassuringly.

“I’ll take care of listing the job, and I’ll discuss setting up virtual interviews with Van while I’m on the road. I’ll get back down here as soon as I can. I’m sorry you will be spread so thin in the interim. I’ll talk to some of the local business owners before I leave and see if I can get any temporary help for you in the meantime. But right now, I need you to go home and get some sleep,” he demands.

“But this week’s order—” I begin.

He cuts me off, “I’ll call the order in. Go.”

I give him a grateful hug and grab my bag from behind the bar.

“I’ll see you on Wednesday morning,” I call behind me as I walk to the door.

The chill of the early fall morning envelops me as I slide sunglasses onto my face. I love this time of year. When the days grow shorter, so does the commute as the tourist season comes to a close. Don’t get me wrong; I love summers in Sandcastle Cove, but they go by in such a blur nowadays. I enjoy the slower pace and longer nights of the fall and winter. I’m nocturnal by nature, and I always have been. There’s just something about the calm of the wee hours when the rest of the world has settled in. I enjoy it. I like the ocean and beach bathed in moonlight and staying up to watch old black-and-white movies. It used to drive my mother up the wall, but it’s an excellent trait for someone in the bar business. I’m sure I’ll eventually want a job with better hours, but not today.

Luckily, my apartment is only a short drive across the Eastside Bridge onto the island. The small four-hundred-square-foot studio has a combined bedroom and kitchenette, along with a bathroom and a nice-sized walk-in closet that overlooks the wharf. The price is reasonable for the island, and the view is breathtaking. I don’t require more than a reading nook, and I eat most of my meals at the bar, so I don’t need a large kitchen and living room anyway. The space is cozy and perfect for my current lifestyle.

I pull into my covered parking space under my apartment and hit the button to bring the top up on my Audi A5.

I click the button on my fob to lock the car and make my way up the steps to the second level. Chester, my neighbor’s orange tabby cat, who likes to sunbathe on our adjoining stoop, greets me as I unlock my front door.

“Morning, Chest,” I coo as I bend and scratch the fat rascal behind the ear before entering.

Once inside, I toss my bag aside and faceplant onto the king-size bed. I need to throw a Pop-Tart in the toaster oven and take a shower, but all I can manage is curling my aching body into a ball.

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