Page 13 of The Barkeep and the Bro

“Congratulations, Charlie. I hope this works out for you.”

“Me, too. I barely got this job. I don’t want to fuck it up.” I gathered up the wrapping paper and brought it into the kitchen to throw away.

“That bar is like Mitch’s second child. He has high expectations.”

“He’s going to ride me hard.”

“Lucky.” Amos stopped himself. “Sorry. That comment’s for me, not you.”

Then why the hell did X-rated images of getting ridden by Mitch flash in my mind for a split second? Sexuality was something we were born with. Amos’s gayness couldn’t be rubbing off on me. That was scientifically impossible.

I thought.

I wasn’t totally sure. I was only a C student in science.

“The wrapping paper goes into the trash,” Amos explained to my pensive self as if I were three.

Except three-year-olds don’t think about what I just thought about.

Amos studied me for an extra moment. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

I pulled at my flannel and jeans. “Yeah?”

“You might get hot, especially if it’s busy. I’d just stick to a T-shirt or henley.”

I pointed my finger at him. “Amos, you are a next-level genius.”

I whipped off my flannel. I had on a black T-shirt underneath. I ran back to my room and threw on a dark green henley. It was a little tight and stretched across my chest. I worked out, and I was proud to put my hard work on display. I didn’t know if that’d be appropriate for Stone’s Throw. Mitch would have no qualms about letting me know.

I came back out and presented my new wardrobe to Amos. “Better?”

“Oh, yeah. That’ll probably help you get better tips, too.”

* * *

It wasa weird feeling being in a bar in the middle of the day. Most times, I only went to bars at night, and they were packed with bodies and music pouring out of the speakers.

Natasha unlocked the front door. “Hey there. Welcome to the island of misfit toys.”

“Happy to be here.” Even though I had on a coat, the winter chill seeped through.

We’d only talked briefly when I applied, but she seemed mad chill. She struck me as one of those girls who didn’t take shit from anyone and didn’t beat around the bush with what she was thinking.

“How was your weekend?”

“Ugh. Like a punch in the tit.”

Girls had told me how much that could hurt, like the female equivalent of a kick in the junk.

“Dang. What happened?”

“Here’s a tip for the next girl or guy you date: when she finally gets up the courage to say I love you, don’t respond with ‘Cool. You wanna get takeout?’”

Guys like those made my whole gender look like trash. That loser better not show his face around here. “Well, if you ever need to talk, I’m a bartender, so I’m great at listening.”

“You’re not a bartender yet,” Mitch said, descending the stairs. Seeing him again, I was struck by how imposing his frame was—his broad chest and height. I thought back to what Amos said, that this bar was his second child, and I better not fuck up.

I gulped back a nervous lump in my throat. “Morning, Mr. Dekker.”

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