Page 28 of Burn Bright
“Just honest.” I try to get out a nasty chunk stuck between two strands, and for a better grip, I slip my fingers from her shoulder up to the soft nape of her neck and into her silky hair. I’m holding the side of her head, and I try not to concentrate on the warmth of her against my palm. Or how she careens back toward my chest, closing in on me. Her breath deepens like she’s on the ascent of a rollercoaster, and I have the sudden urge to pull her into my body and wrap my arms around her in a vise.
It looks like she could use a hug. A million questions swarm me at once. Like whether she’s ever been held. Does she even like being hugged?
“Is it out?” she asks, her voice husky.
My cock twitches in my jeans.Fuck.“Yeah, almost.” For her sake, I finish pretty fast, but I have to drench more of her hair with water. The back of her head is wet when I’m done. So I take off my baseball cap and fit it on her head. It’s huge on her, so I tighten the back strap, pulling the fabric through a metal clasp.
Good enough. “There you go. Bird shit free.”
Harriet spins around, the brim of my hat totally concealing her eyes from me. I push it up and see her murderous scowl.
I laugh. “I really hope this is the absoluteworstthing that’s ever happened to you.”
“Far from it,” she notes, a smile fighting its way through her beautiful features.
I tilt my head in thought, hoping she is just joking with me. “What’s worse than being shit on before our big interview?”
She shrugs, her smile disappearing, and I almost regret asking. Then she nods to me, “You’re really going in there without a shirt?” She watches me stuff my dirty tee in my back pocket.
I shrug back at her. “Why not?” At this, I enter the bar, and Harriet follows with more intrigue. She never takes off my hat.
6
BEN COBALT
Ihave no experience in bartending. Neither does Harriet, and even though we’re not twenty-one yet and can’t legally drink, it’s legal for us to serve alcohol in New York.
Gavin, the bar manager, is a copper-haired, thirtysomething around Novak’s age. He has a body as thin as a pencil and a mustache-goatee combo like he should be hosting a poetry slam and not taking wooden chairs off the scuffed tables before the bar opens at six.
“Ben Cobalt, you really showed up,” Gavin says with a lopsided, silly grin like he just struck gold.
“In thebareflesh,” I joke and motion to my chest. “Bird shit on me. You wouldn’t believe it, man.”
He laughs. “You’re kidding?”
“Deadass. Though if it helps me get the job, then maybe I should thank the little bird.” I peer down at Harriet.
She scrunches her nose at me, but her cheeks pinch like she’s a teeny-tiny fraction of a second from a smile. It morphs into a full-blown scowl when Gavin appraises her head to toe.
Fire roars in my chest as he lingers too long on her tits.
“This is Harriet Fisher,” I cut in, drawing his attention back to me. “We’re applying together.”
He nods. “And who’s that?” He juts a thumb toward the stoic guy posted at the door.
“Chris Novak. He’s my bodyguard. He won’t get in the way, but he’ll be around if I’m here.”
“Personal security detail. That’s fucking badass, man.” He slaps a hand to the bar, going around the counter to pluck off a pint glass from the shelf. “So this is the End of the World.” He motions around the space. “It’s small but a stubborn old bitch. Been here for decades, but I’ve been running things for the owner for the past eight years. Terry is retired and just kicks back in his brownstone. He’ll pop in for a whiskey sour from time to time, but he lets us do whatever, whenever.”
I can see why this place has survived since the ’80s. Ripped up magazines cover the plastered walls in a hodgepodge of ads and torn articles like we’re in a teenager’s bedroom during grunge days of Nirvana and Stone Temple Pilots. It has warmth and charm with several weathered vinyl booths, bumper-sticker vandalized tables, and a projector screen over a brick wall playingBreakfast at Tiffany’s.
Gavin catches me staring as an orange cat paws at a sleeping Audrey Hepburn who wears an iconic turquoise eye-mask. My stomach tightens seeing my little sister’s namesake.
“Movies play every day of the week,” he explains. “It’s the only requirement Terry has. And they all need to have onething in common.”
“What’s that?” Harriet asks.
“All the films are set in New York.”
