Page 7 of Beneath Your Beautiful
He scowled. “Bartenders stay late. Anywhere from two to four in the morning. Those are dangerous times.”
“I live really close. Only a fifteen-minute walk from here, so it’s no big—”
“Walk?” He looked horror-struck, as if I’d suggested jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge. “You’re not walking anywhere at that time of night.”
“Fine. I’d take a taxi. You can’t discriminate against me just because I’m female.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but I rushed in before he got the chance to shoot me down.
“If someone…you…just gave me a chance, I know I’d be good at bartending.”
He shook his head. “You don’t have any experience?” he asked, sounding exasperated.
“No. But I took a course. And I’ve worked a lot of jobs in the service industry. I was a server for a while, and I know how to use a register. I’m good with people. I’m reliable. Punctual. A hard worker. And I’m not usually such a klutz. I have no idea how that happened.”
“It’s the road.” He whipped out his phone and typed something into it. “I’ll take care of it.” I got the feeling this guy could take care of anything. I imagined him calling and giving the city hell about the pothole on the road.
“Let me work for one night. If it doesn’t work out, you can just ask me to leave. You have nothing to lose.” I flashed him a big smile. He didn’t look impressed, but I wasn’t above begging. I really wanted to work here. Out of all the bars I’d visited, my gut feeling told me this was the right one for me. “Everyone needs to start somewhere, right? I’m just asking for a chance. Please.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-two. How old are you?”
“I’m not looking for a job.”
He was more man than boy, and he didn’t look old, but he didn’t look young either. If I had to guess, he was probably my brother Garrett’s age. “Twenty-six?”
“Twenty-seven in August,” he said, unwilling to acknowledge I’d been right. He was still twenty-six and wouldn’t be twenty-seven for another two months. “Are you in college?”
“I just graduated from Penn State in May.”
“What do you do in your free time?” he asked.
Was this an interview or was he just making small talk? He didn’t strike me as a small talk kind of guy. “Since I moved to Brooklyn, I’ve been checking out the neighborhoods. Taking photos. And visiting art galleries. I run every day. And I draw and paint.” I wasn’t sure why I said that. Iusedto draw and paint, but it had been six months since I’d picked up a pencil or paintbrush.
“Which artists do you like?” He tilted his head, as if the answer really mattered to him.
I didn’t know what kind of answers he was looking for, or how this had anything to do with bartending. “I like Picasso. Especially his Blue Period. Frida Kahlo. Willem de Kooning. Rodin’s sculptures. And the street art and graffiti in Brooklyn.”
I stared at the black and grey inked tattoos on his left arm. I’d add them to my list of art I liked. Intricate designs, interwoven with thick swirls and chains. A shield of armor on his upper arm. An anatomical heart and dagger. A Celtic cross. A banner trailing down his forearm, with words written in script. Not English. Latin? I wanted to know what it said and meant to him.
“Why should I take a chance on you?” he asked, reminding me of the reason I came here in the first place.
I dragged my gaze back to his face. God, he was gorgeous. His face was a study in symmetry. My fingers itched to hold a charcoal pencil so I could sketch him.
“I’m looking for a fresh start.” Something like recognition flickered in his eyes, but it was so fleeting, I might have imagined it. “That’s why I moved to Brooklyn.”
“By yourself?” he asked.
I nodded.
“That’s brave.”
I wasn’t sure about the brave part. So far, it was lonely. And a lot harder than I’d expected. “I really need this job. Brooklyn is expensive. And I can’t go home. I just…can’t.”
He studied my face, and I wondered what he saw there.
“These are the rules. Number one: don’t lie to me. Number two: don’t steal from me. You ring up every drink you serve. You don’t give free drinks to your friends. Number three: no drugs. If you break any of my rules, you’re out. Got a problem with anything I said?”
