Bartender with Benefits

by Mickey Miller

  “If they didn’t before, they damn well do now. You can hear that motorcycle of yours for miles in all directions.”

  “Oh, right,” I say, and rake a hand through my hair as I stare down the front door.

  As I’ve built my fortune over the past decade, the element of surprise has come to be one of my favorite weapons. Usually it works in my favor, because most people have no idea what to make of me. Am I a suit? A country boy?

  Nobody knows.

  Hell, sometimes I don’t even know myself. Although I’m Blackwell born and bred, I have enough attitude that I tend to do just as well with those city sharks. Which is fine, because I have to deal with a lot of assholes in my line of work.

  “So where’s this Brett guy? He heard me roll up, and he’s just gonna cower in the house all the same?” I scoff.

  “Uh, Sebastian, Brett is a—”

  “Clown who wouldn’t know a good deal if it hit him in the face,” I cut him off as we traipse together to the front door. “I know. I feel you. Sometimes it just takes the Boss’s presence to help a man understand what a good deal he’s getting.”

  John seems like he’s got some other bullshit on the tip of his tongue—as usual, since he’s a chatty sales type—but I’m not about to listen to any more of his excuses on this piece.

  He lost the deal. Now I’m swooping in to close the deal. Simple as that.

  Once we take the few steps up onto the porch, I reach for the old-fashioned knocker on the door, but before I do, the door swings open.

  And a girl in a Blackwell University baseball cap answers.

  She’s so gorgeous, I have to fight to keep my jaw from dropping.

  Strands of long blonde hair fall to her shoulders, her hair is a golden hue that nearly matches the yellow “B” of her hat. She’s short—five feet tall maybe. And I can’t stop staring.

  “Hi, there,” she says in a thick rural Blackwell accent. It’s a little bit of southern, a little midwestern, and a lot of sweet and sexy sounding. “Can I help y’all?”

  I swallow. Her eyes are a deep sea blue. She’s got on denim short shorts, boots, and a white t-shirt. Dirty blonde hair falls just past her shoulders.

  John says something like he’s about to butt in, but I cut him off.

  “Hello, Miss. I’m looking for Brett Blue. Is he available?”

  I look over at John, and he’s got a frightful expression on his pale face. Like all the blood has run out. He starts to say something, but I shoot him the look of death and he shuts his mouth.

  The lovely lady cocks her head to the side a little and puts her hands on her hips, like she’s amused. She turns her head a little, like she’s going to call out the name to her household.

  Behind her, going along the staircase, there’s a shotgun hanging on the wall.

  Damn. Doesn’t get any more Blackwell than that.

  With a devious smirk, she turns her head back toward me. “Hi. I’m Brett Blue. Now what can I help you with?”

  My skin tingles and my heart flips. I flash a close-lipped smile.

  I look her up and down, then turn to John.

  “This is Brett?”

  He shrugs. “Yeah. This is Brett.”

  I whip my glance back around, my eyes wide.

  This girl is the one who’s preventing me from completing my dominion west of Blackwell?

  If she’s two inches over five feet tall, I’d be surprised. She aims her chin toward me.

  Her gorgeous chin.

  “Can I help you?” she asks bitingly, raising an eyebrow.

  “Yes ma’am,” I say. “My name’s Sebastian Blackwell. How are you today?”

  I extend a hand, but she doesn’t budge.

  “I know who you are.”

  “Oh, good to hear. Would you mind if I come in? It’s awfully hot outside.”

  I smile the same charming smile that helped me close my first deal, and every deal thereafter. She pauses and tosses her hair, not saying anything.

  Even though she doesn’t say anything, I move to step inside.

  Rule number one of closing a deal: Assume the sale.

  “Na ah ah,” she says as she presses her palm against my chest, stopping me from entering. She’s stronger than I thought she’d be. “I didn’t say come in.”

  “But you didn’t say no,” I argue. “Where’s your Blackwell hospitality, anyway?”

  She chuckles a little, unflustered. “Now look here, Mr. Blackwell. Hospitality is something I give very freely. But not to men who want to come inside my house without even making their true intentions known. You want to buy this place. You want to close the deal that your little assistant couldn’t.”

  I hesitate. This girl clearly has a no-bullshit tolerance. What else is a guy to do? I tell her the truth.

  “Fine. You know why I’m here, so why don’t I just put all my cards on the table. I want to buy this house. And this property. You’ve sold most of the acreage. Why not just finish it off?”

  She holds her smile and cocks her head a little, her hair jostling to the side. “Let me ask you something. Do you see a ‘For Sale’ sign in front of the place?”

  I take a deep breath. “No. But--”

  “Glad you understand. My grandfather built it with his bare hands. It’s staying in the family.”

  “How much did John here offer you?” I ask.

  She keeps her lips locked tightly, and my heart starts to hammer.

  I can’t tell if it’s because I might actually lose a deal for once, or because Brett Blue is the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.

  And there’s just something about seeing her in her natural element, with a baseball cap, in boots and short shorts that has me thinking about things I should never consider with a client I’m buying from.

  Or should I say potential client.

  “How much?” I repeat.

  “You know what, it doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t sell this place for a million bucks. Have a nice day you two. And don’t come back. Else I might be forced to take that thing off the wall.”

  “What thing?” John butts in.

  Brett smiles and shoots a glance behind her at the shotgun.

  “Have a nice day, gentlemen.”

  She slams the door in my face.

  2

  Brett

  I shut the door when the two men leave and take a deep breath. I lean against the door, my heart thumping like a tribal drum.

  What the hell just happened?

  Did I really just tell off the richest man in Blackwell?

  I’m about to set my mug on the coffee table, but I hesitate when I see this year’s edition of Forbes Thirty Under Thirty richest people list.

  And guess who is on the cover?

  Sebastian Blackwell, that cocky asshole.

  He was expecting a man. He apparently didn’t even remember me from my first job, years ago.

  I sure as hell remember him.

  I thumb through the magazine and read the blurb about him.

  Sebastian Blackwell

  The small town, homegrown businessman is famously known as the “Blue Collar Billionaire.” Born into a poor family in the small town of Blackwell, he made his first million in his early twenties. After high school, with nothing but the work ethic his dad instilled in him and a one-way bus ticket, he moved to an oil boom town. In Louisiana, he worked eighteen-hour days of hard labor as a hand. He even claimed that for months at a time he would sleep on friends’ couches or the streets to save every penny. After that, he moved back to his hometown and made a series of investments, each one more spectacular than the last, and was an early investor in cryptocurrencies. His net worth is estimated to be close to three billion.

  So what are his next moves? Mr. Blackwell says he wants to take on an ambitious schedule of constructing both a world-class ranch and a distillery in the land around his hometown, Blackwell. He says it will bring jobs back to the area and restore the heartland.

  I hear my mom’s steps, as sh
e traipses down the stairs. “Who was it, honey?” she asks, her voice raspy, as she’s still waking up.

  “No one,” I croak. “Just some traveling salesman.”

  “A traveling salesman?” she asks as she gets to the bottom of the stairs. “What were they selling?”

  “Rugs,” I say quickly, the first thing that comes to mind.

  “Rugs?” she parrots. “Well, we could use a good rug in the living room to tie the place together.”

  My mom’s voice is soft and kind, but she still seems out of it.

  She hasn’t been the same since my dad passed away earlier this year.

  Neither have I.

  “But honey, you know we don’t have the money for rugs. Oh dear me, you didn’t buy one, did you?”

  “No, Mom.” I swallow. “I know that money’s tight.”

  A woosh of butterflies overtake my stomach.

  “We’ll make it honey,” she smiles warmly, and her optimism is contagious.

  “I know,” I say, and resign myself to the fact that the little thing that happened this morning will have to go into the category of ‘what Mama doesn’t know, doesn’t hurt Mama.’

  “But honey, there is something I need to tell you. Why don’t we take a seat on the couch?”

  “Alright. Would you like coffee? I made some already this morning.”

  “Of course.”

  I join my mother on the couch in our living room, and hand her the hot mug. Even in the dead of summer, she’s always been the type of person who prefers her liquid hot.

  “Honey, I’ve been meaning to share something with you. I should have told you months ago, but with everything that happened...I just couldn’t find the right moment.”

  My face tightens, and worry pulses through me. The blood in my veins feels cold. My mom is rarely serious.

  Much less when it’s barely nine a.m. on a Tuesday.

  “Your father, you know he had some debts after his treatment.”

  “Well yeah, of course.”

  Mama closes her eyes and nods. She tips her chin up and looks up toward the ceiling, like she’s searching for something invisible.

  She takes my hands in hers. “Since I didn’t have enough to pay them a lump sum, I’ve been making monthly payments. The hospital has us on a payment plan for all of his treatments, but we still owe three thousand a month for the next two years. The longer we wait, the more we owe.”

  “Are you serious? That’s bullshit! They can’t do that!”

  She nods, and a tear drop slowly heads down her cheek.

  “They can, and they are doing it.”

  My jaw drops and my heart feels like it wants to jump out of my throat.

  I take a deep breath. “It’ll be okay, Mom.”

  She starts to cry outwardly. I join her.

  All of a sudden, I have the worst feeling in the world.

  I could have sold the place and our problems would have been solved.

  The question remains in my mind, though.

  Why does Sebastian Blackwell so badly want the Blue Estate?

  It’s only sixty acres. The man is so rich he could buy the moon if he wanted…

  Right?

  “So we won’t be buying rugs any time soon,” she says.

  I nod. “I get it. No rugs any time soon. Now I’m gonna head out and get some work done.”

  Later that day, after I’ve spent some time taking care of things on our farm and had dinner with my mother and little sister, I head up to my room.

  It’s interesting to be twenty-three years old and still living in your childhood room. There’s something as comforting about it as there is confining.

  After my father got sick, I had to drop out from my junior year in college to be at home with the family. It was just something I had to do, but now I’m a twenty-three-year old girl with two and half years of school and no degree.

  And that doesn’t get you much around here.

  Come to think of it, nothing gets you much of a job around here anymore. Ever since the Maytag plant that employed thousands of people moved its operations to Mexico, there really hasn’t been much of anything here.

  I chuckle to myself. Except, of course, Blackwell Industries. It’s the only well-known employer for miles.

  I sigh, realizing I’ve been staring at my computer screen and spacing out for a couple of minutes.

  I refocus and do a Google search for ‘jobs you can get without a college degree.’

  That brings up a bunch of click-baity looking articles. I click on the first link, and unfortunately it requires that I move to Los Angeles.

  I click the second. New York.

  The third. Wisconsin.

  I try my search again. This time, I put, ‘jobs you can get without a college degree in Blackwell.’

  At the top of the page, there’s an ad for Blackwell Industries. Curious, I click, and read.

  Seeking: Sales Rep for West Blackwell Rep County. No degree required. Base salary 30k + incentives. Apply digitally by sending resume.

  A glimmer of hope comes over me for a moment, and I wonder.

  Could I make it as a sales rep?

  No. That’s silly. I’m a farm girl through and through. I could never do some stuffy sales job.

  An ice-cold chill runs through my veins, as I remember how high and mighty I got this morning.

  What on Earth was I thinking, telling Sebastian freaking Blackwell off like that?

  Am I insane for what I did?

  No. My father would be proud of me for sticking to my principles.

  All the money in the world doesn’t mean a man is happy, he used to say. Money--that’s just paper.

  Just paper indeed. But when you owe a few thousand a month, it sure feels a lot like indentured servitude.

  Blackwell Industries has an easy as can be submission process. Since I already have my resume mostly ready, I tweak it and then hit submit.

  I sigh. Somehow, I feel like I’ll have to submit twenty resumes just to get one response back for an interview.

  I click the ‘back’ button, and see what other queries my search result has brought up.

  One article is interesting, but sorry, I won’t be moving to an oil boomtown.

  I click on another, for a maid in the local hotel.

  Also a Blackwell Industries hotel job.

  Shoot, I’m glad I didn’t cave to that monster of a man, even if he offered me a ton of money. It’s like he owns the entire freaking town.

  I click and scroll to the second page of Google, always a clear sign of my desperation.

  How am I going to even put a dent in my father’s unpaid medical bills, and keep the credit collectors from coming after our house?

  I see a curious headline, and I can’t help but be intrigued.

  How I Quit My Job and Became a Romance Writer.

  It’s some obscure blog that I’ve never heard of. There’s not even a real name to go along with the site.

  I glance to the shelf beside my bed, the one keeping my journals I used to write in every night.

  When I click on the article, the author claims they were able to quit their full-time job at a restaurant and make almost as much money by writing romance novels.

  Well hello.

  I like writing.

  And I like romance.

  Why not give it a try?

  What would I even write about?

  Shoot, I haven’t had any romance in my life since Patrick.

  And as all my friends know, Patrick is the one who shall now never be named or brought up, after what he did to me.

  Still, I read through the article, and I wonder if I could ever write a book some day. When I was nine, I wrote a bucket list. It had three things on it and was titled “My Three Goals in Life.”

  -Own a hot tub

  -Eat lots of peaches

  -Write a book

  What’s the worst that could happen if I at least tried to write something?

  “Really, Br
ett?” I whisper. “You’re going to write a bestselling romance novel? You haven’t even been on a date in over a year. Where would you find your inspiration?”

  With the stress of my dad being in the hospital for so long, I didn’t have much time for a boyfriend. Plus, I always think about how my father always said no boy will be good enough for me. But thinking about the pickings lately in Blackwell, I have to say I agree. They are slim.

  Still, I can come up with a story. I’m sure of it. I’ve got imagination for days.

  I’m startled when my cell phone buzzes on my desk.

  I pick it up. I don’t recognize the number.

  “Hello?”

  “May I please speak with Miss Blue?” says a woman’s voice on the other end.

  “Speaking.”

  “My name is Fiona Marshall. I’m with Blackwell Industries. How are you this evening?”

  My heart about jumps up through my neck. They’re calling me back already?

  “I’m well, and you?”

  “Just fine. I’m going to cut to the chase. You applied for a position in sales at Blackwell Industries today, did you not?”

  “Yes, I did,” I say. Barely a freaking half hour ago.

  “Excellent. Well, we’d like for you to come to our headquarters for an in-person interview.”

  I swallow. “Al-already?” I silently curse the fact that I just stuttered. Confidence, Brett.

  “Yes. How is tomorrow at eight a.m.?”

  I blink, and my vision drifts off to the street, where a sole black Lincoln Town Car is passing through the street. It looks out of place.

  “I can do that,” I say with feigned confidence.

  “Excellent. I’ll send the instructions to the email you used to submit the application. I realize this is a bit fast, but we just had a position open up and we’re looking to fill it ASAP. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow, Miss Blue. Thanks, and have a nice--”

  “Wait--one question,” I manage to say quickly, before she hangs up.

  “Yes?”

  “Who will I be interviewing with?”

  “With Mr. Blackwell.”

  A knot forms in my throat. “Okay, thank you. See you tomorrow.”

  I hang up.

  In a daze, my eyes dart again to the shelf where I keep my journals.