by Kayt Miller
“Can I get you another one, sweetheart?”
I look up and see the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen in real life. He’s tall. Probably over six foot two. His blonde hair is pulled back into a bun at the back of his head. I can only imagine how long his hair is because the bun is a decent size. I sigh thinking about seeing all of that hair flowing around his broad shoulders.
And he’s got broad shoulders, and those are attached to thick, muscular arms, and those are barely encased in a tight gray t-shirt that reads: Real Men Wear Kilts. I peek over the edge of the bar to see if he is, in fact, wearing a kilt. He smirks at me as he backs up. Nope, he’s wearing jeans that are torn at the knees and tight in all the right places. At least that’s how it looks when he turns around for me.
His face… his face could launch a thousand orgasms. Seriously. His eyes are the color of a clear blue summer sky. They’re surrounded by thick brown eyelashes and eyebrows that tell me he knows I’m checking him out. His lashes flutter, and one winks at me. I don’t care; I’ve had a couple of drinks. It’s given me the courage to shrug my shoulders to say, ‘yeah, I’m lookin’ A woman would have to be dead not to appreciate all that is this bartender.
When my eyes fall from his strong nose to his full lips, I feel a funny tingle in my lady parts. I could just picture myself doing things to those lips and those lips doing things to me. And it’s a nice picture. His scruff of a beard would add into this little story nicely as it scrapes on my inner…
Ah, shit. What am I doing? Get over yourself, Roni. A man like that would never go for a woman like me. I’m too full-figured. I snort out loud at my use of ‘full-figured.' I’m fat, but it’s so much nicer to say curvy or thick or plush. Oh well, it was a fun fantasy while it lasted. I give him my best smile and say, “Yep. Keep ‘em comin’ barkeep.”
I’m getting more than a little drunk. This will be my fourth Old Fashioned. I know I need to stop, but I just want to wallow in self-pity at a bar where no one knows me or cares that I’m wallowing.
“Here you go, darlin’, another Old Fashioned. You may want to take it easy; those are potent little cocktails,” he says smirking.
“Thanks for the tip, but I’m fine,” I say flipping a rogue chunk of hair back over my shoulder. I should cut my hair completely off. I don’t know why I keep it long. It certainly does nothing to attract the attention of the male persuasion. Yeah, a pixie cut. That’s the way I should go. No muss no fuss hair would save me at least an hour on my morning prep.
Lost in my thoughts, I almost miss the hot as hell bartender say, “So, what’s a pretty girl like you doing here alone––on a Wednesday? You waiting for someone?”
I snort. “You’re good. Um. No. I’ve had a bad day. I wanted to drink it away.”
“Bad day? What happened? Anything I can do to help?”
“Not unless you can make a guy at work, finally, take notice of me. No? I didn’t think so.” Okay, why the hell did I just say that out loud? Crap. I need a drink. I pick up the glass and take a large gulp. Getting drunk faster is my new goal.
“What?” says the barkeep feigning shock. “You’ve got a guy who hasn’t noticed you? I can’t believe that. The guy must be an idiot. Or gay. Is he gay?”
I look at him like he just sold me some swampland in Florida. “You don’t need to stroke me, bartender man. I know how life works. I’m big… bigger than the average girl. But, I’m not hideous. Plus, I’m nice, thoughtful, and I’m frigging hilarious,” I add with a little laugh.
“You are definitely not hideous. I’ll have to take your word on the rest of it. What’s your name anyway?”
“Roni. What’s yours?”
“Mick.”
“Seriously?” I laugh. “That’s like the perfect name for a bartender. Is that your real name?”
“Nope. It’s Michael, but only my mom calls me that.”
“So, Michael, what’s a hot guy like you doing working in a place like this on a Wednesday? Are you being punished?” The place is d-e-a-d, dead.
“Nah, I manage the bar down here on the main level, and my Wednesday guy called in sick. So, I drew the short straw, as they say.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Now you’re stuck talking to me. You’re life sucks,” I laugh again.
He laughs too, “My life’s okay. So, tell me about this idiot at work. What’s his deal?”
Letting out a deep sigh I say, “I don’t know. I’ve worked with him for over a year and a half. I’m not very assertive, so I haven’t told him how I feel about him––even if I did––I’m afraid he’d turn me down. Then, I’d have to work with him all day every day, and that would be even worse than now.”
“True. Have you tried to give him little hints?”
“Oh, yeah! Let’s see; I’ve been his secret admirer at work for a year. I leave him little things on his desk like candy and snacks. One time, I finally got the courage up to leave a note with a bobble head doll of Anthony Rizzo––you know, the first basement of the Cubs? He loves the Cubs.”
“The Cubbies are awesome. This is their year,” he interjects.
“So I’ve heard. Anyway, I wrote a note, my confession if you will, and set it next to the bobble head on his desk. As I was walking out of his office, I heard his voice, and I freaked. I thought… What the hell am I doing? I can’t leave a note!”
Barman nods his head. He’s waiting for the worst part.
“So, I turned and grabbed the note off of his desk, but his voice was loud enough for me to realize that he was seconds away from walking into his office. If he saw me, he’d know I left the bobble head. My only recourse was to hide, and the only spot to hide was behind his office door. So, I slid in between the wall and the door and waited.”
“Wow, good save,” he mutters.
“Yeah, so, there I was, hiding behind his door. Waiting. Just waiting for him to leave again. But you know what?”
“What?”
“He didn’t leave. Not for Two. Fucking. Hours!”
Mick, the hot bartender, throws his head back and laughs so loud I think he scared the guy at the other end of the bar. He places his hand on his stomach––an amazingly flat stomach that I can picture with those ridges that all hot guys have––abs that are covered by a snug black t-shirt and jeans that fit his ass perfectly. What can I say? A girl can’t help but notice when a man like that walks away.
I’m laughing too but not at my story. No, that’s a sad-ass story. I’m laughing because he’s laughing. “My feet were numb, and my legs were shaking from standing still for so long. Plus, that day I decided to wear three-inch heels. Bad idea.”
“Well, I like the sounds of those shoes. Jesus, I haven’t laughed that hard in fucking forever,” Mick the hot bartender says.
“Yep, that’s me. I’m hilaaaarious,” I deadpan.
“So, what did you do?” he asks wanting the rest of the story.
“What could I do? I waited. Our boss finally called him out of his office and guess what he wanted?”
“What?” Mick leans on the bar on his elbows until he close enough to smell. Mmm, yummy. Damn, this man should be in movies––he’s that smokin’ hot with his blonde man-bun and beard.
“He wanted to know if he’d seen me! So, they both set off on a search. Once they moved far enough away, I slipped out of his office and ran to the ladies restroom. I had to pee like crazy, but I thought the bathroom would be a good cover.
“Good cover? How so?”
“Well, when they found me, I could tell my boss was pissed. I was late for a meeting. So, to smooth the way, I told them both I was having ‘lady problems.' That works every single time with you guys. Men won’t touch a menstrual cycle discussion with a ten-foot pole.”
“That’s very true, “ he laughs again. “Very true.”
As I reflect on the events of the night, I realize that this part of the evening wasn’t that terrible. I mean, I confessed a few of my little office secrets to him, but he doesn’t know
Chris. However, the part that’s making me cringe began when I nearly fell off my barstool. He had to run around the bar to keep me from falling ass over tit onto the floor.
After that, he called me an Uber and helped me out the front door. At the time, I thought it was sweet that he wanted to be sure I was safe. In the bright morning light, I realize he was just trying to get rid of me. That thought makes me even more depressed than I was yesterday. Maybe I should call in sick? I haven’t missed a day in months, and that was due to a funeral.
Then it hits me. The memory. “Oh, God… I kissed him. That’s so humiliating. That poor guy. Why did I have to pick that bar? Why did I have to drink so much? Why? Why? Why?”
Okay, I need to stop talking to myself. Instead, I need to get my lard-ass out of bed and into the shower. If I stay home, I’ll spend the entire day re-living the nightmare that is my life. I need to focus on work. That will take my mind off of… what was his name again? Matt? Mike? No! Mick! Mick the hot bartender. I chuckle at that memory.
He certainly was hot with a capital H. He was tall, very tall. Maybe a few inches over six feet. He also had muscles. He must work out––a lot. Couple that with his long blonde hair that was pulled up in a man bun, his piercing blue eyes, full lips surrounded by a nicely maintained beard and you’ve got a guy who’ll star in my wet dreams for years to come. And to think…I got a kiss out of him. Well, I forced a kiss on him––same thing.
I get out of bed and drown my sorrows in a long, hot shower. My head still throbs, but it’s better after I’m clean and I’ve taken some ibuprofen. With minutes to spare, I grab my cup of coffee, and I’m out the door to work.
Chapter 3: Mick
Chrome is hopping tonight, and it’s not even eight o’clock yet. That's not surprising since it's Friday and the first of the month. There’s something about first Friday’s that get people out and about. I peer around the space making sure everything is running smoothly. The cocktail servers are bustling around like it’s New Year's Eve. I’ve got three other people on the bar with me tonight, and we’re still weeded thanks to the after work crowd.
I take a minute to check on our supplies and yell for our bar back to bring up several more cases of imports from the cooler in the basement. It’s unseasonably warm for October in Chicago, which makes it a beer kind of night.
While I wait for the brews, I wipe down the counters, restock the olives in each station, and cut limes. “Yo, Mick. Your girlfriend is here,” shouts Steve, the bouncer from the far side of the bar.
I look at him with that expression that says, Huh? “No girlfriend for me, man,” I reply.
Steve smirks and replies, “Yeah, you do. It’s the one with the amazing tits. You put her in a taxi a few weeks ago.”
Oh, yeah, I remember her––blondie with the nice rack and the fucked up name. The one that kissed me like a porn star. As I slice, I raise my head and see a familiar face waiting to be served. When she gets to the bar, I smile at her. She smiles back, but it’s just polite. What? Doesn't she remember me? We’ll see about that. “Veronica! It’s great to see you again.”
She blinks at me and blushes. Oh, yeah, she remembers me. “Um, hi,” she says nervously.
“Long time no see. I was hoping I’d run into you again sometime.”
“You were?” she says sounding sincerely surprised.
“Sure! It’s not often I get a kiss like that in the back of a taxi. How could I forget you?” Her face turns a shade of red I’ve only seen on roses. “Shit, babe. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
“You didn’t. I, um, just don’t remember a lot from that night. Sorry about that.”
“No need to apologize. As drunks go, you were one of my favorites,” I say winking. “You look good, Roni.”
She looks down at herself. Her long, blonde locks are pulled back into a high ponytail. She’s wearing a white blouse and a tight skirt in a deep red color. She reminds me a fifties pinups. Pencil skirt. That’s what they call it, and it hugs her curves nicely. She’s damn sexy. No jewelry; no scarf; no nothing. The blouse isn’t even that daring. She’s only got the top button undone. Veronica’s got a great rack, so she doesn't need to have anything unbuttoned. When she looks back up at me, I can see her mood has changed from embarrassed to confident.
She ignores my compliment, “Can I get an Old Fashioned?”
I chuckle at her non-response, “Sure. Give me a sec.”
Old Fashioneds are a pain in the ass to make with their eight ingredients, but I don’t mind. It’s for Veronica. The fact is, I enjoy making these classic drinks now and then, but creating new drinks is my calling. That’s why I’ve been dubbed a mixologist.
What’s a mixologist? It’s a person who’s been trained to mix drinks¬¬––more specifically––to create new drinks. I love using new combinations of liquor, mixers, and other elements to make something unique. Some mixologists even have college degrees in chemistry. Not me. I just know what tastes good together.
As I muddle the sugar cube, water, and bitters in an old-fashioned glass, I look back over at the blonde who ordered this drink. I wonder what her deal is? She’s a pretty woman––a bit on the bigger side of the spectrum, but she’s still gorgeous with her long, wavy blonde hair and full, pouty lips. I know how those luscious lips feel too. I slide the glass over to her as she starts to pull out her wallet. “It’s on the house, babe.”
“No. I insist…”
“I said it’s on the house, Veronica.” I ignore her look of irritation. “Are you here alone?”
She lifts her head after putting her wallet back in her bag and gives me a very dirty look. Not the good, sexy dirty. She shakes her head and says, “I’m here with friends from work.”
“Is the guy here?” I say as I scan the room. She blushes again. Oh, he’s here. “What was his name again?”
“Chris,” she says quietly looking around. Probably making sure he’s not in earshot.
“So, you haven’t told him yet?”
“No! Shh, I don’t want anyone to hear about that.”
“Right on. I get ya. My lips are sealed.” Unless she wants to unseal them with a kiss. I chuckle at my joke. I really shouldn’t toy with her. She’s not my type, and I have a feeling she’d fall pretty hard and fast for me so I’d best lay off.
Roni grabs her drink and turns getting lost in the crowd. I’m dying to see the guy she wants, so I yell at the guys that I'm taking a walk around the bar to see how things are going. It’s my prerogative as the boss, right?
I make my way around the club checking on the servers, asking if they need anything. Things seem to be running smoothly when I see Veronica with a group of people dressed just like her in uninspired office wear.
I stop at a few tables checking on our guests and then stop at her huddle. I slide my hand down her back to rest on her waist. She stiffens at my touch. I lean in to whisper in her hear, “Hey Veronica. You doing good here?”
She turns her head and looks into my eyes. There was fear there at first, but once she sees mine, she softened against my arm. “Yeah. My drink is delicious. Thanks.”
I start to speak again, but a woman I recognize interrupts me. Well, let me rephrase that; I don’t recognize her specifically. I know the type. This woman is always about five foot nine with long hair; this one is a brunette, no boobs, no ass, and no personality.
She scoots in close to me and coos, “Roni. Is this a friend of yours?” She’s made no eye contact with Veronica. She’s looking at me like I’m lunch. A shiver runs down my spine. Yep, I know her.
“You going to introduce me to your friends, angel?”
Tentatively, Roni says, “This is Mick. Um, he works here.”
“You work here? What do you do?” asks Bones. I’m calling the brunette Bones from now on.
“I manage this level of the club,” I say as monotone as I can. I don’t want to engage this woman. I don’t think it matters, though. She’s salivating.
“Roni,
you should have told us you had a friend here,” says another woman. This one isn’t quite as assertive as Bones here, but she’s working up the courage to engage as well. “Can we get free drinks?”
I ignore the free drink question. That always pisses me off because drinks at this place are ten bucks per. I’m not giving away my profits. “Veronica? Didn't you tell them about me? I’m hurt,” I say placing my hand over my heart. “You wound my ego, baby.” I lean in and kiss her on the temple. Sure, I'm a dick but one, I want these chicks to forget about me, and two, I want Chris to see what he’s missing.
Ah, and there’s Chris. How to describe him? Let me just say that he’s a typical cubicle guy. He’s about as tall as Bones, five foot nine or ten. He’s wearing gray polyester pants and a white button-down shirt. He still has a pen in his breast pocket. What the hell does she see in him? More importantly, what is wrong with that guy? He’s got this fine lookin’ woman panting for him, and he’s too busy checking out Bones’ ass. Typical.
Chris reaches out with a hand to shake, “Chris. Chris Smith. Nice to meet you.”
He shakes hands like his fingers are wet noodles. Yes, there is moisture. Fucking gross. My dad always told me you could tell a lot about a person by their handshake. A limp shake equals untrustworthy and or lazy. A shake that’s too firm, almost painful, is untrustworthy. That guy is gonna screw you over.