Tap That

by Jennifer Blackwood

The corners of my mouth tip up in amusement. “It was a hard talk, but I’m glad we saw it through to the end.”

  Callie ducks her head, getting my insinuation, and offers a shy smile. “Good night, Reid.” She steps around me, but not without casually brushing against me and copping a feel of my hard cock.

  “’Night, Callie.”

  “’Good night, Reid.” Mel’s tone is laced with amusement before the two disappear around the corner.

  Yeah, it’s been a good night, all right. It’ll be even better tonight when I get home.

  After I jerk off to the memory of her coming all over my damn fingers.

  Good night, indeed.

  12

  Callie

  The walk back to my apartment goes by in a blur. If it weren’t for Mel’s arm looped around mine, I think I actually might float away. Or possibly keel over. Because Reid?! Of all the people to end up with in a side alley with my clothes pushed to the side, he was not on the short list. Or the long one. But one thing’s for sure—Reid…made me feel things. A lot of things. With his damn fingers. I’m honestly afraid what other monumental feats he could do with other appendages.

  And just like that, it’s over. I’m back home, staring at my counter covered in piles of dirty dishes, itching to get out of these boots and into my fuzzy unicorn slippers.

  Just as I’m about to climb into bed, a text buzzes through.

  Mom: Plane lands at six fifteen Thursday night. We’ll have our usual dinner. See you in three weeks.

  My stomach drops. Shit. Is it that time of year already? I totally forgot about my parents coming into town. They want to see my progress and do their quarterly soul-sucking endeavor. They’re my own personal Dementors. Except that unlike the magical ones, I can’t just wave a wand and banish them. I still resent never getting my letter to Hogwarts.

  Just like that, my stomach goes from happy butterflies to angry bees. No, maybe that’s too light of a term. More like fucking enraged yellow jackets that just had their nest swatted.

  I swallow hard and text her back.

  Me: Can’t wait. Love you.

  She doesn’t bother to text back.

  It’s not that my mom doesn’t love me. I’m sure she does. It’s ingrained in there like a primal instinct, right next to the one that tells people not to smother their young when they’re infants. She just has a different way of showing it. By berating my career choice, my clothing, my toothpaste. Yes, my toothpaste, because apparently, Crest isn’t up to snuff, according to her. My arm starts to itch, then my leg. And now my other arm… Shit, am I getting stress hives? I scratch my way to the bathroom and tear off my tank top and shorts. Not a mark on my body besides the ones from my itching.

  Crap. Since I’d totally spaced about my parents coming, I didn’t bother putting in for that day off, and On Tap schedules our shifts a month in advance. No problem. Tomorrow, I’ll go in to work and see if someone can cover my shift that night. Until then, I will be panic cleaning. If I had any money to spare, I’d hire one of those maid services to dust my drapes and the air vents because I’m sure my mom will be going through the house with a white glove. I wish I was kidding.

  After changing into sweats and a fresh tank, I slide into bed and try to put my parents’ impending visit aside. Because holy shit, there just might be bigger issues at hand. Or just a hand at hand. Dear Lord. Reid has turned me stupid.

  As I drift to sleep, all I can think about is Reid’s fingers on me, inside me, making my body ache for him in a way I haven’t experienced before. Work is going to be very interesting tomorrow.

  The next morning, I slip out of bed, shower, and mainline my coffee until I’m halfway coherent.

  Brittany stands at the bar polishing glasses when I stroll into work. The brewery smells of a mixture of cleaning products and hops. Once we open, the bleach smell will dissipate and the aroma of fried food and baked bread from the local bakery that ships to us on Sundays will replace it.

  “How are you doing today, darling?” she asks, the bangs of her red hair falling over her eyes. She shakes them out of her face and moves to polish another glass.

  “Good.” More than good. I haven’t felt this light in…months, which is disturbing. Reid is normally the bane of my existence, and now he’s the reason I’m smiling.

  “You look like you’re glowing today. Did you do something extra naughty last night?”

  I wink at her. “A lady never kisses and tells.” I like Brittany. She’s down to earth and has her shit together in a way I’ve never been able to. It must be mom voodoo because she seems to know whenever a customer needs something.

  “Oh, come on. That’s just so unfair. I need to live vicariously through you,” she says.

  From what I’ve come to learn about Brittany, she’s one of those freakishly happy married people. Brent, her husband, comes into On Tap whenever she’s on shift and brings her lunch. He even leaves her notes about how much he loves her. They’re high school sweethearts and have two kids, with another on the way. Basically, they’re living the dream.

  I think the male gene pool has somehow become defective since Brent, though, because I can’t even get a guy to call after a date, let alone cut the crusts off my sandwiches.

  “It’s nothing.” I shrug dismissively. Of course, I know it’s not this, but somehow, sharing with her that I got finger banged by On Tap’s beloved bartender doesn’t exactly scream appropriate work conversation.

  “Nothing, eh?” Reid walks up behind me. He brushes my arm as he passes to go behind the bar, and every inch of my skin tingles. I catch his gaze, and he gives me a slight raise of his eyebrow.

  Shit. He wasn’t supposed to hear that.

  My mind goes blank. What does he think about me minimizing what we did? Or maybe I am just blowing this way out of proportion. “Er. Not nothing. Just nothing I care to share with anyone.” I shoot him a pointed look while Brittany moves to the other end of the bar.

  Her brows pinch together. “Oh, Callie, you’re not messing around with one of those fuck boys, are you?” she says.

  Reid stiffens. I don’t know yet what game we’re playing, but one thing I do know is I can’t control myself around him, and neither can he, apparently. But we’re both smart enough to realize we can’t talk about this to anyone at work—not if we want to keep our jobs.

  I shake my head and focus back on Brittany. “I don’t know. It’s yet to be determined if he is true fuck boy material. He does exhibit some tendencies.”

  I can’t help it. There’s just something about Reid that makes me want to get the last word in and give him a hard time. He’s like a big red do not push button. And now all I want to do is press the damn button.

  Brittany clucks her tongue, clearly not happy with my answer. “You need to get out of that ASAP then. No use wasting time on that.”

  “You’re so wise, Brittany.”

  “Hey, maybe give the guy a break. He could have a lot going on in his life,” Reid pipes in. His fingers strain as they grip the bar towel in his hands.

  “Like what type of hair gel holds his faux hawk in place? Give me a break, Reid. Men need to be more like you.” Brittany pats him protectively on the shoulder.

  He smirks when he turns to me.

  Brittany disappears into the back to grab some more bar towels, and I lean my elbows on the polished wood. “Can I ask you a favor?”

  He raises a brow. “I don’t do those types of favors at work.”

  I swat at him. “Not that type, you idiot.”

  “I don’t know if idiot is an upgrade from fuck boy or not. And also, not a great way to ask for a favor.”

  I busy myself with inspecting the mottled wood, running my fingernail over the grooves. “It’s an improvement. And you know you like it.”

  He moves his head from side to side, pretending to debate this. “What do you need?”

  “Can you take my shift on Thursday, the 28th?”

  His lips press into a hard line, and
he shakes his head. “No can do.”

  “Why not?”

  “Have plans.” He grabs a knife by the sink and starts chopping limes on a clean cutting board.

  I wait for him to elaborate. To say something like, oh, I have a doctor’s appointment, or, I’ll be giving someone part of my kidney that day. But all he does is continue to slice the limes into wedges.

  “On a Thursday,” I repeat, dumbly.

  “Yep. Every Thursday.” He glances up from the row of lime slices and shoots me a look that says, Duh. Everyone knows this.

  “How do you manage to get every Thursday off?” Tom doesn’t give preference to anyone. We all end up working weekend shifts at some point and some of the crappier shifts. I like that about On Tap. It seems fair.

  “Because Tom loves me more.” He ruffles my hair and slides past me to the restaurant area.

  Every Thursday? No way. Our schedules are somewhat chaotic, shifts changing every few weeks, so there’s no way that’s possible. I go to the back where our shift calendar hangs in the hallway in front of the break room. I scan and find that Reid is not on shift for any Thursday.

  What does he do on those days? I stare at the piece of paper, trying to imagine what he does. Bank robbery? Clown school?

  The latter would at least explain how he’s so good at making those damn balloon animals.

  Brittany heads around the corner to the break room when I grab her arm.

  “Brittany? What does Reid do every Thursday?”

  She shrugs. “No clue. Just know that he always has that day off and doesn’t really talk about it.” She turns and scrunches her brows. “Which is very un-Reid like.”

  Huh. Yeah, I’ve noticed.

  I’ve noticed a lot of things, actually. Like the way his lips tip up in the corner when he says something that amuses himself. Or the fact his wardrobe is predominantly blue. Reid speaks his mind, for better or for worse. So for him to keep a secret about something…this has my Nancy Drew sleuth senses tingling. And I’m going to find out.

  13

  Reid

  She’s not subtle.

  At all.

  Callie probably thinks she’s being covert, but when you work in a small place like On Tap, people pick up on things. Like when co-workers are whispering but immediately shut up when you turn the corner.

  Or when a co-worker is standing near said corner and eyeing you analytically. Much like the way Bert got all squinty-eyed when he swore he could determine the secret ingredients in Tony’s special wing sauce.

  Fail. Total fail.

  Same goes with Callie.

  Bert is currently sitting in his regular barstool at the corner of the bar. “How are those business classes going?”

  I haven’t told anyone but Bert that I took an online business course to test out the waters with potentially opening my own bar someday. I finished up a few weeks ago, which was about the same time I was passed over for the raise.

  “Done. Straight As.”

  He smiles, displaying every tooth in his buckteeth dentures. Since my dad passed, Bert’s taken a special interest in me, always making sure I’m doing well and keeping up with things going on in my life. He claps his hand on the bar and says, “That’s my boy. Just make sure there’s a good stool for me to sit on at your new bar.”

  “I’m a long way off from that. The bank isn’t too keen on giving me a loan.” I’ve saved a good chunk of change over the years, but nothing that I’d need to break ground on a new business.

  “Time flies, my friend. Just make sure you’re doing something you love.”

  “Yeah.” I shrug. Do I love it at On Tap? Well, the customers are great. My co-workers are more like family. But over the past year or so, I’ve wanted more than to just be the bartender. I haven’t told anyone, but I want something more of this, something to call my own.

  I reach for a bar napkin and realize we’re almost out. After handing the guy his Jack on the rocks, I make my way to the back room to restock. Callie’s working on paperwork when I make it to the storage room.

  “Hey, Reid?” she asks.

  The corners of my mouth hitch upward at her sugary sweet tone. “Hey, Callie?” I parrot.

  “I try to go to hot yoga on Wednesdays after work.”

  I whip my head around and eye her warily, unsure of where she’s headed with her random comment. At her far too innocent smile, I refocus on the thick stack of napkins in my grasp, preparing to refill the dispensers on the bar.

  “Sounds fascinating.” I have no clue what hot yoga is, but I assume it has something to do with the room temperature and is just as undesirable to me as the regular yoga.

  “Well,” she hedges, “maybe you can join me sometime.”

  I don’t bother to look over. “Think I’ll pass.” I lift weights at the gym with Grayson and run a few miles throughout the week. The idea of being in a hot studio while bending like Gumby doesn’t sound the least bit appealing.

  She makes a derisive sound. “That’s not very nice. I’m trying to extend an olive branch here.” At the sound of her footsteps approaching, damn if my body doesn’t tense in anticipation of having her near me, closer, and within my arm’s reach.

  Dammit. The memory of her coming all over my fingers, of sliding them inside her, her pussy slick for me, is swirling on an erotic replay in the recesses of my mind.

  The way her breath hitched when she found her release will forever echo in my ears.

  “Reid?”

  I jerk with a start, realizing I’ve tuned her out, so lost in my own musings. “What?”

  “Pretty sure you won’t be able to fit that many napkins in there.”

  Shit. I mash my lips together, and my eyes drift closed as I pray for her to go away or, at least, to put more distance between us. My eyes flash open, and I toss the extra wad of napkins, my movements abrupt, on the sleek bar top before I slam the container closed.

  Spinning around, I cross my arms in part to prevent the urge to reach for her and also to maintain a standoffish air.

  “Look.” I lower my chin and arch an eyebrow. “I know what you’re trying to do, and it won’t work. Thursdays are my day. No amount of sweet-talking or you wearing spandex bent over in whatever positions you do in yoga is going to change that.”

  She holds my gaze, and I notice the way her shoulders deflate before she gives a huff. “Fine.” Callie spins around, and I barely decipher her mumbled response. “Send me to suffer and be sacrificed to the wolves.”

  Wait, what? What is happening three weeks from now that has her so keyed up? Something in her defeated mumbling irks me. “Callie.”

  She draws to a stop but doesn’t turn around. A long exhale spills past my lips before I gentle my tone. “What’s the deal with the Thursday you need off?”

  “Nothing.” She releases a sigh. “Don’t worry about it.” She starts to walk away, heading to the back, but I stride over and snag her wrist.

  The contact elicits a reaction from both of us. Within the quiet confines of the storage room, our indrawn breaths mingle.

  My eyes glance at her wrist and how delicate it appears within my grasp. Riveted, I barely register that I’ve begun to lightly skim the pad of my thumb against the soft skin along her pulse point.

  “Tell me what’s going on.” I keep my voice low but firm. I can’t explain this dire need I have to simply know. Because whatever it is, it’s causing this beautiful woman distress.

  Her chin drops to her chest, and she lets a long sigh loose. “My parents are coming to town in a few weeks.”

  My brow furrows, and just as my lips part to question why this is such a big deal, she adds with a laugh devoid of any humor, “They make it a point to come into town to visit me, have dinner, and proceed to remind me what a failure I am.”

  Callie turns slowly, but I don’t release her wrist. The moment her brown doe eyes lock with mine, I swear I feel the ricochet of pain visible in the depths. She breaks eye contact, averting her gaze t
o where my fingers are wrapped around her wrist, where my thumb is still grazing her skin. “They remind me that I should just come to work for my father because it’s easier.” Her lips twist derisively. “Because I surely can’t hack it on my own in the real world.”

  “And you wanted me to switch shifts with you because...?” I prod gently.

  She exhales loudly. “To have work as an excuse not to see them.” Callie tugs at my hold of her wrist. With a start, realizing I need to let go, I release my grasp and step back.

  I cross my arms firmly, attempting to further resist the urge to reach for her, and fix my eyes upon her. “You’re an adult, Rainbow. Isn’t it about time to stand up for yourself?”

  Her hands fly to her hips, and she lets out a huff. “Look here, wise guy. They’re my parents. They have some sort of sick detection system that zeroes in on the cracks in my self-esteem. But noooo”—she draws out the word, sarcasm dripping from her tone—“you’re so secretive about your damn Thursdays and can’t bear to switch your schedule and be a giver for once.”

  Her lips smack shut, pressing thin, as though she knows exactly what she’s just implied.

  And recalls exactly how giving I can be.

  With narrowed eyes, I cock my head to the side, my tone challenging. “You want to know about my Thursdays?”

  Her eyes widen a fraction, as though I’ve caught her off guard. “What?”

  Stepping closer until her back is against the bar, I brace one palm on her right side and lean in. “You want to know about my Thursdays?” Her eyes flicker from my lips to my eyes. “What I do on my day off?”

  There’s a millisecond pause, and when she responds, her voice is a touch breathless. “Yes.”

  The corners of my mouth lift upward ever so slightly before I shove away from her. I turn to finish stocking the napkin dispensers. “Text me your address. I’ll be out front tomorrow at five p.m. sharp.” I shoot her a pointed look before returning my attention to my task. “Don’t be late.”

  Callie doesn’t respond with more than a subdued, slightly stunned, “Okay,” before she turns and heads to the back.