by Elle Berlin
“So, you’re saying we need a male version of me for all the hetero women to fantasize about?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Can’t we just hire some attractive waiters?” I press, sure he’s blowing this a little out of proportion.
“Well, you’ll have to do that too.” Hamblin opens the proposal to point out that attractive wait staff was already part of the proposition. “But to take this restaurant to the level you want it to be at—and the level I want it to be at, if I’m going to write a check—then there needs to be someone else who’s part of this marketing scheme, in the same way that Arie is. Someone who’s exotic and enticing. Someone who can be just as creative and seductive as her. Someone who can whip up a cocktail as if it’s made exactly for that specific patron, making them feel like he understands precisely what they need.”
“Right,” I say, raising an eyebrow and getting the double entendre. “Precisely what they need.”
“Yes, you’re selling the food, the ambiance, the fire—all of that. But really—”
“We’re selling the fantasy,” I concede.
He nods, looking at the two of us like a panther who’s got us cornered. He has a point. I had never thought about the power equation and that women might like a little eye candy as well.
“I don’t … make drinks,” Simon says, quietly. “I don’t think I can—”
“That’s fine,” Hamblin interjects. “Play to your strengths. If you want to be the mastermind of the back end, that’s not a problem. You’re good at it. But it means you need a third person.”
“To partner?” Simon is pale, and I admit my own heart is racing.
“They don’t have to be a partner.” Hamblin takes a sip of his drink, letting his pause dance in the silence. “You just have to find someone you can pay well enough and groom well enough to be exactly what you need them to be. They don’t have to be a partner; they just have to look like they’re one.”
Hamblin looks at me, the stab of his glare feels like a test. And I’ll admit, all the hairs on the back of my neck are bristling. I don’t like this.
“It has to look like you created this together,” Hamblin rolls his hand in the air for emphasis. “It has to look like you’re a team. The he and she version of the same coin, one side fire, the other side sin.”
My temper flares, the back of my neck misting with an angry sweat. “Let me make sure I’ve got this right. You want me to share credit?” I raise my eyebrows at him. “With a stranger. You want me to find some bum off the street and pretend they’re a part of my creation?”
“Not any bum off the street,” he says nonchalantly, not addressing my real frustration.
“I get your point, but—” I grind my teeth and try to keep my cool. I eye Simon next to me, who also looks like he’s having a hard time digesting this curve ball. I see why Hamblin wants a male counterpoint, but to share credit? That seems excessive. Simon and I have worked our asses off for over a year! And Hamblin wants us to willy-nilly let someone else reap half of the rewards?
“This isn’t about pride, Arie,” Hamblin says blankly, clearly catching on from my silence that I’m not on board. “Trust me, this isn’t about you personally. I know you’ve worked hard. I know this is your baby. But this proposition is purely business. It’s about money. Making it, and staying in business.”
“This is about—”
“No, no, no,” he cuts me off, before I have a chance to speak. “This—” he points to my tensing shoulders “—is about your pride. Your resistance is about wanting control and wanting the credit. But I don’t invest in companies with hot-head owners. If you want to work with me, then you need to know exactly when to put your pride in the back seat so you can succeed. Case in point: fifteen minutes ago you had me hard as a rock under this table, without a single scruple. You think that wasn’t a hit to my pride?”
I frown at him. I did play him. I meant to.
“Exactly.” He nods. “I played your game and it worked brilliantly. Now you need to play mine.”
His eyes cut into me, but not in a way that’s meant to be shameful; he’s talking business, it isn’t personal. In fact, his arousal was proof that he’s completely bought into the restaurant. He just needs this one thing.
“Okay, how would this work? I’m listening,” I nod for him to continue.
“This is actually very easy. I have the perfect person for you.” Hamblin reaches into his wallet and pulls out a business card. “Have you been to the Gin n’ Lava?”
“That the bar down on tenth?” Simon chimes in. “Kitschy Hawaii bar with really good drinks?”
“That’s the one.” Hamblin pushes the card across the table to Simon and me. “They’ve blown up in the last six months, some hot new bartender that’s put them on the map. He’s made them one of Waikiki’s hottest late-night cocktail locations, and not just for the drinks.”
“And you want us to hire this guy?” I ask, looking at the card. It isn’t anything fancy, just looks like your run-of-the-mill dive bar. “This doesn’t look like competition.”
“It won’t be if you get him to work for you instead. Until then,” Hamblin puts his wallet away carefully, “he’s going to steal half your late-night game. The female half. And men always go where the women are.”
“Can he mix a drink? Or is he just eye candy?” I ask, not sure I like where this is headed.
“I don’t know,” Hamblin says smoothly. “How would you like me to answer that question when it’s asked about you?”
My neck bristles, my knuckles itching to meet with his teeth. Only, I feel Simon’s hand on my elbow, talking me down.
“You’re saying this guy is Arie’s equal?” Simon clarifies. “And he’d bring just as much to the table as she does?”
“He’d make Flambé an unstoppable brand.”
Simon eyes me, trying to gauge what I think about all of this. Honestly, I’m pissed. I get Hamblin’s point, but I don’t like any of it. Simon and I have a working relationship that works. A third person in the middle has the potential to throw everything out of balance.
“You want us to give him a job?” I clarify again. “A second head chef, allowed to make recipes, drinks, seduce the clients?”
Hamblin nods. “Yes. I want you to poach him from the Gin n’ Lava.” He plucks the card out of my hand and writes down the name of the bartender.
“It sounds like you’re saying he’s not going to go easily.”
Hamblin shrugs, sliding the card back over to us. “All I’m saying is you have to make him a good offer.” He looks around the room before sliding out of the booth and standing up. “Sign him and you sign me.”
“And if we don’t?” I ask, trying to keep the emotion out of my voice.
“Then I wish you the best of luck.” His eyes skim the perimeter, taking in the amazing view of the moonlit beach and boardwalk. “It’s a great idea. Perfect location, delicious food, delicious hostess.” His eyes flick to me in a way that’s altogether inappropriate. Then his eyes narrow, telling me to get used to it and toughen up. “When you have the full package, you’re funded. Until then, I’m not signing my name to a sinking ship.”
“A sinking—!” I’m about to pummel this guy, but Simon grabs my elbow and squeezes harshly. I shoot a glare at Simon that says he’d better get ready to be disemboweled.
“We’ll talk about it,” Simon says quickly, and Hamblin nods. “We’ll be in touch.”
“Good,” Hamblin says, buttoning his suit. “I’m glad one of you sees how much is really at stake and the potential money you could make. I look forward to your call.”
Simon nods curtly and Hamblin leaves; all the while Simon’s been gripping my arm so tightly it will surely bruise. When Hamblin is out the door and out of earshot, I turn and rip my arm from Simon.
“What the hell?!” I snap, not liking any of this. “You actually think this is a good idea?”
“No!” Simon snaps back. “But I also think he
has a point.”
“I am not sharing credit for all the work I’ve—we’ve—put into this.”
“Yeah, but there’s also a bottom line and cash flow, and making sure we don’t go under before we’ve begun. Credit is one thing, Arie, but staying in business is more important.”
“I’m a risk taker. I say we go it alone!”
“And I balance the bottom line, and the better risk is seeing if there’s actually a viable reason to bring on—” Simon looks at the business card and the name scribbled on the back “—whoever this guy is.”
“I don’t like it. Three’s a crowd.”
“He won’t be a partner. He’s just a face, a name, part of the fantasy.”
“I don’t like it!”
“Fine, be stubborn, but I’m telling you, we need Hamblin. If he walks out, then enjoy your stubbornness in six months when this place goes up in flames like one of the drinks.”
“Seriously? It’s not going to be like that.”
Simon’s face gets hard. “I love you, Arie, and you are a great chef. But you’re shit at the business side of this. So here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to go down to the Gin n’ Lava and check this guy out. Maybe he’s the real deal. Maybe he’s shit. But I’m going to go find out. And if Hamblin’s right, then I’m going to offer him a job. Got it?”
“You can’t make a decision like that without me!” I bristle, digging my fingers into my hips so I don’t go catwoman on him.
“I can.” He pushes me to the left so we both get out of the booth. “When we started this, we made a deal that hiring and firing would always be something I was in charge of. I keep my hands off the menu and décor, and you keep your hands out of the money side. And why did we make that deal? Because, I guarantee you, if you let me do my job I will always keep us in business. There’s a reason we’re having a meeting with Hamblin in the first place, and that’s because I know exactly what this business can and cannot handle. And right now, it sounds like we’re getting another chef.”
“He’s a bartender, I don’t think he can cook,” I say haughtily.
“Fine.” Simon rolls his shoulders back and squares off with me. “Great. Less of a hassle for you then. You hate manning the bar anyway.”
“Everything about this stinks!”
“I get it, Arie!” he says, throwing his hands up in the air. “You’re used to getting your way and today that isn’t happening. Welcome to adulthood. Welcome to making concessions for the greater good and taking one for the team. Welcome to being a business owner.”
I frown at Simon, crossing my arms and glaring at him. “I’m not going to be nice to him. I’ll make his life a living hell.”
Simon rolls his eyes and shakes his head at me. “I’d expect nothing less. So, I’m glad you’re at least halfway on board.”
“This is going to throw everything off balance. It’s not going to be worth it.”
“Or you’re just used to being one-hundred percent in control, and Hamblin threw a curve ball you’re not ready for.”
“You actually think this is going to work?”
Simon turns around and looks at me. “I don’t know, Arie. I don’t know. Maybe. It has merit. And if it gets Hamblin on board, then I’m at least willing to try.”
“What about our dream? That we run this place our way?”
“That’s still our dream, Arie. It just includes one good-looking male bartender. And the sooner you start to see it that way, the better. Hamblin’s the one trying to make our dream come true. The one in the way … is you.”
Simon turns on his heels and walks to the far side of the restaurant, grabbing his coat and leaving out the side door.
I’m left in the restaurant—alone. I’m three weeks away from opening my dream restaurant and suddenly it feels completely out of my reach.
8
Connor
Tonight the bar is so crowded it’s standing room only. Kitschy tiki décor lines every nook and cranny of the establishment and there are fish nets and spiny blowfish lamps hanging from the ceiling. Smoke drifts in from the patios, making the strings of yellow, red, and green globes cast colorful patches of mist. It creates a rainbow haze above everyone’s head like we’re all at one of those colorful chalk festivals.
Behind the bar, I toss mini-umbrellas into tiki-shaped goblets and skewer pineapple and guava chunks onto tiny swords. Mai tais and piña coladas and tequila sunrises fly out of my hands as fast as I can make them. Of course, I don’t make them as fast as your normal bar, with their blended daiquiri goop, sickeningly sweet and drowning out any ounce of artistry with artificial slime. I actually pureed the fruit at the beginning of my shift, because I refuse to serve crap. Mason, my boss, wasn’t happy with how much longer my version of the drinks took (with the fresh ingredients and added details) but once the doors started overflowing with customers, he started to see the light. Quality is quality.
Everyone pressed against the bar top tonight is shoulder to shoulder, leaning in, raising their hands, and trying to get my attention. I serve up drinks, mix the rums, wink at the ladies, froth the foam, charge tabs, wipe down my counter, then start again as the patrons leave tips and snake away. Then a second wave of thirsty tourists squeeze their way in, taking the place of the group before them. Busy is my bread and butter. It keeps me focused, keeps me in the moment.
I love it when someone orders one of my signature drinks and I get to yell out over the crowd that everyone better watch out for the incoming Fog Cutter or Samoan Typhoon. The live band in the back corner hits the cymbals with a crash to emphasize any announcement of alcoholic tsunamis and I have to laugh. I love the energy of this place. When we’re slammed, we’re slammed, and I bloody adore it!
Mason mans the bar with me tonight, looking like he just walked in off the beach. Every night he goes all-in with the Hawaiian-kitsch vibe: ocean-tossed hair, overly bronzed skin, board shorts, sandals, and of course the raunchiest Hawaiian shirt he can find, strategically left unbuttoned so he can show off a flash of skin for the ladies.
Mason’s guidelines for fashion are “if it feels cliché or inappropriate, then wear it, and wear it hard.” Mason is partial to shirt patterns that make the patrons lean over the bar to get a better look. He loves the curious squints, followed by cheeks flushing red when they realize his shirt pictures a harem of topless hula ladies or a garden of particularly phallic looking hydrangeas. Combine his crass humor with an endless supply of rum, and horny Hawaiian-kitsch just found its poster boy.
Normally, I’d match his machismo and show off my arms or my abs, especially when we’re slammed like this. Sweat, and skin, and ten different flavors of rum does wonders for the tip jar. But, for whatever reason, I’m just not feeling it tonight.
Actually, I know exactly the reason, and that reason is my red-headed phantom. For captain Ahab it was a big white whale; for me it’s a red-headed vixen that I’ve already spent too many hours obsessing over. Ahab’s unobtainable quest for revenge is my unobtainable need to see her again. It’s like I’ve been itching for a rematch, one in which I’ll inevitably lose, drowning in her incredible fire.
Of course, I know I won’t see her again. I know the memory of her will fade and I’ll forget her. I should forget her, but for some reason I’m not ready to let the heat of her rub off quite yet.
“Can I get a Pineapple Pago Pago?” asks the next patron, a sunbaked princess in short-shorts, a yellow bikini top, and a pile of blond hair twisted atop her head. She smiles at me as she pretends to play with the strings of coral-shell bangles that dangle from her neck and wrists, leaning over the bar suggestively to give me a good look at her tits. They’re decent tits—don’t get me wrong. I’m not impartial to a good show, but they’re nothing compared to Wisconsin’s. And that’s my point. She’s already ruined me.
“The Pago Pago’s got enough bite to tame a crocodile,” I say to Coral Bangles, tossing her a sideways smile. I slice off the top of a fresh pineapple and preten
d to look back and sneak a glance at the show she’s giving me.
“Does it have enough bite to tame you?” Bangles says flirtatiously, and I shrug as I core the pineapple and start to pour rum into it.
“You wrestled with a crocodile before, sweetheart?” I chide. “Have you gotten down in the mud and shown that big lizard who’s boss?”
She bites her lip, absolutely imagining wrestling me to the floor. Of course, she’ll never do it the way Wisconsin did. Wisconsin took me down like a pro and I’d let her do it again and again and again.
“There’s a first time for everything,” Bangles says, batting her lashes, and I smile menacingly, mixing the chartreuse and crème de cacao into the pineapple. The girl’s eyes glitter and I’m sure she thinks I’m considering taking her home, only she’s not the one I’m imagining on the floor straddling me right now.
“Crocodiles are dangerous,” I say, tossing an umbrella into the top of the drink, and picking the whole pineapple up and placing it in front of her. “Let’s see if you can handle this beast.” I push the drink towards her. “If you can …” I catch her eye and hold it for an extra-long second, “then we’ll see if you’ve got the stamina for a second round.”
Her lips part, like my words alone just made those short-shorts indecent. I hold her gaze long enough to make her squirm and imply that we might happen. Heck, if she manages to get through the Pago Pago without making out with the nearest stranger, maybe I will let her go for a spin on my merry-go-round and knock Ms. Secret Agent out of my mind.
Bangles slips back into the crowd and I take the next patron’s order as Mason grabs two tiki mugs from behind me. “You know,” Mason says, grabbing limes in one hand and mixing a Hawaiian Sunset in the other, “that girl with the pineapple was ready to crawl behind this bar and give you a blowjob while you kept on pouring.”
“No, she wasn’t,” I shake my head at him.
“Oh, don’t play coy,” he says, doling out his drinks and starting on the next set. “Do you need me to give you permission to take a ten-minute break so you can cash in on that?”