Drunk on Love

by S. L. Scott

  “I got stood up by a guy, but please don’t take pity on me.”

  “There’s no pity when I look at you. Only beauty.”

  She sighs, and touches my cheek. “Look, you’re really great, but I’ve taken enough of your time. I should let you get back.”

  “He’s an asshole and you deserve better than you realize.” This time I kiss her on the lips, full on, tongues mingling. My heart beats harder and my body leans in, the warning signs red-flagging themselves—Don’t get too close. When our lips part, I whisper, “I don’t want to go back to work, but I need to.”

  She smiles, her arms lax as she lets them hang around my neck. “Come on. Don’t want to get that boss mad at you.”

  “Yup, I heard he’s an asshole too.”

  “He’s not, but I think he likes to pretend he is.” She lifts up and kisses my cheek. “I’m going to use the restroom. I’m kind of a mess. Then I’ll see you out there?”

  “I’ll see you out there.”

  She lets her hand drag across my chest until she’s out of reach. She unlocks the door, and with her hand on the knob, she turns back. “Thank you, Hardy.”

  I nod, not sure how to reply. Is she thanking me for getting her off? It didn’t feel shallow. “Come see me at the bar when you’re done.”

  “Okay.” She walks out and shuts the door behind her.

  I remain there a few seconds too long, staring at the back of the wood door. There are only two rules:

  Rule number one: Don’t get too close.

  Rule number two: Don’t fall in love.

  Why do I already feel like I broke one rule and I’m about to shatter the second?

  Chapter Four

  Is it really so bad to want to see Constance again? It’s not a crime to actually connect with a woman on a deeper level. Is it?

  I rub my chest over these mixed up emotions, hoping to break them up, and send them on their way. I have a good life. I don’t need to mess it up like some of the other guys have with marriage, kids, affairs, and divorces. We’ve seen a few bartenders come through here, each of their stories unique. I could have predicted the ones who’d end up with happy lives and as the saying goes—happy wives. Some bartenders were smart enough to take their skills, and utilize them in the real world. Hence the happy wives. The others, who were screw-ups here, screwed up their marriages. They came back begging for jobs they lost in the first place. I get it. The attention we get at The Hideaway is addicting. It strokes our egos on a nightly basis. Some are just dumb enough to believe they deserve it, that it will last outside these walls. It doesn’t.

  And if I’m being honest with myself, which is iffy part of the time and what I try my best to be the other half, I don’t even remember how those two rules came to be. I’ve been in relationships. They just weren’t good. I don’t have lingering, unresolved feelings. I was fine moving on. What I’m starting to think is that they didn’t make me feel at all. I mean if everything’s resolved before you walk away, what mark did they leave on your life? None worth remembering.

  But here I stand, still staring at a door I’ve watched close plenty of times, and walked out right after just fine. Yet, looking at that door now, all I wish is that this one time it would open and she would walk right back in.

  I walk around the cabinet, reminding myself of the rules and why they exist, grab a pack of wipes and clean myself up. A few shirts hang in the closet from what I picked up from the dry cleaners earlier. I grab a gray one and slip it on, and then bend down to look in a mirror on the wall and fix my hair. When I’m ready, I walk out and down the hall. I push open the door to the main part of the bar. My ears are instantly assaulted by the noise.

  Women touch me and call me by my name. I’m treated like a rock star in this bar. I’m friendly, say hi, but keep moving. I lift the panel and step behind the bar. Eddie smirks. He thinks he knows what’s up, but really, he doesn’t. He doesn’t see my heart about to pound out of my chest, or the way I look toward the bathrooms anxious to see her again. He doesn’t notice that I bring down the most expensive tequila in the bar and mix up a Paloma for a woman who’s not even here. Nope, I smile and pretend I just got laid. Sure, I came, harder than I have in a long time and I wasn’t even inside her. But I was with her and that in and of itself, was worth coming over.

  I pour two glasses of white wine and make a margarita before Constance makes her way back to me and finds a vacated barstool. I deliver her drink and lean in so she can hear me . . . Fine, I pretend that’s why I lean in. I just like being near her. “It’s a Paloma. I like it with salt shaken in, but I’ll leave that for you to decide.” I set the saltshaker down in front of her.

  “Why did you make me a Paloma?”

  “When this drink is made right it’s delicate on the palate.” I take my fingers and suck the tips into my mouth. Her eyes are glued on my mouth, her lips parted, and her breath picks up when I pull my fingers slowly back out. “The grapefruit with the club soda balances the liquor. It’s sophisticated, but refreshing, like you.”

  “Thank you,” she replies.

  “You’re welcome.” A lady with a strong east coast accent calls my name. I recognize it instantly. I’ve never slept with her, but that’s not due to her lack of trying. Before I go, I add, “By the way, your hair looks beautiful down. You should wear it like that more often.”

  “Maybe I will.” Her smile is wide and relaxed. She takes a sip of her drink.

  I wink and walk to serve the other lady, but keep my eye on Constance. That’s when it happens. Giant hairy mitts for hands hide her eyes when someone comes up behind her. When she turns, her eyes go wide, obviously recognizing this douche. She’s okay, so I help Mitzi, from the Upper East Side. If her friends only knew how she trolled Brooklyn for hookups she might not be so easily accepted on the social scene of Manhattan.

  While blending Mitzi’s favorite drink, a banana daiquiri, I glance down Constance’s way. She steals a glimpse of me before the asshole snaps his fingers to bring her attention back to him.

  Asshole.

  Ohhhh. Is that the asshole that stood her up tonight?

  I serve Mitzi and another woman vying for my attention, then check on Constance. Standing right in front of her, I rest my hands on the bar. “Everything okay down here?”

  The asshole flashes a fifty, and replies, “I need a hoppy IPA, and the lady needs another.”

  Figures. IPA’s are generally bitter, similar to the taste he’s left in my mouth. I look to her and sadness has crept up on her, a lot like this guy. She pushes her empty glass away, and mouths, “I’m sorry,” but says, “I’m good, Hardy. Thanks.”

  Asshole says, “Hardy, be a good barkeep and run along and get me that beer. Seems I’m drinking alone.”

  Ignoring him, I stay focused on Constance. “Hey?”

  “Yeah?” she replies quietly.

  “I can throw him out if you want.”

  That makes her laugh and it was worth being belittled by him to hear that effervescent sound. “I’m good.”

  “Well, just let me know. I know a guy.”

  “The boss.”

  “Yep. The boss.” I leave her to go get that bitter beer for the asshole. When I set it down, as much as I want to spend time with her, I don’t waste time and hang around with him there. My bar is packed and three people deep down the length of it. I get to cocktailing.

  I find time to drop off a fresh drink for her and then another. I start to think I might have to cut her off soon. The asshole is taking her laughter and smile as an open invitation and crowding her. She’s nice enough not to complain, but it pisses me the fuck off.

  It’s getting close to midnight and she looks tired. I know I am, but I have another hour before I get off work. When the asshole snaps his fingers at me three times, I go begrudgingly. “Close my tab.”

  A please would be nice, but what the fuck ever with him. It has started to feel like Constance is avoiding eye contact with me, so my mood has soured.r />
  Rule number one: Don’t get too close.

  Fucked that one right up. Now I’m left with the remnants to clean up. At least rule number two is safe. I hand him his change and just as I’m about to tell Constance that it was a pleasure to not just meet her, but spend time with her, she turns to the woman next to her, and says, “The Gimlets are amazing. You should order one from Hardy, in particular.” She’s nodding and though I can tell she’s definitely tipsy, she didn’t seem drunk until now. “He loves serving Gimlets. Don’t you, Hardy?”

  Confused to where she’s going with this, I eye her, and whisper, “What are you doing?”

  “Helping.”

  “Helping how exactly?”

  “Helping you find your next one.” Staring at her, I watch her nod, signaling to her barstool neighbor. “You know, a Gimlet girl.”

  “Don’t,” I reply, flatly. “Don’t help. I’m not a gigolo.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean to imply that.”

  “What did you mean then?”

  Asshole leans over. “Hey buddy, I don’t know what’s going on here, but it needs to end. She’s with me, so stop hitting on the customers, and stick with what you do best—serving them.”

  My spine straightens and my fists itch to punch his fucking face for talking to me like that. “I think it’s time for you to leave.”

  “I’m a good paying customer. Don’t make me report you to the manager.”

  “Hardy’s Hideaway. I own this place, so get the fuck out and don’t come back.”

  Looking at Constance, he says, “Come on. It’s late and I have a deposition in the morning.”

  Constance’s eyes close. When she reopens them, a muted shame is seen in the usually rich color, dulling them. “Hardy,” she starts, but asshole yanks her barstool back and paws her hand. Before she’s pulled away, she says, “I’ll see you.” What she said earlier slips out without the most important word attached—again—and I hate that I notice.

  Instead of watching her leave, I push down the sickening feeling in my stomach and start serving customers again. But that damn feeling doesn’t ease up once they’re gone and I stop, and look up. Gone.

  I’m just not ready to have her gone—from the bar . . . from my life? I toss the ice scoop into the bin and hightail it out from behind the bar and weave through the crowd toward the exit. Pushing the door open, it’s cold and snowing and I don’t have a jacket on, but step out anyway. She’s twenty or so feet away waiting for a cab. “Constance,” I call, just before she heads to the cab asshole has hailed.

  Her eyes go wide when she sees me, and says something to her date before coming back to me. “What are you doing out here?”

  I’m dumbfounded by the way she’s acting. Is it a show she’s putting on for that asshole? Or is this the real her? “I’m not chained behind the bar.”

  “You’re twisting my words.” She looks nervous, and glances back at her date before turning back to me. “What did you want to say?”

  “You know what’s funny?”

  “What?”

  “I’ve hooked up with more than my share of women in my life. I never felt ashamed or apologetic about it because I respected them. I gave them a good time. I had a good time, and it was always an act between two consenting adults.”

  Her date holds the cab door open. Impatiently, he says, “Come on, Virginia. It’s cold.”

  Virginia. Time is ticking, the seconds going from one beat to three in the blink of an eye. “I’ve owned every encounter I’ve had and never felt cheap. Until tonight, Constance.” I back toward the door, grabbing the handle.

  Those eyelids I enjoyed kissing an hour earlier close tightly. When she opens them, she says, “I’m sor—”

  I don’t want to hear it, so I open the door and cut her off, “And for the record, I wouldn’t have kept you waiting even a second knowing some other guy could come along and steal you away. Much less stand you up.”

  “Hardy?”

  “Goodbye.”

  I wish I could leave and go home. I’m not in the mood to stay, which is a first for me. I love my job, but disappointment is settling into my bones, an unfamiliar feeling of wishing it could have been different with her. I’m not sure what to make of my emotions. They’ve never flip-flopped on me like this. I’m probably just tired.

  The door closes behind me, and the crowd inside welcomes me with a cheer. With rule number two safely intact, it’s time to celebrate that same victory, though it doesn’t feel like one deep down. “Eddie, a shot for everyone.”

  Chapter Five

  My head is pounding. I drank way too much last night. I don’t normally drink on a Monday or while I’m working long shifts, but I needed something to wash away . . . I shake my head irritated with myself for even thinking twice about Constance much less thinking about her the minute I wake up.

  Women don’t affect me. Not usually. But there’s something about her, something different that made me want to spend time with her, still kind of do. Fuck. I enjoy a good morning tug, but she’s got Big Richard all screwed up. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he’s all fucked up over her too. My annoyance with his floppy behavior is unsettling on many levels.

  I reach over and pop some Ibuprofen, then down a bottle of water from my nightstand. Lying on my back, I stare up at the ceiling. It’s still dark out. If I can get my ass out of bed, I can run the bridge while the sun is rising.

  Motivation is key when it comes to me. Watching the sunrise while on the Brooklyn Bridge is something I like to do at least once a week. One reason is there’s nobody on the pedestrian path at that time of day. Another, I get to laugh at the poor saps commuting into Manhattan. I’m so glad I don’t have to report to an eight-to-five five days a week. I did that for years and I never want to do it again. Seeing the suits stuck in their cars and cabs reminds me of how good I have it.

  Motivation, my friend. Mot-i-vation.

  I flip the covers off and head to the bathroom. After shaking the snake, I pull on a pair of tighter than a duck’s ass compression pants and then loose athletic pants. I’m not letting anyone see me in tights, but they keep me warm, so two layers it is.

  Three layers on the upper body, gloves, thick socks, sneakers, and a hat and I’m out the door running. My headache has subsided and pounding the pavement beats my head pounding. My breath comes out in puffs of white air as I work my way through the neighborhood and up toward the bridge. It’s a sea of red brake lights on my approach. I smirk, feeling mighty proud that I’m choosing to be awake at this hour instead of forced to be. There’s a difference, and I worked hard to have the option.

  Pumping my arms, the slow incline becomes easier as I pick up speed. I see my stopping point ahead and run faster. I hit my mark and stop, bent over, out of breath. When I look up at the Manhattan skyline, I’m in awe of the way the sun rises giving the world a golden hue, even if just for a moment in time. If the run hadn’t, the sunrise would have taken my breath away.

  My heart rate evens and I stand there at the mercy of its beauty. Forget last night and troubles that aren’t really troubles. Look at the hope that rises in the east and sets in the west. Today is a new day, wiping our slates clean again.

  I start to get cold standing there, so I continue jogging the rest of the bridge enjoying the view with the slower pace. I cut right, heading for the Manhattan Bridge to loop back to Brooklyn. Stopped at a light, I push the button impatiently ready to carry on with my run and get back.

  “Hardy?”

  I swear I heard my name. Looking over my shoulder, nope. No one there.

  “Hardy?” Glancing over my other shoulder there’s a yellow cab. The passenger window is up and the cab driver looks half asleep. My gaze follows further back. Looking too beautiful for hers or my own good, I smile just from seeing her. Constance. Shit. It’s not Constance. I forgot. It’s Virginia. “Hi,” she says as if I’ve just made her day.

  I’m still smiling like a loon when I realize I’m su
pposed to be mad at her. “Hey,” I reply, checking to make sure the light hasn’t changed. That sinking feeling from last night sits solidly in the gut of my stomach. “You live in Brooklyn?” I ask, making casual conversation since we’re both stuck awkwardly at the same light. “I figured you for a Manhattanite.”

  “I am.” Her expression falls, reading mine. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but I’m sorry.”

  “No need,” I reply, waving the apology away so I don’t have to accept it. The pedestrian signal gives me the go-ahead, so go ahead I do. “Have a good life.”

  “Bye,” I hear behind me as I jog forward.

  Here’s the problem with the city—too many damn lights. Not twenty-five yards later and we’re both stuck at a light right next to each other again. When I spy her cab next to me, I start debating: should I say hi again or pretend I don’t see her?

  “Hi again,” she says.

  “Hi,” I acknowledge her against my better judgment, but I hate being rude even if we’re only meant to be a one-time kind of thing. Besides mucking up my morning wood earlier, now she’s screwing with my body and mind. I look down and see my pants pushing out. My jog is supposed to center me. I usually have clarity and solid focus afterwards, but when I look down, I’m solid all right.

  I’m actually impressed with the strength of these compression pants. They’re doing a fair job of restraining the will of a thousand armies down there. I’m still cautious about looking at her directly. She has some kind of super power that makes me want to toss my heart right into the ring of fire. And I’m not talking about anal, though I’m not opposed to that, quite the opposite. Fuck.

  She interrupts my pity party. “It’s good to see you again.”

  I pack away my tiny imaginary violin, and rub the back of my neck. “You mean from the last block?”