Business as Usual (Off The Subject)

by Swank, Denise Grover

I rouse, lifting my head. “What? I’m not settling another bet between you and Noah over whether the original Star Trek or Star Trek: The Next Generation is better. Now leave me the fuck alone.”

  “Then I guess you don’t care that your shift at the bar started ten minutes ago.”

  “Fuck!” I jump out of bed, disoriented. The bar. I need my black T-shirt and jeans.

  “You’re welcome,” Austin calls out, his voice sarcastic, and I feel like an asshole.

  Not feel like an asshole. I am one. I know this. I’ve carried a fucking chip on my shoulder since that night in late November when the police showed up my apartment. I was hosting a party of about thirty people to celebrate finally cutting the cord with Sabrina. Everyone who knew her knew she was toxic, everyone but me. So when the police knocked on my door, I figured a neighbor must have called in a noise complaint. Imagine my surprise when I discovered they were there to arrest me on rape and sodomy charges.

  My life has been a nightmare ever since. I was in too much shock to put up much of an argument when they cuffed my hands behind my back and read me my Miranda rights. The horrified and accusatory stares of my so-called friends will forever stick in my memory. The crowd parted to get a glimpse of the golden boy Ben Masterson, getting arrested for rape.

  The police shoved me into the back of a police car, then hauled me down to the station and locked me in a cell. My one phone call was to my father, who hung up on me before saying, “I raised you better than that.”

  I sat in a jail cell for two days before I was hauled to an arraignment hearing, where I was given a court-appointed attorney. I had no idea who I was even accused of raping until that moment.

  Sabrina.

  She’d shown up on my doorstep the night before the party, begging me to take her back. I sent her on her way, but not before she slapped me, digging her nails into my cheek. The police loved that piece of incriminating evidence and made sure to take plenty of photos of my face. It was the word of a local boy who went to a snobby school against Sabrina Richmond and her banking mogul father, Robert Richmond. Who were they going to believe?

  Sabrina thought she was smart, but she forgot one key piece of evidence in a rape case: DNA. I hadn’t had sex with Sabrina in over a week so there was no way my DNA would be in the semen they collected from her as evidence. Sabrina confessed it belonged to some guy she’d picked up at Belvedere’s bar, a place we used to hang out. The charges were completely dropped, but my father refused to post bail, so I ended up spending over a week in jail. By the time I was released, it didn’t matter that I was innocent. My face had been plastered all over the media. My father lost business because his son was a rapist. I lost my scholarship and was nearly expelled. All because of a selfish, coldhearted bitch.

  Carry a chip on my shoulder? Why the fuck wouldn’t I? My good friends stuck with me. They all knew what Sabrina was like. They’d seen how controlling she was of my free time. My roommates heard the middle-of-the-night, paranoid I was with another girl phone calls I fielded from her. My few true friends never doubted me. But the people who only knew me in passing judged. Whispers and snickers followed my every movement those first few weeks. I’d never felt so ostracized in my life. Cut off from my family and all but a handful of friends, everything I had had been stripped away.

  Three more months. Just three more fucking months and I’m out of this living hell.

  I really need a shower but I’m not sure I can spare the five minutes to take one. Then I think about all the tips I stand to lose if I don’t impress the female customers. After what has to be the quickest shower in the world, I throw on my clothes and jam my feet into my shoes.

  Austin is back on the sofa with Noah. Neither of them look up at me, which isn’t uncommon when they are absorbed in a video game, but the chill in the air tells me it’s for a different reason.

  I stop at the front door, my hand on the knob. “I’ve been a real dick over the last few months, and you guys have born the brunt of it. I’m sorry.” My voice cracks and both of my roommates shift their gaze to me. “Only a handful of people have stuck with me through this shit, and you two are in that group. You deserve better from me.”

  Noah picks up a pillow and throws it at my head. “Yeah, yeah. We love you too. Get out of here already.”

  I laugh and then sprint out the door, down the steps, and across the parking lot. My apartment is about a block behind the bar, so I never drive my car. I realize belatedly that my hair is still sopping wet and I forgot a coat, but it’s too late to turn back. It’s going to be cold as a son-of-a-bitch when I go home in the wee hours of the morning.

  I slip in through the back door and immediately see Uncle Tony manning the bar.

  “Ben.” he growls. “Where the hell have you been?” My father’s brother might be my boss, but it doesn’t get me a pass in the slacker department. I know Uncle Tony took a risk when he hired me after my arrest. He lost a few of his older, more regular customers, and my father is giving him the cold shoulder, but my uncle insists we’re blood and blood sticks together. Someone needs to tell my father that.

  “Sorry, Uncle Tony.”

  He reaches up and rubs my head. “You’re digging an early grave, Benjamin, running around with all these part-time jobs. Is it worth it?”

  I’ve asked myself the same thing every fucking day since I started this punishing schedule in December, but I’m too stubborn to give up. “I sure as hell hope so.”

  “You can be thankful that you’re such a hit with the young females of Hillsdale. Your presence has increased our revenue by forty percent and makes up for the idiots who left me for O’Malley’s after I hired you.”

  I start checking the glasses and supplies, making sure we’re ready for the night. “I’d like to think it’s my charming personality and not just my looks that appeals to the ladies.”

  “More like your notoriety,” he grumbles, heading to the backroom.

  My smile falls. Surely, he can’t be serious.

  I don’t have time to give it much thought. I’m thirty minutes late, and Tony is going to dock my pay, uncle or not. I need to pour on the charm so that my tips make up for it. The early evening is slow, but I expect business to pick up between eight and nine. Brittany, my co-bartender for the night, shows up an hour after I arrive.

  “Hey there, sexy,” she purrs as she struts behind the bar.

  “Hey, yourself.”

  Brittany is in her late twenties, a single mother of two toddlers, but you’d never guess it to look at her. She’s got dark brown hair with a streak of blue, a nose ring, big tits that catch any guy’s attention—particularly in the one-size-too-small T-shirt she wears to work—and a tramp stamp of a heart that’s always visible because of her aforementioned T-shirt. She has a job as a nurse’s aide at the local old folks home during the week, but as she’s admitted on more than one occasion, it doesn’t pay shit. The money she makes in one night here supplements her income by twenty percent.

  I like working with Brittany. She doesn’t hold back and always tells it like it is. She doesn’t play mind games like the majority of the women I’ve met in my twenty-one years of living, my own mother included. Brittany and I have worked out an arrangement that suits both of us most nights. Brittany waits on the guys and I get the girls. While I use my charm and charisma to rake in extra tips, Brittany uses her pure sex appeal.

  “There’s a Grizzlies game tonight,” Brittany says with a grin. “Tips should be good.” She definitely has the advantage in a bar that caters to sports. But I choose to see it as more of a challenge.

  I hold my hands out at my sides. “You think you can get more tips than me tonight?”

  Her eyebrows lift and she gives me a smirk. “Think? I know so, little boy.”

  “Then let’s bet on it. Loser closes on their own tonight.”

  She releases a throaty laugh. “You got a deal. I hope you’re ready to stay late.”

  I shake my head with a grin. “We’ll just
see about that.”

  The crowd begins to pick up and Brittany soon has the advantage—there’s a good two-to-one ratio of men to women tonight. Thankfully, a group of ten women comes in at around nine-thirty. It doesn’t take long for me to figure out that their night out is a bachelorette party. I flash a mischievous grin at Brittany, who’s realized the same thing.

  She curls her fingers and growls. “Go get ’em, tiger.”

  I rarely venture out from behind the bar. Brittany’s more prone to do it, especially when there’s a large group of guys watching a game. They like that she gives them personal attention and tend to show their appreciation with big tips. I usually do just fine behind the bar, but when a group of half-drunk women come in looking for a good time, I know when to leave my comfort zone. Especially if I want a shot at winning this bet.

  “Good evening, ladies,” I drawl with the accent I used before entering Southern three and a half years ago. The one I dropped to fit in more with my affluent classmates, though now I wish I hadn’t bothered. “What are you all celebrating tonight?” The answer is so obvious a blind man could see it, but I need to get the conversation rolling.

  “Jenny’s getting married!” one of the women shouts and the rest of the group screams shrilly. I resist the urge to cringe and flash them my sexy smile. “And which one of you lovely ladies is Jenny?”

  They giggle and point to a blonde wearing a tiara.

  I press my hand to my chest. “This gorgeous woman is Jenny?” I reach for her hand. “Any way you can call off the wedding? No? And to think, I never even got a chance.”

  The woman blushes and all her friends giggle in a way that tells me this isn’t their first stop. “Jenny’s taken, but I’m available,” one of them says.

  I scan the group. “Which one of you said that?”

  The girl who raises her hand looks suddenly shy. She’s in her early thirties and slightly overweight. Her hair is in a plain bob and there’s little to no makeup on her face. She’s exactly the kind of woman Sabrina always made fun of toward the end of our relationship. Sure, she never insulted the women to their faces—at least not when I was around—but the victims always knew. I decide I want this woman to feel good about herself before she leaves tonight. I don’t even give a fuck about the tips.

  When the woman sees that I’m skirting around the group toward her, she turns bright red and tries to look away. I pull up a chair next to her. “What’s your name?”

  Her mouth opens and closes like a fish tossed onto a creek bank.

  “Sophie,” the friend standing next to her volunteers with a giggle.

  “Hey, Sophie. I’m Ben. I don’t think I’ve seen you in here before.”

  Her lips part again and she finally says, “That’s because I’ve never been here before.”

  “Well, that has definitely been my loss.” I stand and push the chair under the table. “Ladies, as you may have heard me tell Sophie, I’m Ben and I’m going to take care of you tonight.”

  They shriek and I wait for a couple of them to make their obligatory they know how they’d like me to take care of them remarks.

  I tilt my head and give them a pretend stern look. “Now, now ladies. The night is young. Plenty of time for that.” I shift my weight. “I’m ready to take your drink orders if you know what you want, but I need to check all y’all’s IDs first.”

  The women are all in their late twenties and early thirties, but if I’ve learned one thing from this job it’s that women close to twenty-one hate it when they’re carded and women over thirty love it.

  They all show me their IDs, and I take particular time with Sophie’s. I get their orders and slide back behind the bar. Brittany, who’s been watching the show, glares at me.

  “Don’t fuck with that girl, Masterson.”

  It takes me a moment to get what she’s saying. My anger surges. “You think I’m fucking with her? What kind of asshole do you take me for?”

  “An asshole who’ll do anything to win a bet.”

  I shake my head in disgust. “Then I guess you really don’t know me.” But whose fault is that? I’ve been so angry these past few months that I’ve made playing the dick card an art. It’s no surprise that she’d think the worst of me. Her eyes fill with guilt when she hears the force behind my words. I lean closer and lower my voice. “I’m not fucking with her, okay? She’s the kind of girl that Sabrina used to trash. I don’t know why I want to be nice to her. I just do.”

  “Sorry,” she says. “I can be a real jerk sometimes.”

  Although Britt knows about the rape charges and my bitterness toward Sabrina, I’ve told her very little about our relationship, other than she was a first-class bitch even before the false accusation. I grin. “No shit.”

  She flashes me a smile in return before getting serious again. “But be careful with that girl, Ben. If you’re too nice to her, she’s not going to understand when you don’t ask her out. I think it’s sweet that you want to help build her self-esteem, but be careful.”

  Sensing the truth in her words, I nod.

  Her smile returns. “And don’t worry. I won’t tarnish your rep as a dickhead by letting people know that you actually have a soul.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “So we good?” she asks, her eyebrows raised.

  “Of course.”

  I put in the group’s order for appetizers and make their drinks. I’m about to take their order to the table when the door opens and a group of people walks in the door, laughing and talking loudly.

  Brittany looks up as she’s pouring a draft beer.

  I recognize this group immediately. They’re the theater kids who came in the night before. They stuck together while they were here, tipped well. But I’m kidding myself by pretending I’m not looking for one of their number in particular. I haven’t seen her yet.

  My eyes are on the door as I put the drinks on the tray, so I’m watching when it finally opens and she runs through it. The guy she was with last night is close behind, and he snags her hand and pulls her back to him. They shut the door and join their group.

  “What’s the story with her?” Brittany asks, standing behind me.

  I look away. “Who?”

  “Don’t play stupid with me,” she says with a laugh. “We both know who. What’s the story?”

  I shake my head and scowl. “There’s no story. They’re the cast and crew from the theater down the street. Their play has a two-night run. They came in last night and they’re back tonight.”

  “And…?”

  “And nothing.” I try to get around her, but she blocks my path. “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “That’s bullshit. I saw you talking to her when you took her order, then you watched her for the rest of the night. What’s her name? You at least have to know that,” she teases.

  I press my lips together in irritation. “Alexa. Now get out of my way, or I’m going to blow my tips from the rowdy bachelorette party.” I lift an eyebrow. “Or is that your plan?” I try to sound pissed, but we both know I’m on the defensive.

  She scoffs and steps aside. “As if I needed any help. Get to it.” She smacks me on the ass as I pass by.

  The ladies are happy to see me and the band begins to set up while I’m setting their glasses on the table.

  The theater group is at the next table and I keep stealing glances. Alexa is sitting next to the guy who escorted her inside and there’s a notable change in the way they’re interacting tonight. His hand rests high on her upper thigh and she’s not brushing it off. Something about her is different too…there’s a confidence that wasn’t there before.

  Why I give a rat’s ass is beyond me, yet I do. I’m not jealous, more like intrigued. Something about this girl has crawled under my skin since she burst in the door with her friend the night before. She took in the room with a gaze that said everything she saw was hers to be conquered. Next she intrigued me with her ambitious summer program. Then when she went out onto the
dance floor, she caught the attention of every human in the room in possession of a pair of balls. Perhaps she’s a siren.

  I nearly choke on my own thought. When did I turn into a romantic?

  I head back to the bar, but then turn on my heels. I’m already over here. I might as well take the orders for the theater group’s table and keep all the tips. Or at least that’s what I tell myself as my feet carry me to the table where she’s sitting.

  “How was tonight’s performance?” I ask, trying to not stare at her. Her black hair is a sharp contrast to her pale skin and startling blue eyes. I now worry that this was a bad idea because my eyes are drawn to her, as if I can’t control myself.

  Look at someone else, idiot.

  I tear my gaze away and find her friend, the girl who came to the bar to get her last night, and focus on her. She’s pretty and she likes the attention I’m giving her. She was alone then, and I don’t see a guy with her tonight either. Unattached. Good choice.

  “Great!” is the group’s enthusiastic response.

  I take their orders, sneaking glances at Alexa, but she’s too busy looking at the guy she’s with to even notice. What the fuck is wrong with me?

  I head back to the bar to get their drinks, an easy order. Most of the guys want beer; a couple of the girls want wine. My mystery girl wants a lemon drop martini. I tell myself that the fact that I remember it’s her drink from the night before makes me an attentive bartender, not a stalker worthy of my almost sex-offender label.

  “Well?” Brittany asks.

  “Well, what?” my irritation is real this time, though it’s not necessarily directed at her. More because I don’t know a goddamn thing about Alexa other than she’s working for the charity and that her electric blue eyes are hypnotic.

  Brittany laughs. “Never in a million years would I have thought some random girl could do this to you, Benjamin.”

  “Fuck off, Britt.”

  She laughs again and walks away to wait on a customer.

  I understand why she’s so amused. I’ve worked here for almost three months, and until now, the only interest I’ve shown in a customer is in how much I can get her to tip me. Tonight I’ve expressed an interest in two.