by Lanie Jacobs
“The band’s really good.” She leans against the locker and stares me down like I’m suddenly the worst person on the face of the planet. “And you told him you’d message him.”
“People agree to do things they never intend on doing all the time.”
“Oh, would you look at that, Jane’s trying to justify acting like an asshole.”
“How am I acting like an asshole?”
“How aren’t you acting like an asshole? The guy likes you and you’re just blowing him off because you don’t like having to deal with people.”
“Can you please change the record?” I run a hand over my head to smooth out any escapees from my ponytail
“Fine,” she sighs, “but he’s totally hot and totally into you and you could really use a hot goy who’s totally into you.”
“And you use the word totally way too much.” I tell her. “And you’re totally full of crap .”
“And you’re being an idiot.”
“Well, maybe I enjoy being an idiot.” I shot back. Molly was like a poodle with a bone when it came to things like this. I’d already kicked myself in the ass for telling her about kissing Micah the other night and she’d made me go ever each and every detail until she’d completely take the fun right out of the whole encounter and now she wasn’t letting the texting thing go.
“Well, maybe you do.” She crosses her arms over her chest and glares at me. “And maybe you’re just an insolent brat who needs to get laid.”
“I’m not a brat.”
“So you’re sticking with insolent and needing to get laid.” She nods as if I’ve given her some sort of clarification on the depths of my soul.
Too bad those depth didn’t go much further than muddy puddle on a hot day in July.
“I tell you what,” I said as I tied my little red apron around my hips “you stay in here and contemplate my sad, pathetic existence while I go out and get the bar set up.”
Molly made a stink face. “I’m not contemplating anything. I’m simply attempting to get you to engage in a healthy human interaction every once in a while.”
“I’m a bartender, I get all the human interaction I can stand.” I remind her.
“I notice you didn’t call it healthy interaction.” She crosses her arms over her chest and I swear if the chick had a notepad and an abnormal psychology paper to write she’d be making me a case study right now.
“Oh, come on now. Don’t you pin that one on me and my psychosis. In an hour this place is going to be crawling with drunken horny people. It’s gonna be wall to wall stupidity, hormones and alcohol. I dare you to find a speck of meaningful or healthy human interaction in that fucked up mess.”
“That’s a sweeping statement.”
“Yes it is. It’s very broad and sweeping and I’m standing by it.” I move past her toward the door. I love Molly, she’s the best friend I’ve ever had but sometimes I get tired of having my brain picked apart. “Explain to me why I like you? I’m starting to forget.”
“Because I put up with your stupid crap?” She laughs. “And I’m the only person you can’t totally piss off with that mouth of yours.”
I wait at the door for her to come with me but she doesn’t budge from her spot at the lockers. If she was anyone else I might think she was looking for a few apologetic words to come tumbling out of my mouth but she isn’t big on that sort of crap. I decided to placate her with something nearer and dearer to her heart. “You want to come over on Tuesday and I’ll work on your dreads for you?”
She smiles at me. “Is this a peace offering?”
“Yes.” I put my hands on my hips and bat my eyelashes. “Am I doing it right?”
“Not really, but I’ll bring a fresh bottle of Manic Panic and let you do my roots too.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I agree, “and after that I’ll try out a few new drinks on you.”
“Oh, yeah. Drunken Hair Night.” Her voice is tinged around the edges with sarcasm and the smallest hint of anxiety since we’ve had our share of bad things happen at drunken hair night. Well, it’s mostly bad things happening to her because of my ability to talk her into just about anything once she gets a few drinks into her system.
“Oh, come one. It’s not like I’m going to get out the clippers and shave the back of your head,” I squawk.
“Yep, I’d rather we didn’t repeat that one.” She lets out a long, mournful sigh. “I still can’t look at a bottle of gin and not miss that chunk of hair.”
“Hair grows back.”
“And why is it we never do anything to your hair?”
“Because there’s nothing to do with my hair. It’s straight. It’s brown. The most interesting thing about my hair it that my bangs are too thick. End of story. Your hair, on the other hand requires a lot of upkeep and since you refuse to spend any real money on getting your dreads taken care of properly you are stuck with me. Stuck with me to the bitter end, Dollface.”
“You keep telling yourself that and maybe one day you’ll actually believe it.” She gives me her customary eye roll. “So? You gonna text him or what?”
“Nope. I am going to get to work,” I say with as much firm conviction as my undersexed self can muster. “You coming out there or are you hiding in here till your shift starts?”
“I’m in the mood to hide.”
“You not ready to face all those empty pretzel bowls?” I sigh my most wistful sigh and open the door.
“I just don’t know if I have the strength to deal with it anymore.” Her answer is nice and bitter. Just the way I like it.
“If you promise not to tell I’ll let you slip a little cyanide into the fresh bag of peanuts I’m about to break open.” I whisper before walking out of the room.
“I’ll be out in five!” Molly yells as I close the door.
*****
It’s half past ten when I catch sight of Micah standing at the end of the bar. He’s wearing a faded shirt with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. He’s got tattoos covering both arms. Why I didn’t zero in on his ink the first time I say him is beyond me. It’s usually one of the first things I like to check off my hot guys list.
“What are you doing here?” I have to shout to be heard over the noise. The band is in full swing and the place is packed. Not exactly the right atmosphere to make nice.
He places a hundred dollar bill on the bar and waits for me to finish my orders.
“Three bartenders?” He nods to the two other women working behind the counter. “Band must be pretty damn good.”
“And it’s Saturday night,” I say. “Seems you picked the right night to come back in.”
Micah tilts her head as he hands me the money and sits down on the barstool. “You texted me.”
“No, I didn’t.” I slip the bill into my apron and hop up on the step ladder. We’ve got a bottle of Midleton Irish Whiskey with his name on it. “You up for a bit of the hard stuff tonight?” I ask as I pour him a shot.
“Yes I am and yes you did.” Micah reaches into his pocket, pulls out his phone and hits the message icon and holds it up for me to read:
Good band tonight. Check it out. Jane
“I didn’t send that to you.” I watch him down the shot and quickly pour him another. My hands are shaking a little but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let anyone see me spill alcohol on the bar. I’m cool, calm and collected. Just like my mama taught me.
“You’re the only one who has my number.” He takes the shot glass in his hand, tosses it back and slams it down on the bar.
“In the entire world?” I shake my head and pour another shot.
“Just you and my parents.” I reaches into his other pocket and pulls out another bill. If this guy isn’t made of cash I don’t know what the fuck he’s made of. He seems to have hundreds in every damn pocket.
“Maybe it was from your mom?” I suggest and pour another one. “Maybe her name’s Jane too?”
“I doubt that very much since her name Feath
er and she doesn’t believe in having a cell phone. Or a computer or a television.” He tells me and picks up the glass. “Or a microwave or electricity.”
“And her name’s Feather? Let me guess. She’s a hippie.”
“No.” Micah shakes his head, pressed the glass to his lips and takes the drink. “My grandparents were hippies. She and my dad were raised on a commune. In Maine actually. Up past Waterville.”
“I know Waterville.” I take a breath. People are screaming all around us for refills on drinks I hate making and all I want to do is stand in this one spot and feed Micah whiskey till the sun comes up. This is a terrible way to try and run a business.
“It’s past Skowhegan actually.” He tells me
I put the cap back on the bottle and put it back up on the shelf. “I don’t know Skowhegan.”
“Longest continual agricultural fair and home of the whoopie pie.” He points to the bottle of whiskey and gives me a strange look. “How come that one doesn’t have one of those metal things on the top?”
“Because it’s expensive whiskey.” I lean in and snatch the second hundred dollar bill out of his hand “And because no one’s gonna open it till you show up again. Now, will you please tell me what you’re doing here?”
“The text.” He hands me his phone, sits back and smirks. I hadn’t realized how much I missed looking at his face until he was sitting in front of me again.
That’s really not a good sign.
“Molly.” I grit my teeth as my brain makes sense of the string of numbers at the top of the screen. No wonder that little shit wanted me out of the locker before her. She must have rummaged through my bag looking for his number and then taken my sex life into her own hands...so to speak. “That’s Molly’s number. Not mine. I didn’t text you. She did.”
“You gave her my number?” Micah tilts his head to the side. He giving me a look that says he’s not buying what I’m trying to sell.
“Calm down, Cowboy. I wrote you’re number on a coaster. She must’ve taken it out of my locker.”
“You wrote my number on a coaster?” “
“Yes? So?” I shrug and start taking empty abandoned glass off the bar. I really didn’t have time to moon over this guy. It was Saturday night and I’m there to make money.
“You took the time to transcribe it off your arm. Does that mean you were planning on calling me?” Apparently he hadn’t gotten my money making memo.
“No!” I yelled as I took an order for a vodka gimlet.
“Are you sure?” He yells back. “A coaster is pretty serious. It’s not a napkin. It’s easy to throw a napkin away or lose it in the washer but a coaster? That means something.”
“Yeah, it means you need a drink. I’ll start you a tab.” I announce before handing the gimlet over to its new owner. “What’s you poison tonight?”
“You’re the mixologist. What do you recommend?”
I laugh. Now he’s trying to blow rainbow colored unicorn smoke up my ass. This guy must be desperate to get fucked. “Mixologist? Where’s you hear that line of bullshit?”
“Portland Magazine. They did a spread on you a few years ago. You were on the cover.” He leans his elbows on the bar and flashes me his brightest smile.
“Were you creeping on me?” I asked as I fill an order for a round of tequila shots.
“No. But I checked out the bar’s website and it had a link. Apparently you’re one of the best bartenders in the city.”
“It’s a small city.” I shoot back. “The pool is pretty limited.”
“Wow.” He sits back and gives me a knowing look. “You just do not know how to take a compliment, do you?”
I took an order for a mojito and threw him a sour face. “How about a Rusty Nail?”
“For my coffin?” He laughs and runs a hand though his hair
“For your gut.” I can’t help staring at him. Running my hands through that hair seems like such a nice distraction. “It’s a drink. Scotch and Drambuie.”
“Sound’s good.”
He watches me moved around the bar taking more orders and mixing drinks. I know I’m supposed to be bothered by the intense level of attention he’s ready to pay me and, technically, I should still be pissed about the fake out behind the bar the other night but I’m not. I’m not pissed or creeped out or anything. A little attention by this guy fells pretty fucking good right now.
I save his drink for last even though I took his order first. I figure that making him wait the few extra minutes means I can justify letting him chat me up for a bit.
“So, how good is the band?” He asks as I set the honey colored drink in front of him.
“They’re complete crap. You should probably go home after you finish that.” I tease.
“Not a chance. I’m here to check out them out.” He picks up the drink and takes a sip. “That’s really good.”
“If you were really here for the band you’d be over by the stage and not over here making googly-eyes at me.” I tell him with a smirk of my own. “
“You should have dinner with me after work.” He shrugs his wide shoulders and promptly ignores my ability to point out the obvious.
“I’m not outa here until two in the morning.”
“Twenty-four hour diner. My treat. All the breakfast you can stand.” He puts his elbows on the bar and leans closer so he doesn’t have to yell. “Bacon and pancakes? I think you’ll find I’m an excellent conversationalist at two in the morning.”
“You’re not going to let this one go are you?”
“Nope.”
“Fine. This is me throwing in the towel.” I put both hands on the bar and stared him down. In this light his eyes looked dark questioning. Not pleading, like most guys. They were nice eyes to look into. “You meet me at Sami’s on Exchange Street at eleven tomorrow morning and I’ll let you buy me brunch.”
“Excellent.” He takes another sip of his drink.
“Be warned. I am not a cheap date.”
“Not a problem.”
“And I like to eat,” I say,“a lot.”
“Also, not a problem.”
“If you’re looking for one of those girls who push her food around with her fork while she giggles at your lame-ass jokes you need to keep on looking because I am not that girl. You got that?” I pull a clean rag out from under the counter and start wiping down the bar. I may as well look busy while I’m making plans for tomorrow.
“Got it.” He put his drink down and does his best impersonation of a serious person. “I like a woman who enjoys her food.”
I stop what I’m doing and take a deep breath. Playing head games isn’t something I’m fond of so I decided to just put it all out on the table. “And just so you know, if you’re planning on trying to get me into bed you need to go buy a fresh box of condoms because I check expiration date and if they’re older than two years you and I will not be knocking boots. You got that?”
“I always thought they were good for up to three years.” Micah doesn’t even blink, doesn’t crack a smile or change his expression. It’s like we’re discussing the colors of the rainbow.
“I’m not taking any chances.” I tell him. “The best place to go to get the good quality ones is Condom World down in the Old Port.”
“Fine. You want rubbers straight from the factory. Anything else on your list of demands? Maybe vegan condoms or something? Glow in the dark maybe?”
“Not that I can think of.”
“You can always text me if you do.” He suggests. “Or have your friend do it for you so you won’t look like you might actually like me.”
“Thin ice, buddy. You are skating on thin ice.” I warn as I run the rag across the bar top next to him. “You better hurry up and get in there the band’s really good.”
“Are you going to try and kick me out after I finish my drink?” Micah hops off his barstool and grabs his drink.
“Not this time, but you better watch your step.” I warn him.
“And you better show up tomorrow.” He shoots back. “I don’t want to have to come back here on a Wednesday night and try to seduce you all over again.” He gives me a smile and for a brief second I’m certain that he’s going to lean across the bar and kiss me but he only moves into the crowd behind him.
Chapter Three
Sami’s Diner is strategically placed for my maximum happiness and enjoyment.
In less technical jargon, this means that I live about a three minute walk from my favorite place to eat. Of course this wasn’t a coincidence since I specifically chose my apartment because it was located smack in the middle of everything I needed for a comfortable existence.
From my evil little lair I have easy access all the places that I love without having to get in my car. Except work. Well, the club was within walking distance but I didn’t really love being there anymore.
But that isn’t the important thing on this bright, sunny Sunday afternoon.
What is important is that Micah’s standing outside Sami’s when I got there. I don’t know why it was important to me since all I planned to do was chow down and then let him fuck my brains straight out of my head.
But there he is and it makes me happy.
I’ll be goddamned if daylight doesn’t look even better on him than the bazillion dollar lighting at the club does. No one has the right to just keep getting sexier every single day.
This really isn’t fair.
I’d just managed to roll out of bed, brush my teeth and put my hair up into a sloppy ponytail about twenty minutes earlier and here he was looking like a hipster sex-god. I’d contemplate turning around and running back to my apartment except for the fact that I’ve gotten close enough to catch his eye.
A wide smile spreads across his face.
I’d like to tell myself that that smile is just for me but history’s shown me that it’s just not true. Smiles like that are a dime a dozen. I tell my little lizard brain not take any of this personally.
This guy’s just looking to get laid.
Same as me.
“Hey there,” He pushes away from his spot under the restaurant awning and steps toward me. “I wasn’t sure if you were going to make it.”