I point at her, and see her shorts hiked up a little on one side, showing a glimpse of pink panties. Pink? Come on! Is she trying to kill me?
“Hey! Don’t ever call me that! I told your Mom not to pull that shit long ago! We are not related!” Turning to the wall, I punch it and almost break my hand. The pain feels so sweet! “Troy is perfect. He’s a good guy. I’m not.”
“You’re the best guy I know!”
Locking eyes with her, I grunt, “No good guy would be thinking the things I’m thinking about his best friend’s daughter.”
Her breath catches at my admission. “I’m all grown up now, Jack.”
I grab the doorknob and mutter, “Don’t I know it,” yanking the door almost off its hinges as I storm out.
TROY
I ’m flipping through a magazine about entrepreneurship for articles that catch my eye. And I’ve gotta say, Jack’s scarred, brown leather couch sure is a comfortable place for a man to lay back and relax. He really knows how to do it right.
At our last poker night, always held here, David told me I was an idiot for leaving bartending behind me. He’s wrong.
“You got laid every night!”
Another player named Clay, someone I never saw outside of poker, chuckled, “With his hair, he could get laid every night if he was a janitor.”
He was right. It hangs to my chest, mid-pectoral muscle, in sheets of black waves girls love to run their hands through.
Jack muttered as he threw down his cards, muscles in his forearms flexing. “My luck is shit tonight.”
David was raking it in, and ignored his buddy’s utterance. Still fixated on me, he demanded, “Bartending is like the best of all worlds. They’re paying you to drink and pick up women.”
I laughed, “That’s not what they’re paying me for.”
Martin, who rarely showed up at these because his wife believes he’s cheating on her (he isn’t), argued while he pulled another card. “The hotter the bartenders, the higher the volume of returning customers. Lube them up and the guys and girls think they’ve got a chance. So they return time and time again, aching for that dangling carrot to dip into their greedy mouths one more time.”
We stared as he turned over his hand and won the round.
David grumbled, “If I could have said it like that, I would’ve. But yeah, Martin nailed it. That’s what I meant.” His chips slipped away as he watched. He was still ahead, but any loss really hit David hard.
I got up to grab the bottle of whiskey we left in Jack’s bar. He has this incredible set-up any fellow billionaire would nod approval at. For the everyman like myself, with big dreams and a bigger challenge, it was envy material. But Jack was such a down-to-earth dude that you had to admire him.
Everyone playing with us that night lives at different income levels. Martin works in a boring office doing who cares. Clay is a trust-fund kid turned philanthropic do-gooder. David runs a company in Buckhead that I always forget to ask him about. Truth is, if you get him talking about his life he always goes back to Lorraine and Kyle and then we’re stuck digging him out of the grave he threw himself in. He has cash, lots of it, but other than the Porsche, doesn’t enjoy it.
I would.
And I will.
I’ve got an idea for an app that could help a lot of people. When it came to me, I felt it in my balls that I was meant for greatness. Tossing martinis into the waiting lips of spread legs wasn’t that.
David tried one last time. “If I were a bartender, I’d be—”
“If you were a bartender,” Jack cut him off, “we’d be scraping you off the floor.” Dealing a new hand, he smirked, “What you need, Davey my boy, is a purpose again.”
“Fuck that. I had one. She ran out with a guy named—”
We all joined in to say it, “Kyle.”
He glowered at us.
“Stop fucking whining and man up,” Jack chuckled as we looked at the hands we were dealt. “The time is now.”
“For?”
“Anything you want.”
The front door flings open so violently I half expect an armed militia to explode into Jack’s loft-style penthouse, despite the beams of sunlight streaming through the windows like angels are pointing the way to comfort.
I sit up and sputter, “Da fuck?”
But it’s just Jack.
He storms into the kitchen and throws open his industrial-sized fridge.
With interest, I watch my normally calm and in-control friend throw lunch meats, white cheddar cheese, and veggies onto the black-marble counter his assistant, Bobby, just cleaned before he left to run errands. He’s here three days a week when Jack’s in town. And he’s got a crush on him.
Can’t blame him, even though I’m not into guys, like Bobby is. Jack’s primal good looks could potentially make a straight man question his sexuality.
He’s a decade older than me and I plan to look that good when I get there. He gives no thought to his age, operating like he’s in his twenties. The man works out on the regular, keeps his humor sharp as a German blade, and goes after what he wants like he knows he can. Pure kid confidence, the kind you have before life hurts you. The man is made of something that can’t be hurt.
To see him making his sandwich like he’s punishing it for being delicious is pretty amusing.
“I hate to ask the obvious,” I smirk, turning the page of my magazine, “…but is something bugging you?” I look up to see him coming at me. “Whoa!”
He stabs the air with his thick index finger. “You’re moving out.”
The mag drops to my lap. My stomach turns over. It was a hell of an offer to let me move into his guest room while I get my app off the ground. I almost didn’t accept because it was too generous. Sure, he’s got cash coming out of
