“Grab those two bottles,” she says, pointing to the well. “Turn them up and count to two.”
I don't even look at what liquor is in my hands. I catch her eye and wink. She lifts an eyebrow but doesn't say anything. She just looks back to my work. I do as she said.
“Now get these other two bottles and do the same thing.”
As I do, I pretend not to notice her eyes slip from the liquor to my upper body. She does a quick survey of my shoulders, pronounced beneath my thin t-shirt. So I do a sweep of those sweet tits. I hold the pour a count too long, and as I snap the bottles upright, our eyes meet.
Gone are the flirty smiles and sly glances. We've caught each other in a moment of appraisal, and for the following moment, we just stare. It seems it's mutual, she likes what she sees and so do I. For a flash, I think of Maria, with a hot shame that white-washes my thoughts. But then I remember the way she looks at Frederick sometimes, and the heat becomes anger. There's another world between them that I'll never be a part of. At times, I think I could be friends with him, if it weren't for that.
“Now you need that bottle,” she says. She points, but she doesn't look away from me.
I let my gaze travel downward, over the geisha tattooed on her forearm and off the tip of her finger. I grab the bottle and I don't look at her as I resume my bartending duties.
“Four counts.”
Her words are molasses, sticky sweet and slight southern twang. My gut stirs. Her point.
I glance up at her, leaning over the bar with easy confidence, her eyes all over me. She's not making being stuck in this space any easier. I make the pour. When it's done, she smiles, a cocky thing that raises my eyebrows in answer.
“You're going to need your gun,” she says.
I have no idea what to say that won't make me sound like a dumb ass, so I continue to stare until she reaches across the bar. Her hand comes so close to the zipper of my jeans I nearly squirm away from her, but she grabs the juice gun from its holster.
“About three counts of Coke, and a splash of sour,” she says, pushing the gun toward my hand with a smirk.
My cheeks are hot. I answer her with a devilish grin and channel some Southern charm when I say, “Yes ma'am.”
I finish the drink and pass it to her. She stirs it around with her straw, then she looks up at me as her lips close around the straw. I don't quite hide that I'm watching her mouth, not her eyes. She takes a drink, considers it, then shrugs.
“It'll do,” she says.
“You're too kind,” I say in a low tone.
“Finally making some friends, eh, Josh?”
The voice puts me on the defensive, only because it's so close. It's Jack. How did I not notice him exit the kitchen and cut behind the bar?
“Going to school, more like it,” says Eva with a laugh.
Jack answers with his own and says, “Better pay attention. I'd have her back here if I didn't need her on the floor. She learned from the best.”
The subtle mention of Noah is enough to create a lull in the good spirits. Jack recovers quickly, ducking into the beer cooler for something. I've noticed that beer is a staple in his recipes.
“I made my very own Long Island,” I say, glossing over the heavy thoughts.
He smiles, an older brotherly smile, and grabs the drink off the bar. He takes a sip from the glass and his nose crinkles.
He says, “That one's on the house. It tastes like shit.” He smacks me on the shoulder with a laugh and turns back to the kitchen. I watch him until he disappears through the swinging door, then I look back to Eva. She's trying not to laugh.
I shrug with a sheepish smile, totally contrived. She takes another drink and now she's trying not to grimace. A laugh breaks from my center, a deep gut laugh the likes of which I thought I'd never know again. All the confusion and anger and grief from recent events rolls from me in that laugh. The last time I was at this bar, sitting where she is now, I couldn't feel anything.
Losing my best friend will never stop hurting, but this sassy, sexy server has reminded me that I'm still human and I can still act human. Never mind the pending brutality on the other side of this coin, for at this moment, I can pretend I'm a bartender, flirting with a hot girl.
“At least you don't make them weak,” she says with that red smile.
“That's not really my style,” I answer.
She gives me another slow, blatant once-over then says, “What are you doing after work?”
Chapter 24 Guns and Grit
Isaiah
I stab my fingers against my closed eyelids. This part of the job always gives me a headache. It's not that the math is hard, it's just draining – like the past week has been. To see our lives there in black and white, it doesn't leave much room for speculation on the way things gotta go. In a way, it's nice to see a cut path, but that road is as daunting as it is solid.
We're not hurting money-wise, but money and supply are all we have left. Our home is gone. Everything that constituted our world, everything that wouldn't fit in the Caddy – erased to a smudge of ash. Now Maria has us poised to take the city back in a blaze of glory.
If we don't die. We have nowhere to go but up. Our odds are good from my point of view, and that's what bothers
