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Scratch that. Apparently, I know nothing about plants.
“Thanks.” I set it on the bar.
“Now get to work. You’ve got to restock garnishes, and you’ve only got an hour for prep.”
“Yes, boss.”
She gives me a one-finger salute as she sashays away, disappearing into her office.
Bar backing during college made it easier to decline party invites, and what little I earned went straight into my loans. As a bonus, since I rarely drank, I gained the trust of the owners and was promoted pretty quickly. In turn, I came to enjoy the bar scene, as long as I was on the other side of the counter.
Rochelle claimed that it fulfilled my need to look after people.
I kept going post-graduation, working two jobs, keeping myself busy. Most of my day jobs ended up being low-level office work because I’ve never been interested in having a job I couldn’t leave behind when the workday ended. There’s more to life than devoting my energy to a corporation that would ditch me once it helped their bottom line.
Now that the mortgage is in place, I can’t quit the call center until I find something else. As much as I love working at Lady Luck, the hours I get here won’t cut it on their own.
But that’s a problem for another day.
“Didn’t take you for a plant daddy,” Bram teases as he saunters up to the bar. He’s dressed in his fireman outfit, jacket open and six-pack glistening. So he’s doing “Burn” tonight, all right.
“It’s Rochelle’s idea of a housewarming gift.”
“Okay, but you have to tell me your thoughts on monstera leaves.”
“I would if I had any idea what you just said.”
“Oh buddy, you’re in for a treat.”
I slide a glass of water over to him. The dancers tend to not drink enough when they’re working, especially the guys—it stifles the muscle definition, apparently—but I’ll take any opportunity I can to keep them hydrated.
Even if those abs are fucking hot.
I knew I liked guys even in college, but a few clumsy encounters in club bathrooms determined my interest was purely physical. Dating men has never interested me. Ittook a while to reconcile that against my sexual orientation, and occasionally the guilt gets to me.
Then I come to work and remember that I have nothing to prove to anyone. There’s no test to pass to be queer, and anyone who says differently is an asshole.
“So you’ve got the house now. What’s next?”
I look up from my prep. “What do you mean?”
Bram shrugs. “Step one of the I’m a Big Boy Now plan is complete. Have you thought about what you’re going to do after that?”
Only every second of the day.
“You mean, apart from spend the rest of my life in debt?”
He snorts. “You weren’t already?”
“Fair,” I admit. Between the house and what’s left of my student loans, the bank could ask me to bend over, and I’d hand them the lube.
“Oh, we’ve got a bookshelf we never used, if you want it. You’ll have to put it together yourself, but something tells me those muscles aren’t just for show.”
“You didn’t need to do that.”
“I know. But you mentioned your girl likes books, so.”
“Writes books,” I clarify. “And she’s not my girl.” No matter how much I want her to be.
