Page 30 of The Bartender Special

All he had to do to keep on the path that led there?

Survive the next three weeks pretending to be in a romantic relationship with one good-looking bartender.

Only in public, he had to remind himself.

That somehow made it more manageable. Survivable.

Benny fisted his hand and pumped it once with enthusiasm.

“Okay, so if we're really going to do this, I think we need to take an official first picture together,” he decided. “I mean, with our faces not just our hands. This would be a perfect place to do it since, well, it looks like we’re on a movie set.”

Jack surprised him with an immediate agreement.

He went from standing a healthy distance away to up close and touching in a flash.

“Let's turn around though so the truck isn’t behind us,” he said. “I don’t mind being judged by a Robertson or whoever but I’m not letting my truck take an online beating. Here, let me do it.”

Jack reached for his phone, opened the app, and had the front-facing camera going like he’d handled Benny’s phone countless times before. Or taken countless pictures of himself before.

Benny saw his own humored expression in the display at the thought.

“Why, Mr. Knox, do you take selfies often?”

Jack rolled his eyes.

“No, but I've seen Santana do it so many times at the bar that I’ve picked it up like second-hand muscle memory.” He outstretched his arm, thumb already hovering over the button to capture their picture. Benny watched his own face turn to disapproval.

“You may know how to work it, but you don't know how to work it.” He swatted at Jack’s hand and moved it upward. “You don’t take pictures of people, you take pictures of angles.”

Jack's brow rose.

Benny adjusted his chin slightly and smiled at the camera.

“Selfies aren't for looking cute. They're a war against double chins. No matter how perfect or imperfect you are, it is a war that never ends.”

“Sounds like you’re putting a lot of pressure on these angles,” Jack muttered.

It was Benny's turn to finally snort.

“Next time you're lounging on the couch, scrolling through your phone, I want you to turn your front-facing camera on without moving. Then you tell me who’s looking back at you. Idris Elba, or some troll under a bridge asking for money?”

“And the goal with this particular picture is Idris Elba,” Jack guessed.

Benny nodded, solemn.

“Attractive and classy, not demanding money in exchange for passage.”

They took the picture without any more directives.

For a moment after, no one said anything.

Then Benny broke the silence with a sigh.

“Not Idris Elba.”

“Not Idris Elba,” Jack agreed.

“We look like we just met each other.”