Page 1 of Spiced!

Chapter 1

Adrian

The woman with the clipboard arrived at six-thirty.

This was a problem for several reasons. First, my shift didn’t start until eight. Second, I was still holding a pastry box and had flour on my shirt. Third, and most importantly, she walked through the front door of Barbacks with the focused energy of a general who had studied the terrain, found it acceptable, and was now prepared to occupy it.

The woman was maybe thirty. She had dark hair, somewhere between brown and black, pulled back into a ponytail so tight that it made her eyes stretch back.

Oh, and she wore a sash that said, “Bride Tribe,” in rhinestones.

Behind her marched thirteen more women, also sashed and bedazzled, moving like some very loud, half-drunken human amoeba. They spread across the center section of the bar, claimed every available stool and two-thirds of the high-tops, and began taking photos of Benji, Jacks, the bar, the gay flags dangling from the ceiling, and, oddly, the ceiling itself.

I leaned against the doorframe of the back entrance and watched all of this happen.

Benji fled the bar and appeared at my elbow. He looked like a man who had suddenly and inexplicably found religion—or lost it. I wasn’t sure.

“The first pair of them arrived twenty minutes ago. You saw the rest just now,” he said quietly.

“It’s six-thirty.”

“I know.”

“Benji, there are—” I counted. “Fourteen women in our gay sports bar.”

“Fifteen if you count the bride, and I think we should count the bride because she’s wearing a veil and a sash and a button that says, ‘Last Ride, Make Me Beg.’ She has a crazed look in her eyes that scares me a little.”

The bride was twenty-five at most, already working on what appeared to be her second drink, possibly her sixth. She radiated the energy of a woman who had been told this was her last night of freedom and had taken that information far too seriously.

“Why are they here so early?” I asked.

Benji pressed his lips together in the expression he wore when a story was almost too good to tell. “I asked Ms. Clipboard that exact question. Very professionally, she informed me, and I’m quoting here, that they heard our food was ‘super sick’ and the bride wanted to eat before they continued bar hopping.”

“The bride,” came out a moan.

“Madison’s her name. Apparently eating here was her personal request.” He paused. “It was not on the schedule, and Ms. Clipboard was not pleased.”

I glanced toward the woman in question, who was standing very straight at the edge of the group, clipboard pressed to her chest, lips pursed so tight I wondered if they’d need a crowbar to part again.

“She doesn’t look happy,” I said.

“Thank you, Captain Obvious.” Benji snorted. “But Madison is the bride, and Courtney, Ms. Clipboard, is the MOH. There is a hierarchy to these things that apparently even a laminated schedule can’t override. I think it’s kind of like a Brit trying to tell the Queen ‘no.’ One simply doesn’t do such things.” Benji said the last bit in the worst British accent any Asian man has ever attempted. Then he added, “I respect it, honestly. True leadership is adjusting to the terrain.”

“How long does it take fifteen women to eat?” I asked, then added, “Never mind. I probably don’t want to know.”

Benji opened his mouth.

Then he closed it.

Jacks stopped on his way to the back, empty ice bucket in hand. “Hey, Adi, ready to shake your snake?”

I shook my head and tried not to chuckle. Jacks was adorable, like a giant, gullible, lovably muscled teddy bear, but bless his heart, he could be thick at times.

“Hey, Jacks. Always ready to dance,” I said, sidestepping snake talk. “Where’s Finn?”

“Office,” Jacks said, nodding his head toward the back.

“Does he know?” I asked.