Page 6 of Prime Time Romance

But to get home, I need money.

And with my phone in my purse and my purse god knows where, the only way to get money is to borrow from Lainey, which at best means enduring a lecture about what a wet blanket I am.

Unless…

My eyes dart to the bar, where my other option is wiping down the counter and talking to a woman with excellent boobs.

Josh and I aren’t really friends.

We occasionally text each other the odd we’re out of paper towels or the water bill is high this month, but it’s not the kind of relationship where it’s normal to borrow money.

I hesitate, and as I do, a collective cheer goes up from the dance floor and the old-school mash-up morphs into a Katy Perry song interspersed with the sound of shooting laser beams.

My resolve crumbles and gives way to my survival instincts.

I head for the bar.

2

Josh

“What is this shit? I ordered a mojito. There should be mint and lime. You got that, boss?”

A dude in a baby-blue dress shirt flips his sunglasses onto his head, takes a long sip of the aforementioned mojito, and in turn pushes the half-drunk glass across the bar.

The bartender serving him is maybe twenty years old and has been working here at Devil’s for less than a week. Nice enough guy, but definitely still learning the ropes. He takes the glass, dumps it into the sink, and starts to look in the fridge for the mint that we don’t typically use, seeing as we are primarily a vodka soda type of establishment.

Sunglasses, annoyed that his drink is taking a moment, throws up his hands, muttering “Fucking idiot” loud enough to be heard above the thumping techno base. He catches my eye and holds out his hands as if saying, Am I right? Or am I right?

I grab a highball glass from the back of one of the high shelves. “Why don’t I take this one?” I say to the new guy, who nods with a “Thanks, man” before turning to serve what is hopefully a far more amicable customer.

I place the glass on the bar, grab a few sprigs of mint from the back of the fridge, stir in the pre-prepped mint simple syrup he got served the first time, and stir. “You’re right. This place seems to be full of idiots tonight.” I scoop three cubes of ice into the glass. “They’re letting anyone through the doors these days: real assholes, guys that never learned the life lesson that it’s in your best interest to be kind to the person pouring your drink. Never know what can happen when you’re not looking.”

I smile, pulling out what is now his fully made drink from behind the bar and placing it in front of him. He glances down at it, suddenly uneasy.

“Enjoy.” I push the glass toward him. “That will be eighteen-fifty.”

He stares at me with a half-open mouth.

I take the credit card out of his hand and run it through the cash register before he can find a new reason to complain. I hand him the bill but not the pen, knowing full well I’m not getting tipped on this one.

The brunette beside him, who’s been watching the entire exchange, smiles at me as he shoves the crumpled bill into his pocket, picks up the still-untouched drink, and storms off, letting a few choice F-bombs go in his wake.

She leans in, her long, dark hair spilling over her shoulder. “Bet he won’t make that mistake again.”

“Sadly, he probably will.” I wipe the spot in front of her with my rag. “What can I get you?”

She places her credit card on the bar top. “One vodka shot.” She pauses. “Actually, better make it three. I’m in the mood to make a few mistakes tonight.”

I pull out three glasses and pour her order. She pulls two shots toward her and then pushes the third toward me. I smile and lift it to my lips. But as she tips her head back, I toss the cheap vodka over my shoulder, with her none the wiser.

She slams her empty glass onto the bar and picks up the last untouched shot.

“Maybe I’ll see you around later?”

She’s a beautiful woman. I have been at this job long enough to understand exactly what she’s got in mind for later and learned long ago that my best response is a kind but firm “Enjoy your evening.”

I basically grew up in a bar and have been pouring drinks since the tender and legal age of nineteen, which means I have been one of those favorite mistakes more times than I care to count.