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Holding my breath, as though readying to dive underwater, I brace my body and bolt into the cold, move my feet too quickly on a sidewalk slick with ice, and skid and slide my way into the bar.
In total, I’m outside for less than thirty seconds, but I still enter Tim’s with snow in my shoulder-length hair and an ache burning the tip of my nose.
The darkness in here, I find, is different from the darkness outside. Tim’s windows are already tinted, blocking out streetlights and whatever illumination the moon might provide on a clearer night. But the lighting in here is dim, too.
Directly across from the front door is a long bar, and behind it, a mirrored wall stacked to the ceiling with bottles of liquor. To my right, booths and tables for eating, and to my left, pool tables, stools, and people milling around the rowdy players who compete with a pool cue.
Behind the bar, a man who may only be a couple years older than me walks the length of the room and serves whoever catches his eye. I don’t know if he’s Tim, or Tim’s godson twice removed, but he’s sexy in a tight-shirt-and-broad-chest, lumberjack kind of way.
A black beard covers the bottom half of his face; not one of those super long, unkempt beards, but the Barbers of the World type, where he pays a chunk of his income for a cool guy with an equally cool beard to help him get the exact right look. He wears a tight shirt, a little like that guy from the airport, an unbuttoned flannel on top, and beneath all that, a pair of jeans that make his ass look good when he turns to reach the top shelf.
A black hat covers the top of his head and shadows his eyes, robbing me of their color and the chance to confirm the length of his hair. Though from what I can see in the shitty light, he keeps it an inch or so long, sexy and groomed, like his beard.
This guy is hot, he’s my new neighbor, and I’m starving.
Crossing the room and luxuriating in the warmth of the half-filled bar, I rub my arms to create friction, and grin when the bartender turns and meets my eyes. He holds a bottle of scotch in his left hand, and a crystal glass in his right, and though he continues working, pouring the drink, his eyes stay on mine as I slide onto a stool near the pool table end of the bar.
Of the twenty or so seats bolted to the floor, about half are empty, and most of them with asses attached are at the other end, leaving me to my solitude so I can look around.
This place seems to be the ‘local’ type, as in not the kind of bar where twenty-one-year-olds come to party, but the kind that serves the same people, day in and day out. Of those people, I suspect most live in my apartment building or one of the many that line this block.
This area of town is residential and close to public transport. It’s where the commuters and slaves to the hamster wheel live.
And I’ve come here willingly.
Strangely, I’m excited to jump in.
“You’re not from around here.”
Glancing away from a couple sitting further along the bar—a woman in a mini dress, and a guy with his hand dangerously high on her lap—I look up at the bartender and smile when his eyes scour my face.
“Right?” He leans against the bar when I remain silent. “I’m good with faces, and I’d know yours if I’d seen it before. That makes you new.”
Straightening on my stool, I drop my hands from their grip on my opposite arms and instead offer one to shake. “Minka.”
Without hesitation, the guy takes it in his until his palm damn near swallows mine up. He wears leather ties on his right wrist, a half-dozen of them, some of which are decorated with beads. Veins stand out on his muscular forearm, and if I was looking, I might notice the way his biceps stretch the fabric of his shirt.
“Tim.” He flashes a fast grin that fans wrinkles near his eyes. “I got a big sign out front that says so.”
“I noticed it.” I let him hold my hand a moment longer. A moment more. Then pulling back, I drop mine in my lap and cast a fast glimpse around the bar. “You’ve owned this place long?”
His lips curl into a playful smirk. “A while. My dad owned it before me, and his dad owned it before him.” He steps back and snags a clean glass and a bottle of mid-range vodka. “It just so happens my father’s name was Tim, and so was his father’s.”
“Which makes you Timothy the Third. Prestigious.”
“Sounds fancy.” He drops a shot of vodka into the glass, then leans down to collect two bottles from the fridge below the bar. Standing again, he shakes both so I see my choices.
I nod toward the orange juice and snigger when he tosses the unneeded cranberry.
“It would be fancy if I was Timothy the Third, Partner in Law or some shit. But it’s Tim the Third, Booze Slinger.” He pours the orange until it kisses the lip of the glass, then sets it down on the mahogany bar in front of me. Snatching a cloth and holding it between his hands, his eyes come to mine and stop. “First one’s free. Cause you’re cute and new.”
“Well, hell.” Folding my legs, I take my drink and snag a straw from the dispenser. “Usually I’d say no, but I’ve had a crappy day, my night isn’t much better, and you’ve poured the exact right drink.”
“That’s a winning combo.” Lifting his hat in a seemingly habitual move, Tim slides his fingers through inch-long hair—as I suspected—then reseats the hat to shadow his eyes. I’m quite certain I spied dark green, like moss in the forest, and textured, as though the universe just couldn’t decide between green or gold or blue while he was in the womb. “Wanna talk about your shitty day?”
I lean forward and glance along the bar. “Don’t you have to work?”
“The beauty of having my name on the front means I get to decide when I work.” Folding at the hips, this beautiful man rests his elbows on the bar and peers into my eyes. “Tell me the quick version.”
