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Bishop sucked his teeth. “No, dumbass. The restaurant behind there. That’s Bravo, right?”
Trent frowned up at the grand, two story building, “Yeah. You wanna eat lunch in there? You must be buying.”
“I’m buying a drink… maybe an appetizer.”
He could see Trent’s confusion and decided to go ahead and come clean. “This is one of Edison’s favorite restaurants. He loves Italian and he’s talked about this place a few times. And I want to bring him here tonight for dinner. On a date.”
“Okay.” Trent shrugged then elbowed him in his shoulder. “What you wanna practice on me?”
“Well, sorta,” Bishop mumbled as they made their way inside.
“I’m just not that kinda wingman, dude.”
“I need some help with the menu, smartass,” Bishop hissed, just before they approached the hostess stand.
“Good afternoon,” the young hostess said in a cheerful tone, “Two today?”
“Yeah, but can we sit at the bar?” Bishop pointed to their immediate left at the walled-off area, not wanting to be seated at the fancy tables in the large, wide-open dining room. Not until he had to. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel like he belonged in nice places like this, he wasn’t insecure in that aspect. He just never got the point of paying so much for the same dishes that were offered on an eleven ninety-nine buffet. But nothing was too good for Edison.
The hostess handed them two menus. “Sure, help yourselves.”
Trent stared at Bishop. “You’re serious?”
“Yes,” Bishop said. “Don’t I look serious?”
“You don’t have to do this for Edison. I don’t think he’d care if you took him to Olive Garden. Or hey, what about Captain George’s Seafood buffet. That’s pretty high-end.”
“No.” Bishop shook his head, then glared at the long, single-page menu full of dishes he couldn’t read. He shouldn’t have to limit his dining experiences to only buffets either. “I know he wouldn’t care but… but, I want to surprise him, T.”
Trent’s expression softened as he held out his fist for a pound. Bishop tapped their knuckles together lightly, a relieved smile edging the corners of his lips.
“Is the dinner menu different from the lunch menu?” Trent asked the hostesses.
“Yes. Would you like to see the dinner one as well?” She was already reaching under her podium when Trent answered. Bishop wanted to grab his friend and hug him—he hadn’t even thought of that.
The bartender was an older guy with a handsome face and a killer smile. He had his sleeves rolled up just past his forearms, and Bishop could see the dark tribal tattoos when he braced himself on the bar. “You guys in here taking a break from that heat, huh?” he said, taking in their dusty jeans and Stockley lawn shirts.
“Shit yeah.” Bishop nodded, setting his wide hat on the stool beside him. When he glanced back at Trent to ask what kind of beer he wanted, he was confused to see him picking at the smooth wood surface of the bar as if he didn’t want to make eye contact with their bartender. “I’ll have a Guinness and… Yo. What you wanna drink, T?”
“Anything is good,” Trent murmured, still looking at his rough hands.
The bartender laughed a throaty sound, “All right. One beer for you and one glass of mineral oil for your stiff friend over here.”
Bishop laughed suddenly when Trent jerked his head up, scowling at the bartender who never dropped his big grin. “So, he does have a face.”
“I’ll have the same as him… but without the side comments,” Trent gritted.
The guy pfft’d and turned to fix their drinks. Bishop raised his brow and mouthed, what the fuck was that?
Trent rolled his eyes and positioned the dinner menu in between them. “Nothing. Let’s just get this over with. That guy gives me the creeps.”
Bishop narrowed his eyes as Trent glared at the menu, his gaze periodically flitting up to meet his then dropping again—a classic sign a man was lying or hiding something. He decided not to press and instead leaned in so Trent could point out Bishop’s favorite things to eat.
“You guys wanna order some food?” the bartender asked when he set their beers and two tall glasses of ice-cold water in front of them.
“I don’t think so,” Bishop said, “We’re just looking. We’re on a lunch break so we don’t have time for much else but drinks.”
The man leaned on the bar as if he was about to carry on a lengthy conversation, and Bishop saw Trent tense on his stool. “You guys are looking at the dinner menu, most stuff on the lunch only takes about nine to eleven minutes to cook.”
Bishop tried to cover Trent’s huff of irritation by clearing his throat. “Thanks, man. We’ll take a look.”
The tall bartender didn’t take his eyes off Trent when he said, “Sure. My name’s Graham. Just give me a holler if you change your mind.”
