The Offer (14 page)

The boys take
their beers and turn away. I notice they didn’t leave any tip,
probably because I had to butt my way on in and hog all her
attention.

I reach out
and grab Zach Morris’s shoulder. “Listen,” I say to him and it
looks like he wants to spit at me. “Just because you have zero
chance of going home with her tonight, doesn’t mean you don’t have
to tip her.”

“Bram,” Nicola
warns quietly, eyes wide as a deer.

“So,” I go on
to the wanker, ignoring her, “pay up if you thought her service was
good. I was watching. It was good.”

The wanker
eyes my hand on his shoulder but I’ve got height and breadth and
he’s got…bloody awful hair. He looks at one of his friends who
quickly whips out a five from the change she gave back and smacks
it down on the table. I take my hand away and they walk off to a
booth in the corner, shooting me daggers as they go. They can shoot
all they want. If I survived Nicola’s death glares, I can survive
anything.

“Bram,” she
says again, admonishing me as I turn back to her. “It was
fine.”

“It wasn’t,” I
told her. “They would have tipped you but your smile for me was so
much more beautiful than your smile for them. Jealousy makes
dickheads do dickish things.”

She rolls her
eyes and flips a dishrag over her shoulder. “I’ve been here long
enough to learn some things, you know.”

“I also know
you work part-time and tips are as important as blood. I did say it
would be a hard job.”

Now there’s a
hint of a smile, just a subtle lifting of her lips. “It was easy
until you got here.”

I lean forward
more on the counter until my eyes are level with her cleavage. She
took that advice of mine too. Show off those beautiful tits for
tips. But like the gentleman I am, I keep my eyes trained to hers.
Even in this light I can make out the many shades of brown in them,
the way they all snake in vibrant lines toward her pupil, the very
pupil that’s widening before my eyes, as if she likes what she
sees.

You better fucking like what you see
, I think to myself, wishing now that we
weren’t here at all, but back in her apartment or mine, sharing a
bottle of wine. Oh the things I could do to try and break down that
wall. I’d pull out brick by brick with my teeth until she’s
screaming my name.

As if she can
see the filthy images in my head, her cheeks grow pink and she
looks away for a moment. “So now that you’re here, what will it
be?” she asks, her voice now cheery but false. She’s back in
bartender mode with polite professionalism.

“Make me
something,” I tell her, straightening up. “Anything. Make a Bram
McGregor.”

“I don’t think
we have enough ego for that,” she says.

I grin at her.
“I suppose I have enough already, don’t I? I’m serious though. Make
me anything sour.”

She raises her
perfectly shaped brow. “Sour? I would have thought you a sweet kind
of guy.”

“There’s
nothing about me that’s sweet, and you know it.”

But from the
way she’s staring at me, I can tell she doesn’t agree with that.
“Maybe a shot of sweet,” she concludes after searching my face like
a puzzle. “But it’s definitely spicy all the way.”

“All right
then, babe,” I tell her. “Take your best shot.”

Even though
there’s a small line forming behind me (the other bartender is
James and he seems swamped), Nicola takes her time trying to figure
out what Bram McGregor tastes like. I wish she could find out for
herself. I’ve seen that cute, pink little tongue at times and I
think it could give me a real lashing. I tell her she should add
some salt in there for good measure and I swear her cheeks go
crimson.

When she’s
finally done she slides the drink toward me.

“This is what
I call the Bram McGregor. Mainly spicy with a kick of sweet and
salty.”

I take the
highball from her and my fingers brush against hers as I do so. I
pounce.

“I found the
kettle in my room this morning. When abouts did you return it and
how did you get into my apartment?”

The question
takes her completely off-guard but from the way she looks
absolutely bashful and ashamed, I know she must have done it when I
was whacking off.

“Just when I
got home,” she says quickly, suddenly eyeing the next person in
line. “I thought you were asleep so I just put it in the kitchen
and left.”

Bullshit. But
I let it go because even if I called her on catching me in the act,
she would deny it – anything to get out of that conversation.

As she tends
to the next person, I slip a fifty in the tip jar and take a sip of
my drink. The Bram McGregor certainly has a fucking kick to it.
It’s actually pretty damn good.

I leave her be
for now and look for an empty bar stool and find one by none other
than Linden who is at the end of the bar talking to James as he
shakes a martini.

“Fuckface,”
Linden says when he sees me saunter over, our usual term of
endearment. “What the hell are you doing here?”

I shrug.
“Bored.” I look at James and pass him the drink. “You have to try
this.”

James’s brow
piercing raises as he eyes it. “What is it?”

“Your new
bartender made it,” I told him. “Try it.”

James does so
and then considers it with a tilt of his head. “Not bad.”

“It’s called
the Bram McGregor,” I tell him.

“Of course it
is,” Linden says with a groan.

I go on, “You
should give that gal a raise. Anyone that can make something this
tasty on the fly is someone to hold on to.”

“Well I am
trying to get her more shifts,” James explains, “but it’s not easy
when I had full staff to begin with. I gave her the job to help her
out but I’m not sure what else I can do.”

“Fire
someone,” I suggest.

“Bram,” Linden
warns. “Don’t get all embroiled in someone else’s business. You
have your own to attend to, brother.”

“Well, Jenny
isn’t exactly working out,” James admits. “I mean, she’s efficient
and dependable but the more she works here, the more she thinks men
are responsible for the doom of civilization. I can’t have a
conversation with her unless some weird sector of feminism is
brought up.”

“She does work
here though,” Linden points out. “You can’t really blame her.”

“Like I said,
fire her,” I say.

“I’ll give it
time,” James says. “I hate to sound like a douche, but I just don’t
know how reliable single moms can be.”

For some
reason the comment makes my veins feel black and poisonous, like
squid ink.

“She’s
reliable,” I tell him, my voice stern. “I’m her damn landlord, I
know she is.”

He gives me a
look, the look that doesn’t take me seriously whatsoever. I should
be used to that. “She doesn’t pay you rent. So you can’t really
compare. Look, I like Nicola and I think she’s great, but what if
something happens to her kid. We all know she’s sick. She could
have a problem and then Nicola would have to up and leave.”

“Well, if
you’re going to look at it that way, Jen Jen or whatever her name
is, could have a flat tire on the way to work, or get food
poisoning, or hell, just play hooky for a day. Anyone could. Having
a damn kid doesn’t make you any less dependable. Don’t you think
she needs this fucking job?”

“Easy
brother,” Linden says, putting his hand on my shoulder. “Just
finish your ego drink and relax. James is just speculating. He’ll
help Nicola as much as he can, right James?”

James nods,
looking a bit weirded out, like he thought I was going to punch him
or something. “Definitely. I’ll help.” Then he backs away and
disappears around the other side of the bar.

“Scares easy,
doesn’t he?” I ask Linden.

“Does he
ever,” he says with a sigh, then finishes the rest of his Anchor
Steam. He gives me a discerning look. “What are you really doing
here?”

I shrug and
take a sip of my drink, pretending my mouth isn’t on fire. I have a
sudden notion of cooling it off with an ice cube and then my mind
wanders over to Nicola, wondering if she’d squirm if poured the
spicy drink over her breasts then rubbed my ice cold tongue on them
after.

“Oh, I see,”
Linden says and I immediately snap my attention to him.

“What?”

He jerks his
chin down the bar at Nicola. “You’re here for her.”

“I guess I
want to see if she’ll eventually pay me rent.”

A slow smile
spreads across my brother’s face and he shakes his head in
disbelief. “No you don’t. You’d let her live there forever rent
free, I reckon.”

“Is that so?”
I challenge but I’m afraid he might be right.

“Whatever
happened to my brother who moved out West, wanting to invest his
money and make a name for himself, step out from under our parent’s
shadow?”

“I’m still
him, you half-wit,” I tell him, hating that he’s got the power to
get under my skin sometimes. It doesn’t help that both of us can
bring the other down with the mere mention of our mum and dad.
“There’s nothing wrong with trying to be a good Samaritan. You were
the one always harping on me about being a selfish lout, doing
nothing with myself. Now I am doing something and one of those
things happens to be a good deed.”

“Oh, there’s
nothing wrong with the deed. I want Nicola helped out as much as
the next person, especially for Steph’s sake. Those two are pretty
close, even more so since we got hitched. I guess having babies or
getting married brings you into the next step of the maturity club.
But you can’t pretend you don’t have ulterior motives.” He jabs his
finger in my face. “You can’t pass this all like you’re interested
in charity. You’re losing money here, brother.”

The
funny thing is I
am
interested in
charity but there’s no use in telling my brother that. He doesn’t
listen to me anyway. No matter how much you change, some people
will always view you as you were at a certain time of your life. I
don’t think Linden will ever stop thinking of me as the
philandering git he knew growing up. I don’t think I’ll ever stop
thinking of him as the annoying little shit who used to steal my
stuff, the same one I used to give atomic wedgies to in the
playground. And no matter how much our mother tries to cut down on
her drinking and the icy shell of her exterior, no matter how hard
our father pretends to be proud of us, we can’t help but view them
as themselves when
we
were most
vulnerable.

“Be that as it
may,” I try and explain. I sigh. It’s hopeless. “She’s got a nice
rack.” I give up and drink my burning elixir.

But Linden is
watching me closely. “Is that all?”

I nod and
start to cough. He slides his water over and I gulp half of it
down. “Thanks,” I say, wiping my lips with the bar napkin. “And
yes, that’s all. Would you expect anything more from me?”

“I guess not,”
he says. He twists around in his stool and nods at the front door.
“Hey, check it.”

I glance over
my shoulder. A stunning blonde with arse-length hair and a glossy
smile comes in the door. She’s dressed to impress in a gold
strapless top that shows off just enough cleavage and tight-as-fuck
jeans.

“She looks
like your type,” Linden says.

“Are you
trying to distract me?” I ask him wryly.

His eyes
turn serious. “I told you before, Nicola is a no-go for you. Steph
will absolutely murder me if you two hook-up. I will never hear the
end of it and she’ll go on and on about ruining our dynamics. It’s
always about the dynamics. She keeps quoting
Friends
, when Ross and Rachel broke up and
changed everything for everyone else. Drives me bloody
bonkers.”

“I am not
bloody Ross,” I tell him defensively. “Joey, maybe.”

“Fine, but you
get what I mean. She’s concerned about everyone being nice and
getting along and you know if you shag Nicola, that’s just going to
end poorly. Not only for her, but for yourself. How charitable are
you going to be when she sets your whole apartment building on
fire, huh?”

I can’t help
but smile. “You think I’d affect her that badly, huh?”

“Oh, you’re
useless,” Linden says and snaps his fingers for James. “Barkeep, I
need another one.”

I sit there
with Linden, shooting the shit for a wee bit, until Nicola comes on
down the bar to us.

“Brave enough
for another one?” she asks. Do my ears detect a flirty tone?

I can feel
Linden get up from beside me, which brings me an ounce of relief.
Last thing I want is for him to watch over everything I say to
her.

“If you’re
serving, I’m drinking,” I tell her with a wink. “It
was…Bramtastic.”

Her eyes seek
the ceiling.

“
You are
unbelievable,” she says. “Maybe I’ll add less sweet this time,
though I swear I didn’t add any
cheese
.”

“I’ll be
whatever you want me to be.”

She sighs and
starts to make the drink. I make a mental note of the ingredients –
Patrón tequila, lime juice, triple sec, hot pepper infused liqueur,
a splash of orange juice and a wee hit of the brine from a jar of
pickled banana peppers. Ah, so that was the secret ingredient.

While she’s
piling up the garnishes on the end of a cocktail sword, she shoots
me a look I haven’t seen before, not on her face anyway. It’s sort
of pleading and puppy dog-ish. I like it. It makes me feel like she
wants something from me for once instead of me always trying to
give her something.

“So,” she
says, her voice unsure. She hands me the drink. “So,” she starts
again, “this drink is on the house.”

“And why is
that?”

“Because I
need a favor.”