The Bartender (Modern Love World) Read online

  Tahlia has been pretty quiet and I wonder what she’s thinking given that she’s the businesswoman out of all of us.

  “I want you two to be my guinea pigs. I need honest opinions about the product. Look, feel… performance.” Lennon glances up at us and waggles her eyebrows.

  I chuckle.

  “I call these vibrators Tickled Pink.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out two hot pink, phallic-shaped sex toys wrapped in plastic. “The Tickled Pink vibrators are completely waterproof, made of a soft outer shell that’s designed to feel like the real thing, and you can wash them with soap and water.” She stands to deliver one to both Tahl and me. “I’ve already loaded them up with batteries so you’re good to get off.”

  Lennon takes her seat again and looks at us expectantly.

  “What do you expect us to do with these?” Tahlia asks, looking a little mortified.

  “Use them.” Lennon rolls her eyes.

  I pull mine from the plastic packaging and give it the once-over. I have to admit, it is attractive as far as these things go. It’s sleek and modern-looking. I’m no expert, but it doesn’t look anything like the scary, veiny, monster cock contraptions that come to mind when I think of vibrators.

  “It’s cute,” I say.

  “Thanks.” Lennon sits up a little higher in her chair, seeming to enjoy the fact that I’ve complimented her product.

  “How were you able to get this made?” Tahlia asks, ever the businesswoman. “It can’t have been cheap.”

  Lennon shrugs. “I used some of the money from my grandparents’ inheritance to fund it. I need to make sure my products are on point before I go hunting for investors to launch the line.”

  “You’re going to blow your whole inheritance on this?” Tahlia gestures to the vibrator in her hand. “I thought that was supposed to be to purchase a house?”

  A flash of hurt crosses over Lennon’s face, but she schools her features quickly. I know Tahl doesn’t mean anything by it, that she’s just looking out for her friend, but I feel bad for Lennon. “Well, if this takes off, I’ll have even more money to purchase a house in the end, won’t I?”

  Tahlia and Lennon hold one another’s gaze for a moment before I interject.

  “If anyone can do it you can, Lennon. I know you’ll find your investor and get this thing off the ground.”

  She sends a grateful smile my way.

  “If you need any help with a business plan or anything let me know,” Tahl says.

  Lennon directs her smile her way and I know that the brief moment of tension is behind us.

  The three of us catch up for a while longer before Lennon rises from the chair. “It’s been swell, ladies, but I have a date to put some D in the P.” She makes a circle with her thumb and index finger on her left hand and inserts the pointer finger of her right hand through it over and over. “Catch you on the flip side.”

  “I didn’t know you were dating anyone,” I say.

  She looks over her shoulder at me as she bends to pick up her purse off the floor. The crinkle in her forehead tells me she’s either confused or thinks I’m an idiot. “I’m not dating. Didn’t you hear what I just said? I’m off to get laid. Totally different.”

  Sometimes I envy her. Lennon never seems to let pesky things like responsibility, morals, or society’s standards weigh her down. She’s a free bird who does what she wants when she wants.

  I, on the other hand, am borderline-obsessed with making something of myself. Which makes the fact that I was laid off from my last job even worse.

  The childhood therapist my grandparents made me see said my overzealous drive was because my mother had pawned me off on her parents when I was just an infant and never showed her face again. That coupled with the fact that I’d never known my father apparently meant that I was subconsciously trying to prove myself worthy of love.

  What did she know? Ten years of school and a black leather couch in your office did not an expert make.

  I just value security and I want to be able to support myself. No sense relying on someone else when all they’ll do is let you down.

  “I should get going, too,” I say.

  Tahlia does this thing with her face where the corners of her lips both angle down and she looks like a Snapchat filter gone wrong. “Are you sure you can’t stay longer?”

  “I live here now, remember? We can see each other all the time now. Besides, after your big news, I’m sure you’re anxious to spend the rest of the night with Chase.” I waggle my eyebrows and Tahl breaks out in a grin.

  “Whit is right. Go spend the night between the sheets reminding that boy why he put a ring on it,” Lennon says before turning to strut down the hall.

  Tahlia rolls her eyes and then follows us to her door to say her goodbyes. Ever the good hostess.

  “Chase’s parents would like to have an engagement party at some point in the next couple of weeks. I can count on you girls to be there, right?”

  I lean in and hug her and then Lennon follows suit. “Of course you can,” I say.

  “I wouldn’t miss the opportunity to watch your mother’s eyes roll back into her head when she sees me,” Lennon adds.

  Tahl laughs as the two of us make our exit.

  Tahlia’s mother has never really liked Lennon. She’s much too colorful for the Santoras. If I’m honest, I’ve only ever had the impression that Mrs. Santora tolerates me. Like Lennon, I didn’t come from oodles of money (obviously), but unlike Lennon, my skin isn’t a canvas for self-expression, and so I’m better able to hide that fact.

  When Lennon steps out into the hallway she spins around and calls out, “Ladies, don’t forget to put your Tickled Pink vibrator to the test. I’m expecting a report back!”

  An older couple passing by in the hallway give her a horrified look and scamper off as fast as their elderly legs will take them and we all break out into hysterics.

  I wave back at Tahlia and loop my arm through Lennon’s and we walk down the hall toward the elevator. “It’s good to be home,” I say.

  When we step out onto the street we walk for a second along the sidewalk before she stops beside a van parked on the side of the street. It’s then that I notice the VW van she’s driven since college is wrapped in a design of cartoon unicorns, some of which are shitting and throwing up rainbows. I raise an eyebrow.

  Lennon looks from me to the vehicle and back again. “What? I like unicorns.”

  “Okaaaaaay… do you think maybe this is taking it a little too far?”

  She shrugs. “Lester needed a paint job and it was cheaper to have it wrapped. I could have gone with something boring, but where’s the fun in that?”

  Such a Lennon answer. I roll my eyes and begin walking away.

  “Hey, what are you doing? Hop in.” She gestures to the bright monstrosity beside her.

  “I’m going to walk.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’ll drop you wherever it is you want to go.”

  I shake my head. “I can get myself home. You go have fun with Mr. Right Now.”

  She angles a hip and crosses her arms in front of her chest. “I know you can get yourself home on your own, but you don’t have to.”

  We stand, staring at each other for a moment, before she continues.

  “I realize you hate relying on anyone for anything, Whit, but not everything is an imposition. Not everyone is going to let you down.” When I pin her with a stare, she raises her hands in a placating gesture. “Just sayin’.”

  And that’s how I find myself driving through the hilly streets of San Francisco, Lil Wayne blasting from the speakers, inside a giant fucking unicorn.

  2

  The next night I wander around the city wallowing and lamenting my current predicament. I finally decide on a small bar named the Thirsty Monk, in the Nob Hill section of the city. The place is cute with small round tables throughout and a long U-shaped bar in the middle of the space. I take a seat at said bar and chat off and on with the female barte
nder as she feeds me a steady supply of drinks.

  The longer I sit here, the more it dawns on me that I’m twenty-five, unemployed, and living with my grandparents. I’ve never felt like a bigger loser in my life. The rotting cherry on top of this shit cream sundae is that Tahlia is getting married.

  Don’t get me wrong, I’m ecstatic for my friend. I really am. But I know that the coming months are going to be filled with parties, wedding rites of passage, and all that other stuff. Which if I wasn’t at the lowest point in my life I’d have a lot more enthusiasm for. Plus, the small voice inside willing me to acknowledge the truth knows that I’m feeling sorry for myself. Why can’t I have all those things?

  When we were younger we had dreams of all of us getting married around the same time and starting our families together. Girlish dreams, I know, but the disappointment over the fact that it will never be is just shy of crushing. Tahlia is moving on with her life and I’m just… stuck.

  Back when we were still teenagers with stars in our eyes, we’d decided that I’d be Tahlia’s maid of honor, Tahlia would be Lennon’s, and Lennon would be mine. It seemed the easiest way to avoid an argument down the line. That, and we’d watched that episode of Friends where Monica, Rachel, and Phoebe did the same thing. Okay, maybe we were just being copycats.

  Being Tahlia’s maid of honor is not going to be an inexpensive venture and at the moment I barely have enough to buy myself dinner at Taco Bell. I need to get a job and quick.

  About an hour after that realization I’m checking my email on my phone in case any of the places I applied to earlier have responded and the Tinder app catches my eye.

  Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the dumpster that is my life, but getting laid by a stranger without the pretense of either of us wanting more seems like a fantastic idea right now.

  And so I start swiping. And swiping.

  Eventually one of the more attractive guys I swiped right on messages me a picture of his dick.

  How’s that for hello?

  Judging by the picture though, he’s working with some good equipment.

  Never let it be said that a dick pic can’t bring two people together.

  Seconds later another message comes through.

  Pussylickr69: Wanna fuck?

  Well. He certainly doesn’t waste time on pleasantries, does he? Ignoring the fact that this douche couldn’t be bothered to even say hello or ask my name before asking if I wanted to bump uglies with him, I respond because in truth, tonight I only need what genetics has so clearly blessed him with.

  Whiteebanter: That’s the idea.

  Pussylickr69: Awesome. Where r u?

  Whiteebanter: At the Thirsty Monk in Nob Hill.

  Pussylickr69: Why don’t u cum 2 my place?

  Since this is my first ever hook-up of this sort I don’t know if it’s normal to head over to the other person’s place, but there isn’t a chance in hell I’m going inside some stranger’s house without meeting him in public and seeing if I get the creep vibe from him first. I have a very healthy creep-o-meter.

  Whiteebanter: This is my 1st time doing this. Why don’t you meet me here & we can have a drink then head to your place?

  I toss back the last of my drink while I wait for a response. Somehow the thirty seconds feels longer than it did waiting for the next season of Breaking Bad to air. Finally, his response comes.

  Pussylickr69: Be there in 20.

  I drop my phone back into my purse hanging from the corner of the chair with the flair of a woman who’s just taken ownership over her life.

  Okay, I’m doing this. I’m really doing this.

  I need another jolt of liquid courage before this guy shows up. I look up to order another drink expecting to see the pretty blonde who’s been serving me all night, but instead my eyes meet a set of hazel eyes fringed with dark lashes. Those eyes are set in the face of a guy whose bone structure would make any model jealous. Further inspection tells me that his body is no less impressive. Muscles bulge beneath his taut t-shirt, the hard planes of his chest and abs clearly visible beneath. My gaze darts back up to his face to see a half-crooked smile and a gleam in his eyes that tells me he knows how hot he is.

  After some work to reconnect my brain synapses with my tongue I’m finally able to speak.

  “Hey. You don’t look like the last bartender,” I say and push my empty glass toward him.

  “You’re right. She’s much cuter than I am.”

  His grin widens. And oh! There’s a dimple, too. I’ve always been a sucker for a guy with a dimple. Then again, who isn’t? I think of dimples as being the key to the chastity belt.

  “Ready for a refill?” He nods down to the empty glass.

  When I remember that a stranger is on his way to meet me so we can have sex together, panic flares inside me. I desperately need that drink.

  “Yes!” I say with too much enthusiasm.

  He doesn’t comment on my over-excited nature, thankfully. “What’ll you have?”

  I ponder for a moment, thinking that I need something stronger than what I’ve been drinking—I’m going to need to be buzzed for this—but unsure what to order. “Something that will put hair on my chest,” is my brilliant response to his question.

  His gaze darts down to my cleavage. “Now why would you want to go and ruin a perfectly good chest like that?” He arches a brow, but instead of waiting for me to reply, he turns and begins to make my drink.

  My face heats and a small portion of the confidence I’ve lacked lately returns. I smile to myself as he grabs a glass and adds ice to it, enjoying the way the muscles in his arms contract and relax as he sets about his work.

  I’m so lost in ogling his body that I barely notice when he sets a drink in front of me.

  “For the lady,” he says in that deep, slightly raspy voice.

  “Thank you.” I lean forward and draw the drink up the straw, not missing the way he’s watching my lips with intense focus. The sweetness of the cola hits my tongue first and then the taste of whiskey followed by something else I can’t place. “This is really good. What’s it called?”

  “A Stiffy.” One corner of his lip tips up in a grin.

  “What’s in it?” I ask as I lean in for another sip. I’ve never been a huge whiskey drinker, but this stuff goes down smooth.

  “It’s my own creation.” He winks and leans over the bar so close to me that his lips are practically touching my ear. “If I told you there’s no telling the things I’d have to do to you to keep you quiet.”

  A shiver runs up my spine and he must notice because he chuckles as he backs away, amusement lighting his eyes.

  “What’s your name?” he asks.

  “Whitney Knight. Most of my good friends call me Whit, though.”

  He places both palms on the bar top and lets his weight transfer to them, causing all the muscles to bunch up. Not that I notice because that would be slutty since I have another guy on his way here to screw my brains out.

  The scent of his cologne wafts my way as he leans in just a little. “I hope I have the pleasure of being able to call you Whit someday then.”

  I swallow hard, my tongue feeling heavy in my mouth. “What’s your name?” I ask in a breathy voice that probably gives away how turned on I am at that moment.

  “Cole,” he says simply.

  Cole. Just one look at this guy and I know he’s trouble. What I can’t be sure of yet is whether he’s more trouble than he’s worth.

  3

  An hour and a half later and hot stuff has come around the bar to take the seat beside me and join me on my mission to get shit-faced. I have to admit, I’m enjoying his company, but it doesn’t exactly make him Employee of the Year given the fact that he’s supposed to be working.

  “Won’t your boss be mad that you’re drinking on the job?” I ask.

  That damn dimple makes another appearance again before he answers. “Nah, he’s cool. It’s dead in here tonight. If anyone comes in, I�
�ll be sure they get what they need.” His gaze rakes up and down my small frame, and I get the distinct impression that he’s picturing me naked.

  Jeez, I hope my nakedness looks amazing in his brain. Given the half-crooked smile on his face, I think it must. I wonder if his imagination is good enough to picture that dimple in my ass that doesn’t ever seem to want to disappear, regardless of how much I weigh.

  As if he’s tempted fate with his words, the bell over the door dings and an older gentleman walks in and seats himself at one of the bar tables across the room.

  “Be right back.” Cole pats my hand before he rises from his seat.

  It was an innocent gesture, but it makes me think dirty things. The heat from his hand seeps up my arm like a bee sting and settles somewhere in my chest.

  I watch him walk away and can’t help but notice the way his ass perfectly fills out his jeans. It bunches and flexes as his long strides take him across the bar. Maybe Lennon is right and it has been too long since I’ve been with a man.

  It’s then that I realize that Tinder dude still hasn’t shown up. The bar isn’t busy, probably since it’s the middle of the week, and I’ve been chatting—okay, flirting—with Cole and hadn’t realized how much time had passed. I grab my phone from my purse and open the app to see that I have a new message.

  Pussylickr69: Not coming. Sorry found someone else who wasn’t so much werk.

  Fury causes my face to heat as I type out a quick reply that might be, and by that I mean most definitely is, alcohol-fueled.

  Whiteebanter: Yeah, I can see how thirty minutes of conversation is too much foreplay for you. Fuck you and your lack of knowledge of the English language. You spell work with an ‘o,’ dipshit.

  There. That’ll show him. With a frown, I drop my phone back into my purse.