Spanish. Max spoke enough Spanish to know that they were still talking about the beautiful blonde they wanted to bend over the prep table—which wasn’t a bad idea, really. He wouldn’t mind bending her over the table, either, right between the bowls of chopped potatoes and onions that were going into the shepherd’s pie.
Max served simple food at the pub, fish and chips, burgers, corned beef and cabbage—typical shite people expected when visiting an Irish pub, whether it was in New York, Nebraska, or South Florida. He didn’t quite understand it himself—he preferred Mario’s Cuban sandwiches or a good steak. It wasn’t as if anyone had ever cooked for him in Ireland, either. He’d mostly fended for himself when he was young.
When he passed the women’s restroom, he heard Mary’s voice: “Your feet are going to hurt after a night in those boots. They’re too heavy.”
“Some pain is worth it,” he heard Lille say darkly, and he felt the hair on his arms stand on end.
That was his cue to get back behind the bar. He didn’t even know why he’d followed them. And Charlie and the rest couldn’t be trusted not to help themselves to the Guinness.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, smelling the braided leather of the bracelet he wore—a welcome antidote to the perfume that trailed in Lille’s wake—before turning on his heel and heading back to the safety of the bar. When all else failed, there was beer and the company of men. He was sure that should be a famous quote. If it wasn’t, he was going to have it made into a sign that he would hang above the damn door.
CHAPTER Six
His wrists were perfect, Lille decided, somewhat disgruntled. She’d been watching Max pull pints beside her for most of the night, and his wrists, one of them wrapped tantalizingly with a braided leather band, were da Vinci machines of precision and grace. The man poured a Guinness the way Martha Stewart iced a cake, and that bitch could ice.
The bar was crowded with people from Hollywood and nearby Ft. Lauderdale, most of them in the pub to see a band from Shreveport called Super Water Sympathy. Bands played most nights, usually locals or kids from the high school, but the bigger groups were reserved for Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays. The music was usually fun and loud more than unique, but this band had edgy lyrics and a great lead. Lille enjoyed herself in a way that she hadn’t since her engagement to Paul. He hadn’t liked crowds much, sometimes refusing to go out at all, but Lille loved them. She loved the way the beat vibrated in her chest, almost as if her heart were powered by the music, while lights flashed and people waved hands and shouted to be heard. She felt secure in her position behind the bar, where people could look but not touch, secure in a way she wouldn’t have been in the crowd, so she smiled as she scooped ice and poured and pressed the button on the soda dispenser until her thumb was sore. She hadn’t worked in a bar since her first days in San Francisco, when she’d worked days in the store and nights at a bar down the street.
Max worked alongside her, the two of them taking orders and generally interacting as if they’d done so for years, Lille occasionally calling out to ask where something was located.
“Pineapple?” she shouted at Max when he turned to the fridge behind them to pull out two Amstels.
“Luis,” he shouted back, and Lille nodded. The barback, Luis, needed to get more from the back room.
His ass was great as well, Lille thought to herself, as she watched Max bend in his jeans to scoop ice into the four glasses he held in his hand, but then she couldn’t pay any more attention to him, because a crowd of tall, broad-shouldered college students hottied their way to the bar and caught her attention.
One of them pulled out two hundred-dollar bills and waved them at her.
She raised an eyebrow at him.
“We’ll have twelve Jäger bombs and your number,” he
Max served simple food at the pub, fish and chips, burgers, corned beef and cabbage—typical shite people expected when visiting an Irish pub, whether it was in New York, Nebraska, or South Florida. He didn’t quite understand it himself—he preferred Mario’s Cuban sandwiches or a good steak. It wasn’t as if anyone had ever cooked for him in Ireland, either. He’d mostly fended for himself when he was young.
When he passed the women’s restroom, he heard Mary’s voice: “Your feet are going to hurt after a night in those boots. They’re too heavy.”
“Some pain is worth it,” he heard Lille say darkly, and he felt the hair on his arms stand on end.
That was his cue to get back behind the bar. He didn’t even know why he’d followed them. And Charlie and the rest couldn’t be trusted not to help themselves to the Guinness.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, smelling the braided leather of the bracelet he wore—a welcome antidote to the perfume that trailed in Lille’s wake—before turning on his heel and heading back to the safety of the bar. When all else failed, there was beer and the company of men. He was sure that should be a famous quote. If it wasn’t, he was going to have it made into a sign that he would hang above the damn door.
CHAPTER Six
His wrists were perfect, Lille decided, somewhat disgruntled. She’d been watching Max pull pints beside her for most of the night, and his wrists, one of them wrapped tantalizingly with a braided leather band, were da Vinci machines of precision and grace. The man poured a Guinness the way Martha Stewart iced a cake, and that bitch could ice.
The bar was crowded with people from Hollywood and nearby Ft. Lauderdale, most of them in the pub to see a band from Shreveport called Super Water Sympathy. Bands played most nights, usually locals or kids from the high school, but the bigger groups were reserved for Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays. The music was usually fun and loud more than unique, but this band had edgy lyrics and a great lead. Lille enjoyed herself in a way that she hadn’t since her engagement to Paul. He hadn’t liked crowds much, sometimes refusing to go out at all, but Lille loved them. She loved the way the beat vibrated in her chest, almost as if her heart were powered by the music, while lights flashed and people waved hands and shouted to be heard. She felt secure in her position behind the bar, where people could look but not touch, secure in a way she wouldn’t have been in the crowd, so she smiled as she scooped ice and poured and pressed the button on the soda dispenser until her thumb was sore. She hadn’t worked in a bar since her first days in San Francisco, when she’d worked days in the store and nights at a bar down the street.
Max worked alongside her, the two of them taking orders and generally interacting as if they’d done so for years, Lille occasionally calling out to ask where something was located.
“Pineapple?” she shouted at Max when he turned to the fridge behind them to pull out two Amstels.
“Luis,” he shouted back, and Lille nodded. The barback, Luis, needed to get more from the back room.
His ass was great as well, Lille thought to herself, as she watched Max bend in his jeans to scoop ice into the four glasses he held in his hand, but then she couldn’t pay any more attention to him, because a crowd of tall, broad-shouldered college students hottied their way to the bar and caught her attention.
One of them pulled out two hundred-dollar bills and waved them at her.
She raised an eyebrow at him.
“We’ll have twelve Jäger bombs and your number,” he
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