Read Online Slate (Rebel Wayfarers MC) by MariaLisa deMora - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: MariaLisa deMora
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he was as ready as he could get—late start or not, he was headed for Durango.
***
Three months later, Andy pushed a bar rag across a tabletop in Las Cruces, picking up the coasters and stacking them back into the middle of the empty table. He stood, rolling his shoulders to work tension out of his neck and looked around the bar, thinking, Thank God, only a couple diehards are still here for last call on a Tuesday night .
Walking behind the bar, he picked up his water bottle and took a long drink, running through his closing checklist in his head. He needed to stage the next kegs of draft for the day shift gal, pre-chilling them and making it easy for her to tap them when needed.
Then, there was the cleaning. Bathroom cleaning was a fucking constant when you worked in a bar. He swore if he never had to clean up man-puke again, he would be fucking ecstatic . Chicks nearly always hit the toilet with their vomit, but men simply spewed where they stood…and they didn’t fucking chew their food . Fuck . He’d finally begged Arlon, the owner, to buy a long-handled brush to scrub the back of the toilet tank. It was too hard to clean otherwise, but he couldn’t stand the smell if he left the puke back there.
Okay, back on track — kegs, bathroom, chairs on tables to make it easier on the cleaning crew, stock the well bottles, cut up fruit garnishes for the day gal, stack the empty liquor bottles for inventory, fill up condiment bottles, run the dishes, do a load of bar rags, and finish wiping down the tables. Easy breezy.
With his hands busy with the work he had outlined in his head, he let his mind drift to the last conversation he’d had with Ben. It was his fifteenth birthday, and Andy was pretty sure the kid was drunk when they were talking on the phone. He was still seeing that Owens girl, and GeeMa said nineteen-year-old Benita gave Ben a car to drive. Kid wasn’t old enough to get his license, but he was driving a loaned car around town. Fuck.
GeeMa’d cried on the phone, telling Andy about the langua ge Ben used when talking to her and it seriously pissed him off. Physically, Ben might be a young man, but he was turning into a dick to his grandmother. They’d decided months ago that she needed to stop giving Ben money, which would prod him to find a job, because they thought working would probably help him mature. But, he hadn’t gotten a job; he hadn’t even looked for one from how it sounded. Instead, Benita simply gave him more money when he asked for it.
GeeMa had asked Andy to come home, but he was in southern New Mexico now; the bar job was good, steady work, and in air conditioning. He made decent tips, and was able to live off those pretty much exclusively, sending nearly all his paychecks home. He explained to her that he’d have to take a week off work to come visit; it would be three days up and back, leaving only one day to be in Enoch. She seemed to understand, and stopped asking him.
With only fifteen minutes until last call, he looked up, startled when the door banged open and saw nearly a half-dozen men stroll in. Bikers, they had on leather vests with back patches showing the American flag, staged with empty boots and a rifle. These were Southern Soldiers; he’d seen them around town some.
Andy’d gotten used to chatting with bikers wherever he went. It seemed like simply owning and riding a bike made him a small part of a large brotherhood. He loved the low, underhand waves and two-fingered gestures bikers gave each other as they passed on the road. More than once, he had ridden alongside strangers for long miles, never stopping and meeting, just waving goodbye as their ways parted, brothers in spirit.
These men looked the room over, and the man in front made a motion to the bar, so they all pulled up stools instead of going to a table. Good, that would be easier on him, because it meant he could keep working on his list in-between serving them.
Wiping his hands on a bar rag, he
***
Three months later, Andy pushed a bar rag across a tabletop in Las Cruces, picking up the coasters and stacking them back into the middle of the empty table. He stood, rolling his shoulders to work tension out of his neck and looked around the bar, thinking, Thank God, only a couple diehards are still here for last call on a Tuesday night .
Walking behind the bar, he picked up his water bottle and took a long drink, running through his closing checklist in his head. He needed to stage the next kegs of draft for the day shift gal, pre-chilling them and making it easy for her to tap them when needed.
Then, there was the cleaning. Bathroom cleaning was a fucking constant when you worked in a bar. He swore if he never had to clean up man-puke again, he would be fucking ecstatic . Chicks nearly always hit the toilet with their vomit, but men simply spewed where they stood…and they didn’t fucking chew their food . Fuck . He’d finally begged Arlon, the owner, to buy a long-handled brush to scrub the back of the toilet tank. It was too hard to clean otherwise, but he couldn’t stand the smell if he left the puke back there.
Okay, back on track — kegs, bathroom, chairs on tables to make it easier on the cleaning crew, stock the well bottles, cut up fruit garnishes for the day gal, stack the empty liquor bottles for inventory, fill up condiment bottles, run the dishes, do a load of bar rags, and finish wiping down the tables. Easy breezy.
With his hands busy with the work he had outlined in his head, he let his mind drift to the last conversation he’d had with Ben. It was his fifteenth birthday, and Andy was pretty sure the kid was drunk when they were talking on the phone. He was still seeing that Owens girl, and GeeMa said nineteen-year-old Benita gave Ben a car to drive. Kid wasn’t old enough to get his license, but he was driving a loaned car around town. Fuck.
GeeMa’d cried on the phone, telling Andy about the langua ge Ben used when talking to her and it seriously pissed him off. Physically, Ben might be a young man, but he was turning into a dick to his grandmother. They’d decided months ago that she needed to stop giving Ben money, which would prod him to find a job, because they thought working would probably help him mature. But, he hadn’t gotten a job; he hadn’t even looked for one from how it sounded. Instead, Benita simply gave him more money when he asked for it.
GeeMa had asked Andy to come home, but he was in southern New Mexico now; the bar job was good, steady work, and in air conditioning. He made decent tips, and was able to live off those pretty much exclusively, sending nearly all his paychecks home. He explained to her that he’d have to take a week off work to come visit; it would be three days up and back, leaving only one day to be in Enoch. She seemed to understand, and stopped asking him.
With only fifteen minutes until last call, he looked up, startled when the door banged open and saw nearly a half-dozen men stroll in. Bikers, they had on leather vests with back patches showing the American flag, staged with empty boots and a rifle. These were Southern Soldiers; he’d seen them around town some.
Andy’d gotten used to chatting with bikers wherever he went. It seemed like simply owning and riding a bike made him a small part of a large brotherhood. He loved the low, underhand waves and two-fingered gestures bikers gave each other as they passed on the road. More than once, he had ridden alongside strangers for long miles, never stopping and meeting, just waving goodbye as their ways parted, brothers in spirit.
These men looked the room over, and the man in front made a motion to the bar, so they all pulled up stools instead of going to a table. Good, that would be easier on him, because it meant he could keep working on his list in-between serving them.
Wiping his hands on a bar rag, he
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