Bartender with Benefits Read online

  Not to mention I’m her older brother’s best friend.

  There is a fat chance in hell we’d ever be together.

  Sometimes though, that fat chance squeezes through the doors.

  2

  Mason

  The New Girl at the Desk

  “Fuck, Edgar. Surely you can’t be serious.”

  “I am serious,” he growls at me with his scratchy voice. “And watch your mouth while talking to your elders. Fucking animal. And don’t call me Shirley.”

  I can’t help but crack up—a little—at at his joke. I stand up and walk around the table in disbelief as I stare at the pieces of the chess game in their final position.

  “Edgar, this is bullshit. I had you four moves ago. I fucking had you.”

  The old man leans back slightly in his chair and chuckles. “That’s the problem with you youngsters, always getting all excited early on and not thinking things through to the end.”

  “But I had you! Damn. Alright, let’s play again.”

  “You want me to whoop your ass again? Well, if that’s what you want,” he says with a shrug.

  He leans back in his chair and I reset the pieces for us.

  I have been coming to see Edgar for almost ten years now in Blackwell’s biggest old folks home. I never knew my grandparents, so when I started here as part of assigned community service, it felt surprisingly good to talk with someone older and wiser. It was awkward at first, but over time we cultivated a friendship, one that includes him beating my ass at chess once a month.

  The man is ninety-two years young and his brain is like an encyclopedia of chess moves.

  “I swear, one day I’m gonna beat you, Edgar. It’s gonna happen.”

  “Heck no, you ain't, you whippersnapper. My brain up here is like a supercomputer,” he says in his gruff voice.

  We play again with the same result. I come out strong and toward the end Edgar somehow finds a way to sneakily put me in checkmate.

  “Alright, alright. I think I am done being abused for the day,” I cough.

  “Hey anytime,” he says with a chuckle.

  After chess, I walk with him to the café room, where we eat an early dinner before I get going to my night bar shift. I run a hand through my beard,and tell him about what happened last night with Clarissa and how I pretended to be her boyfriend in front of the very married storyteller. He laughs.

  “You just pretend to be her boyfriend, huh? Just roll right over those other poor saps who are trying to flirt with her?”

  “Hey,” I smile. “I wouldn’t do it if he had a legitimate game. But this guy was just annoying. She needed me to swoop in.”

  “You know what, Mason?” Edgar says holding a prune in front of his mouth. “I don’t care what everyone around here says about you. You are okay,” he says, deadpan.

  I lean in, playing his little game. “Uh oh. Has Esther here been talking shit about me again?” I say, nodding to the woman at the table next to me. “It’s not true, anything she says. All made up.”

  “I just got a new hearing aid so I can hear that now!” she says, her voice loud and screechy.

  I laugh and Edgar even cracks a smile, which I don’t see the old man do very often. The wrinkled creases of his mouth arch up.

  Then, suddenly, he purses his lips into a giant frown, and leans forward.

  Partially cupping a hand over his mouth, he says, “Mason. They’re spying on me.”

  My stomach lurches. Edgar has good days and bad, and even on the good days, he can change on the dime. Instantly, I lose my appetite.

  Still, I take him seriously. “Who is spying on you?”

  “My neighbor Lucy,” he says, his paranoid eyes dart around the room.

  “Are you sure?”

  He grabs my wrist firmly. “Of course I am. You think I just make this shit up? When I woke up this morning she was rifling through my dresser. They keep all the doors open so they can check on us, you know.”

  My jaw tightens. I search the old man’s eyes for signs of falsehood, but I get none. I can’t be sure if this really happened, or if he’s having a hallucination.

  I push the mashed potatoes around on my plate. “Damn. So what can we do about that?”

  “I want you to take this,” he says, pulling an envelope from his pocket and pushing it across the table. “Careful with that. Don’t let anyone see what’s inside.”

  I open the envelope and peer inside.

  My eyes go wide.

  It’s a diamond ring.

  “Edgar...I can’t accept this,” I say, closing the envelope and sliding it across the desk.

  His expression is deadpan. “You can, and you will. I didn’t fight through the Great War to have some young buck like you tell me what to do with my true love’s ring. My family is gone, Mason, and you’re the only one I can trust. Take the fucking ring.”

  Chills lurch through me, because in the nearly ten years I’ve known Edgar, I’ve never once heard him drop an F-bomb.

  “Okay,” I say.

  I fold the envelope and stuff it into my pocket.

  We finish our lunch and I bid him adieu. I’m about to head outside, passing the reception hallway when I see a sight that makes my jaw drop. A girl with long brown hair sits behind the reception desk. She’s got on a grey sweater, and even from behind I feel the manly neurons in my brain kick in, telling me to investigate.

  I pull around to the front of the desk, and my heart speeds up when I see who it is.

  “Clarissa?” I swallow, smiling broadly. She turns her head up toward me and drops her jaw.

  “Oh my God,” she puts her hand on her heart.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask.

  “It’s fine. For some reason I got this idea that you are about to rob the place—I saw your leather jacket and neck tattoo. And then I was like, oh thank God it’s just Mason. It’s just you.”

  I chuckle. “Maybe you should be scared. You’ve been gone for a while. I’m quite the loose cannon these days.”

  Clarissa smiles and rolls her eyes. “Shush. I know it’s just you. Sweet Mason Worthington.”

  I shoot her a concerned look. “So you’re saying I have a scary look? That not good. I need to stay friendly if I’m going to keep my crown of Blackwell’s bartender of the year.”

  “Is that a real contest, or did you just make that up?”

  I shrug. “Seems real to me.”

  She sighs loudly. “I can’t tell if you’re joking. But you do look intimidating these days. It’s hard to believe you’re the same guy I knew in high school.”

  I shrug. It’s not the first time people have been scared of me. Things like that happen when you are six feet tall, ripped and covered with tattoos. I haven’t always been this way, though. I don’t exactly feel like taking a trip down memory lane to high school right now, so I change the subject.

  “I think you do owe me a tip for saving you from little Mr. Wimpy face last night,” I smirk, putting my elbows on the counter close to her desk.

  “Little Mr. Wimpy face? Really? Come on Mason, I know you can do better than that,” she challenges, twirling her hair and grinning at me.

  “Hey, what can I say? It’s still early,” glancing at my watch.

  “It’s 1 PM” she furrows her brow.

  I shake my head with a smile. “I’m a bartender. I don’t wake up until 3 PM normally. Come see me at the bar between six and midnight. That’s when I turn on the charm.”

  She laughs. “Maybe I will.”

  “Yeah? If you want, I won’t cockblock you tonight so you can pick up some guys.”

  She bites her lower lip. “That’s not what I was doing last night. Stop it.”

  “What are you doing working here, anyway?” I ask. “Didn’t you just graduate with your master's degree?”

  She sighs. “Well, I came back to Blackwell because of my mom’s health.”

  I nod, aware from my buddy Cole Hanks—Clarissa’s brother—that her mom just
underwent chemotherapy this summer. Cole took her to the Mayo Clinic up north for special treatments. For a while, the situation was pretty dire.

  “My master’s degree was in social work,” she continues. “Apparently the school has already done their hiring for the year. I’m kind of in limbo now. Waiting to figure out what I’m gonna do, but I don’t feel right leaving Blackwell with my mom recovering. I’m at a crossroads. Should I move back to the East coast or should I stay here? I haven’t decided for sure. While I’m figuring it out, I’ve been looking for temp jobs and this job at the retirement home came up. It’s interesting and the people are really nice here.” She takes a breath. “I’m really sorry for unloading like that.”

  “It’s okay. I asked.”

  “What about you, what are you doing here?” She scrunches up her eyebrows at me. “I didn’t know you had relatives here.”

  “He isn’t a relative,” I say. “Just a friend.”

  I won't elaborate because I don’t want to remind her of the time when I started coming here, which was to serve out a community service sentence. It wasn’t exactly the proudest time of my life.

  “So you’re working here full-time?”

  “Well,” she shrugs, “it’s just part-time. I wish it was more. I mean, I have student loans to pay and they ain’t cheap, Mason.”

  I laugh. “I wouldn’t know, just got my masters in bartending. It only cost me six years of my life and my sleep schedule.”

  She sighs. “I do wish there was a way I could make a little bit of extra money. It’s tough.”

  “Yeah, it’s tough,” I nod in agreement. I make some cash at the bar, but I’m not exactly saving for the future. I think for a moment, and suddenly an idea strikes me. “Hey, we’re looking for a new hostess at the bar. I know the work is probably below you. But if you’re interested...”

  She gasps. “Did you just say, ‘the work of a hostess is below me’?”

  I shrug. “Clarissa, you have a master’s degree from Harvard.”

  “Did you just offer me a job at my favorite bar in town?”

  “I think so,” I say.

  “No work is ever below me. You got that?” she says.

  “Noted.”

  “When can I start? It sounds like fun.”

  “What time do you work ‘til today?”

  “Tonight I work until ten.”

  “What about tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow I am off.”

  “Okay. Come in tomorrow around two and I’ll show you the ropes, and get you set up with a little bit of training.”

  “You’d do that for me?”

  “I’d be happy to.”

  “Just make sure you keep an eye out for my man Edgar, okay?” I wink.

  Right at that moment Edgar walks out of the bathroom and wanders into the hall.

  “I don’t care what anyone says about this guy,” he says, pointing at me. “Mason’s a good boy, he just needs to learn how to play better chess. He still sucks at that.”

  Clarissa glances at me and whispers, “What is he talking about?”

  “Don’t worry about it.” I wink.

  3

  Mason

  The Job Interview

  The next day, I wake up much earlier than on a normal day:

  1 PM. Okay look, I know that’s late for most people. But I’m a bartender, not an office worker.

  I’ve got to be on my A game during owl night hours.

  But today I wake up excited, blood flowing.

  Something about knowing I’m seeing Clarissa today gets my juices going.

  A total metaphor, of course.

  As I roll over in bed, I’m definitely not thinking about what it would be like to wake up next to Clarissa.

  And I’m certainly not thinking about what it would be like to have a soft morning makeout session with her while I run my hand down the side of her body and explore her hips.

  I swear.

  I reach my hand behind my head and clench the pillow. Who am I trying to kid?

  I want my best buddy’s little sister.

  Good thing I’m the king of hiding my emotions.

  I take an extra cold shower before I head out for the day’s work.

  As I ride my motorcycle to work, I question my own motives because this is not something that Cole would be okay with—me attracted to his little sister.

  I couldn’t help it in high school, and I can’t help it now. She looks even sexier now than she did when she left for college. She has filled out. Her curves have come in nicely in all the right places. And she still looks so damn prim and proper with those black-rimmed sexy librarian glasses.

  “Get your mind out of the gutter, Worthington,” I mutter to myself as I park my bike and get off.

  Inside The Watering Hole, I flip on the lights.

  I’m there a few minutes before I’m due to meet Clarissa, so I head to the back office, unlock it, and check office email to see if there are messages from the owner, Sebastian Blackwell.

  Being the head bartender here for so many years, I’ve sort of assumed the pseudo bartender slash manager role of the place. Sebastian left a message wanting to know the sales numbers from last night, so I send them over.

  I hear someone enter, so I head out of the office and back to the bar area.

  Clarissa stands there and...fuck me.

  I think she is purposefully trying to make this hard on me by being as tempting as possible. Or trying to make me hard--something like that.

  She wears a tight black miniskirt and a light blue tank top that hugs her upper body. Her hair is done up behind her head so the sexy strands fall to her shoulder and beyond.

  It’s easy to see that training Clarissa and not being attracted to her is going to be an impossibility.

  “Hey,” she smiles, walking toward me.

  My hand lands on her hip as a greeting, and I’m about to go in for the kiss right there when I snap myself out of this crazy dream state she’s got me in.

  But I do breathe in her scent.

  It’s like cherries and pineapples and everything fresh. “Hey yourself,” I swallow. “Have a seat at the bar,” I motion. I head behind the bar, the one spot in the world where I feel most comfortable. And thank God, because something tells me this is not going to be an easy interview.

  For me, not for her.

  She grabs a stool and faces me.

  “So, I didn’t know if you were having other people apply for the position but I brought my resume so you could see what I did in Boston.”

  I smile and take hold of the piece of paper.

  “Let’s see,” I read aloud. “Two years, master’s in Social Work, Harvard. Office Assistant in the Department of Liberal Arts at Harvard.” I look up to her. “Good to know. I was thinking about having a hostess double as an office assistant.”

  “Shut up,” she murmurs. “Don’t make fun of my resume. You know how I like to over-prepare.”

  “I do. You are good at thinking things through.” I toss the resume aside. “This job is going to be pretty easy for you if I'm being honest. All you have to do is smile and direct people to the appropriate table.”

  “And make sure I rotate the different sections so each server has the same amount of people and the kitchen doesn’t get slammed,” she adds.

  I nod. “I love your initiative. I guess this training is over,” I chuckle.

  “That’s it, really? Is that all I had to come here for. You made me get up early and get dressed for that?”

  “Oh, shush, I know you are an early riser,” I say. “And the afternoon is hardly ‘early.’”

  “How do you know that?”

  “It says so right here on your resume,” I say pointing to the first line. She leans over the bar and her scent wafts over me again.

  “Oh, does it? I didn’t know I included that,” she says.

  My cock hardens in my jeans.

  Think of anything else. Think of the most non-sexual things you can th
ink of, like tractors. Those are non-sexual. Wait, tractors plow, I’d like to plow her.

  Fuck. Why is it so hard not to think of her sexually?

  She’s your buddy’s sister. Get a grip.

  “Ehm,” I clear my throat and turn around, pretending to wipe down an already clean glass. “So there are a couple of other things I think I could show you. For instance, if it gets really busy I might ask you to jump behind the bar.”

  “Really?” she asks excitedly.

  “Yeah. Oh, yeah. It doesn’t happen often but I just like you to be ready.”

  “Okay. So what kind of drink do I have to make?”

  “Come behind the bar,” I say. She hops off the stool and stands behind the bar with me.

  “Oh wow,” she grins. “I feel so powerful now.”

  I laugh. “You do have some power and you have to make sure you are using that power appropriately. Here.” I hand her my cheat sheet.

  “This is a cheat sheet that I made back when I was starting out at the bar. Most of the drinks, everyone still wants. It’s got all your basics: Old Fashioned, Mojito, Moscow Mule. Just use the bottom shelf stuff unless they say otherwise.”

  “Do I have to tell them it’s extra?”

  “You can if you want. Oh, and here is your key card.” I say, handing it to her. “So, you can swipe in. Do it now.”

  She swipes into the computer machine used for ordering.

  “It’ll take some getting used to. Just ring in the alcohol, press the ‘drinks’ button and you’ll be taken to the screen. Pretty easy.”

  She plays with the computer and rings something in. “Can we have a drink right now?” she asks.

  I shrug, “I don’t see why not.”

  “What kind of drink do you want? How about I make your favorite drink. I mean you are up so early today. I doubt your brain is functioning correctly yet.” She flashes a smile and pushes her glasses up.

  I laugh and I want to tell her, if the blood flow between my legs is any indication of how am functioning, I'm doing just fine.

  But I don’t since she's Cole’s little sister.

  Fantasy is where I’m going to have to draw the line. Instead, I keep the conversation light and casual.