5. Grace
Grace
Bar buzzed from the live band and the groups of people chatting. From the people making small talk, having first dates, forming real connections. Real friends.
I inhaled a deep breath and was met with the scent of alcohol, musk, and a little bit of desperation. Which probably was coming from me.
Desperate for change and a drink, I walked up to the wooden bar and shoved my way in front of the bartender, a muscular guy with a welcome, blinding white smile.
“Welcome to Bar. I’m Nicky,” he chirped. Nicky raised an eyebrow as he looked me up and down. No doubt taking in the fact that I didn’t seem like their typical customer. Everybody looked relaxed, whereas my outfit was stiff and I stuck out like a sore thumb.
“What can I getcha?” Nicky asked, flashing his pearly whites again.
“I’ll have a dirty martini. Three olives.” It was my standard drink. I dug into my purse, pulled out my platinum card, and slid it across the bar. After Nicky asked if I wanted to start a tab, he turned to run it.
Nicky relayed my order to the other bartender, a younger guy with brown hair.
He grabbed my martini glass in one hand and the gin in the other.
He set the glass down and started to mix my drink, overexaggerating his movements as he shook the gin, vermouth, and olive brine in the cocktail shaker.
It was clear from the way he kept stealing glances at her that he was trying to impress this woman at the other end of the bar.
Not that he had to do much to impress her—she was already looking at him with googly eyes.
Ah, young love. One thing I never delved into too deeply was love.
Sure, guys were fun to mess around with, and they served a purpose every now and again, but that was the extent of my relationships with the opposite sex.
“Your drink, my lady.” The younger guy, who didn’t even look eighteen, set my drink down in front of me. He flashed me a cheeky smile and winked. “I’m Max, by the way.”
“Thank you.” I returned his smile with one of my own. It was nice to see both men be so enthusiastic about their jobs.
I cursed myself for not telling the guys my name when they’d introduced themselves. Of course they could look at my card and they’d see Grace Harrington imprinted there , but dammit if I didn’t want to be just Grace sometimes.
A disheveled-looking, older gentleman with a salt-and-pepper beard came up to the bar and started chatting up Nicky and Max.
As he passed by me, I caught a whiff of alcohol and sweat, and my nose wrinkled at how strong his body odor was.
If it weren’t for the fact that I spotted the cash in his wallet when he opened it to retrieve a credit card, I would have thought he was homeless.
He handed the card over to the younger bartender.
“Dirty Al, I told you I ran the card three times. It isn’t going through,” Max reasoned, cupping the back of his neck with his hand, nervously.
It must have been uncomfortable to tell people their payment wasn’t any good.
“I don’t know what you don’t understand. My account has plenty of money. Run it again,” the older man spat. His nickname might have been “Dirty Al,” but I was more concerned that he was Crazy Al.
“Assholes,” the man muttered under his breath, taking a seat next to me.
With that, I decided to do a lap around the place and get away from the smelly old guy. Maybe I should buy his drinks, pay it forward and all that. But then again, maybe that wasn’t all that wise, since I didn’t want him getting the wrong idea.
Grace, don’t judge! You’ll become like Jacqueline , a voice within myself told me. I shuddered at the thought and spun around to get a better view of my surroundings.
Bar was… nice? It wasn’t my typical scene—I was used to bars with chandeliers, top-shelf liquor, and elevator music playing in the background, or if I was partying, lounges with leather booths, body glitter, and EDM.
No, Bar was quaint, homey almost, with lots of reclaimed wood details.
You could sense the pride in ownership through the little touches in the decor.
Not to mention, the gallery wall was filled with photos of patrons and their letters, Christmas and birthday cards, and well wishes. It really showed a sense of community.
In my world, community and genuinely giving a shit about people wasn’t a thing.
Sure, there were parties and fundraisers where we mixed and mingled, but those events were laced with gossip, debauchery, and betrayal.
I couldn’t tell you how many of my mother’s friends’ husbands cheated within their friend group or how much backstabbing went on just to get a seat on the board of some charity claiming to help people.
A charity that was often just putting up a front to save face and line their pockets.
I took a sip from my martini; it was a little strong but good, nonetheless. I was used to watered-down drinks at the events I attended, so this was a pleasant change.
Walking into the small back room, I found a pool table with a few couples settled around it. I’d never played before, but judging by what I was watching, it looked like a lot of fun.
God, I wanted to have fun.
I glanced down and realized I’d left my bag at the bar. My haste to get away from Dirty Al obviously made me lose my mind. It was vintage, so I wouldn’t be surprised if somebody had snatched it up by now.
I turned around, deciding I should go check to see if luck was on my side and it was still there, but my progress was halted when I knocked into a hard figure.
My drink crashed into the body before me.
“Ow,” I muttered as we collided. Fuck, I was so embarrassed.
I stepped back to assess the damage. The guy’s button-down was soaked as were his jeans.
From the large wet spot there, it looked like he’d peed his pants.
“Oh my God.” My palm covered my mouth. I was mortified.
In all my years of drinking, legally and not so legally, I had never spilled a drink, let alone spilled one all over such a handsome guy.
“I’m so sorry. Please let me pay for your dry cleaning.
” I looked up into his shimmering blue eyes, finding myself captivated by the arrays of colors I saw there.
“It’s okay, really,” he reassured me, as I apologized more.
A soft smile spread across his lips, and little creases formed around his eyes as his smile grew.
Something about those little lines filled me with calm and warmth.
In my world, people didn’t have wrinkles or creasing, striving to hold on to the facade of perpetual youth for as long as possible.
At the first sign of aging, you got Botox, then as time went on, you graduated to facelifts, lip plumpers, cheek implants, and other procedures that made your skin look like a Barbie doll’s, and not in a good way. Plastic, fake, non-moving.
His hair was tousled and not freshly cut.
You could tell he wore baseball caps. He had a scruffy beard.
As I studied him, I saw that he wasn’t handsome in the traditional sense.
No, there was something else there—he was comfortably rugged, masculine, but not in an arrogant way or putting on airs to impress anybody.
His frame was muscular, and his stance looked like he was a protector, grounded and reliable.
His jeans were worn. He looked approachable, like a guy out of one of those cheesy holiday movies that embodied warmth.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” His gaze traveled down my face and then lower and lower still. A look of appreciation, maybe, crossed his features. God, he was sexy and … beautiful?
A blush rose in his cheeks when he realized he was caught checking me out, and I couldn’t help but chuckle at his discomfort.
Shaking my head, I answered him, “No, I’m not. I’m a city girl through and through. Manhattan, born and raised.” I gave him a cheeky smile because why not? I couldn’t remember the last time I felt this excited talking to a guy.
“Seems like you’re in need of a new drink. How about you let me buy you one? I know the owner.” He smiled to himself like what he said was supposed to be funny. He grabbed a napkin off one of the tables and started patting himself dry.
I pursed my lips. “I don’t know. You think it’s a good idea to give me another drink?”
His nose scrunched as he laughed. “Well, you already threw one on me. What else could happen?”
“I most certainly did not throw it on you,” I admonished as he gave me an expectant look. “At least not on purpose,” I mumbled, conceding.
“That’s what I thought.” He outstretched his hand. “I’m Caleb, by the way.”
“Grace.” I took his hand and shook it lightly, unable to hide my grin.
“Okay, Grace, let’s get you a drink.” Caleb threaded his fingers through mine and led me to the bar, where I’d started out. Shockwaves ran through my hand, up my arm, and all across my body.
Caleb waited for me to sit on one of the barstools, and then he opened the bar panel to cross over to where the other bartenders were working. So he was a bartender … interesting.
“You work here?” I asked dumbly.
He nodded. “Yep, what can I get you? Actually, hold on—” Caleb reached down and sniffed his shirt that was still soaked from my drink. “Dirty martini.”
Holy shit! I was impressed. This guy knew his stuff. I flashed him a toothy grin and nodded. “Three olives,” I added, peering up at him through my lashes.
“I know.” Caleb grinned, giving me a panty-dropping smile before walking away to grab the liquor for my drink.
Nicky waltzed over to me as Caleb was distracted making my drink. “Hi, hun. How’s everything so far?”
I nodded politely, not wanting to be rude but also not wanting Nicky to think I was interested—at least not in him. “Everything’s great. The service is top-notch,” I complimented, looking over at Caleb.
“Thank you for letting me know.” Nicky smiled, touching my hand across the bar. “I’ll be sure to tell the boss.” He gave me a wink and went back to cleaning one of the glasses in front of him.
Oh, so was he the owner? He was cute in a sort of clean-cut way. Way too eager for my liking. Nicky honestly would fit in fine with the Wall Street bankers. Very sure of himself but no real substance.
Caleb, on the other hand … I don’t know, but there was something about him.
“Everything okay?” Caleb asked as he slid my drink over to me. I nodded and muttered my thanks. He looked over to Max, having a wordless conversation with him.
I pretended not to notice and instead focused my attention on Dirty Al, who was miserably attempting to flirt with the young woman whose attention Max was trying to snag earlier.
“I gotta go help Amanda escape Dirty Al before Max goes off on him.” Nicky tossed Caleb a towel. “Clean yourself. You smell like a brewery, CJ.” He cackled at his bad joke.
“Sorry about that. The guys are a bit nuts,” he said sheepishly, leaning over to be closer to me, which was a good thing because it got louder in here as the song changed.
I waved him off. “No worries. Seems like you get some interesting clientele here.” Caleb followed my gaze to Dirty Al, who was waving his hands at Max, obviously complaining about something and slurring his words.
“Oh, that’s just Al. He’s a regular. Ever since he ‘retired,’ he’s been lost. Poor bastard found a home here, but he has his moments,” Caleb commented wistfully.
He leaned across the bar farther as if he was telling me a secret, and he grazed his hand over mine once more.
“It’s just, I feel sorry for Al, to be honest.” Caleb looked into my eyes, a torn expression on his face, and went on to explain more about the infamous Dirty Al.
“He was a hotshot in his prime, and one mistake ripped everything from him. I don’t think I understand the magnitude of how difficult it must be to be an outcast from all you’ve ever known,” Caleb said earnestly, as my eyes popped out of my head.
It would appear that Dirty Al and I had more in common than I’d thought.
“Speak for yourself,” I muttered mainly to myself, but Caleb must have heard me because he gave me an inquisitive stare. I brushed him off, not wanting to explain and relive it all again. It was nice to forget everything and just be normal. Even if it was temporary.
“That’s a lonely life.” I sighed, looking at Dirty Al, who was now sitting at a table by himself. Oddly enough, I knew exactly how the disheveled, older, drunk man felt.
Alone in a group of people.
I peered up at those aquamarine eyes from across the bar, and the look this man gave me made my heart stop.
Correction : That was how I used to feel.