Chapter 2 #2
I picked up my sandwich because I needed something to do with my hands. “Fine. Let’s pretend. Tell me about your vision for this bar,” I said before sinking my teeth into my sandwich.
The pork was perfectly seasoned, the bread had that ideal ratio of crusty to soft, and the whole thing was delicious. Of course, it was. This was the Columbia. Everything here was good.
Which was why it cost fourteen dollars.
Which was why I shouldn’t have been eating it.
Mark’s grin turned guilty as he grabbed a folio from the booth beside him and opened it. “Okay, so I made a list of ideas—”
“Oh, lick a fookin’ arse.”
“Lick a what?” He shook his head and moved on. “Idea number one: pirate theme. Full commitment with treasure chests for tables, staff in eye patches, specialty rum drinks with names like ‘The Plank Walker’—”
“Not only no, but fuck no.”
“You didn’t even let me explain the full concept—”
“I don’t need to. Next.”
“Fine. Idea two: foam party Tuesdays. We install special drains, get the foam machines, really make it an event—”
“Are you trying to get us shut down by the health department?”
“Idea three!” He was undeterred, swiping through his notes. “Roman bathhouse aesthetic. The staff wears togas, we have columns, maybe some statues of David—”
“Mark, I swear to God—”
“Idea four: underwater theme. We could install an aquarium floor—”
“How many ideas are on your fookin’ list?”
“Ten.” He looked far too proud of himself. “I love how your accent thickens when you’re excited.”
“This isn’t me excited.”
He waved me off. “I made a very detailed list.”
“Of course you did.” This was so Mark—ten terrible ideas instead of one good one.
“Okay, let me stop you before you suggest installing a mechanical bull or getting a mascot parrot. What’s the actual concept?
No pirates, no foam, no togas, and no aquarium floors that would collapse and kill someone. ”
Mark’s expression shifted, instantly becoming more grounded.
“A neighborhood sports bar. Gay-owned, gay-friendly, but not exclusive. We’d serve good drinks—craft cocktails and local beers—and food that’s worth eating, not frozen shit we microwave.
There’d be TVs everywhere for games, but not so many it feels like a casino.
I want comfortable seating and a good atmosphere, somewhere you can bring a first date or meet your buddies to watch a game. ”
I was nodding before he finished. “That sounds nice.”
“Right?!”
“But it would need to be done right. I saw a place try this in Atlanta a few years back, but it felt forced, like they were trying to gay up the world of sports just for the bar. Our place needs to feel authentic.” I was thinking out loud now, the pieces clicking together despite my brain screaming that this was insane.
A list fell out of my mouth before my brain could stop it.
“Clean aesthetic, nothing too themed. Mix of booths and high-tops, some bar seating. Classic cocktails with local touches. The food needs to be legitimately good—like, people should come for the food and stay for the drinks.”
“Yes! Exactly!” Mark pulled up photos of an empty commercial space. “This is it. The space is about two thousand square feet, with high ceilings and good natural light. The previous tenant was a furniture store, so it needs work, but the bones are solid.”
I studied the photos. He was right. The space had potential.
But potential wasn’t the same as reality.
“Mark, this is a huge risk,” I said quietly. “Most new bars fail in the first year.”
“So we won’t fail.”
“It’s not that simple—”
“Sure it is. We’ll be the ten percent that succeeds.” He said it with such absolute confidence that I almost believed him. “Finn, I know it’s scary, but you’re miserable at Riley’s. You’ve been miserable for years. When’s the last time you were excited about work?”
I couldn’t come up with anything, so I tried to think of a moment when I didn’t dread stepping into Riley’s. That didn’t work any better.
“What about permits? A liquor license? Staff? The budget?” I was grasping for practical concerns, anything to anchor myself.
“Lawyer says six weeks for permits. Staff is where you come in—you’d hire them, train them, and build the team. Our initial budget is two hundred thousand.”
“Dollars?” I nearly choked on my Materva. “You have two hundred thousand dollars?”
“I sold a successful company, Finn. I did okay.” He waved this off like it was nothing. “Some goes to build-out and equipment, but we’d have enough for operations and payroll for at least six months, longer if we’re smart about it.”
“That’s a lot of money to risk on a maybe.”
“It’s my money to risk. And it’s not a maybe—it’s a definitely, because I’m doing this whether you’re in or not.
” Mark’s expression turned serious. “But I really, really want you to be in, because I’ll turn it into a disaster without you.
I’d rather build something great with my best friend than build something mediocre alone. ”
The server came by to check on us. Before I could even reach for my wallet, Mark had already grabbed the check.
“Mark—”
“Business expense,” he said firmly, pulling out his credit card. “We’re about to be partners.”
“I haven’t agreed to anything yet.”
“But you want to. I can see it on your face. You Irish blokes are terrible at hiding what you’re thinking.”
“One, we don’t use the term ‘blokes,’ and two, your Irish accent is a crime against humanity.”
He chuckled as he signed the receipt with a flourish. “Come on, Finn. When’s the last time you took a risk on something you actually wanted?”
Three years ago, when I’d agreed to date him.
That had been a risk.
A failed risk, romantically speaking, but it had given me the best friendship of my life.
“I don’t have any money to invest,” I said, voicing the thing that had been bothering me since he’d mentioned partnership. “I’ve got maybe two months of rent saved. That’s it.”
“We don’t need your money. We need your brain.” Mark leaned forward. “The ownership split reflects the work you’ll put in, not capital investment. You’ll be running the day-to-day, building the concept, and making decisions that keep us afloat. That’s worth twenty-five percent.”
“That’s not how business partnerships usually work.”
“Since when do we do anything the usual way?” He extended his hand across the table. “What do you say? Partners?”
I stared at his hand.
Then I looked at the photos of the empty space on his phone.
Then I looked at Mark’s face, so open and hopeful and certain this would work despite having zero evidence to support that certainty.
This was insane.
This was a massive leap off a cliff without knowing if there was water below.
But I’d been standing on solid ground for seven years, and all it had gotten me was flamingo hat ladies and plastic mint garnishes.
“Okay,” I said, and took his hand. “I’m in.”
“Yeah?” Mark’s grip was firm and warm.
“Yeah. Let’s open a bar.”
“Holy shit!” Mark jumped out of the booth, rounded the table, and yanked me into a hug right there in the restaurant, which was very Mark. Personal space was a suggestion, not a rule. “We’re really doing this!”
“We’re really doing this,” I agreed, and then reality hit. “Oh my God, what are we doing?”
“It’s either something amazing or something stupid.” Mark pulled back, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. “Possibly both.”
“Definitely both.”
“We need a name,” Mark said, already pulling his phone back out. “I started a list. ‘The Rainbow Tap,’ ‘Pride Pints,’ ‘The Man Cave,’ ‘The Man Hole’—”
“Those are all terrible.”
“You got better ideas?” He cocked a brow.
“What about ‘Barbacks’?” The word came out before I’d thought it through, but the more I said it, the more it made sense. “People who know bars will get it, but it’s also got ‘backs’ in it—quarterbacks, running backs. That plays into the sports angle without being too on the nose.”
Mark tested the word out loud. “Barbacks.”
“Yeah. Multiple meanings. Works on different levels. There’s even something for our dirty-minded gay friends.”
Mark grunted and shook his head.
“Barbacks,” he repeated, his grin widening with each syllable. “That’s perfect. I love it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Hell yeah!” Mark typed it into his notes with the gravity of someone signing a peace treaty. “Barbacks. Our bar. Holy shit, kiddo.”
“Don’t call me kiddo when we’re business partners. It’s unprofessional.”
“Oh, we’re professionals now? I don’t remember agreeing to that.” Mark’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “Partners in business?”
“Yes—”
“Not those kinds of partners, though.”
“Obviously not. We tried that. I can’t date an anteater.”
He snorted. “You’re worse.”
“Which is why we’re better as business partners.” I felt a laugh bubbling up despite the terror. “The straightest gay men in Tampa are opening a bar together.”
“Damn right.” Mark threw cash on the table for tip. “Come on. Let’s go look at the space. You need to see what you just agreed to.”
“Why do I suddenly have a terrible feeling about this?”
“That’s how you know it’s going to be good.”
We walked out into the Tampa afternoon, and for the first time in years, I felt like I was walking toward something instead of away.