Chapter 9 Chase
Chase
The letters on the page I’d been trying to read for five minutes were dancing. Symbols that usually carried so much meaning had morphed into little cartoon letters doing a jig across the page of the Henderson divorce settlement I was supposed to be reviewing for tomorrow morning’s meeting.
I blinked a few times, trying to bring them back into focus.
The letters kept dancing. I was pretty sure Disney music was playing in the background.
Or maybe my mind was colluding with my empty stomach to play tricks on me.
I pushed back from my desk and rubbed my eyes so hard I saw stars. When I opened them again, the clock on my computer screen read 8:47 p.m.
I’d been at the office for over twelve hours.
And I still had at least three more hours of work to do.
How could I love the law and hate being a lawyer at the same time?
My phone buzzed, rattling against the wood of the desk.
I glanced down to find another notification, one of many I’d been ignoring for the last hour because looking at my phone would mean acknowledging that the outside world existed, while I was stuck in a converted sunroom office that smelled like old carpet and desperation.
I picked it up anyway.
It wasn’t a text. It was Instagram. Someone I followed had posted.
I swiped to open it, mostly because staring at my phone was better than staring at dancing letters, and found myself looking at a post from someone named Maya Richardson. I didn’t remember following her, but my feed was full of people I didn’t remember following, so that tracked.
The post was a photo of a bar interior. It was clean and well lit. TVs showed sports, and a long polished bar looked inviting. The caption read:
GRAND OPENING! Barbacks - Ybor’s newest hot spot and Tampa’s only gay sports bar! Come, eat real food from a real chef!
Check us out! 1847 E 7th Ave
My stomach growled so loud I looked around to make sure no one had heard it even though I was the only person left in the office.
Real food from a real chef.
God, that sounded good.
I hadn’t eaten since . . . lunch?
Had I eaten lunch?
I couldn’t remember.
I clicked on the location tag and Google Maps opened, showing me that Barbacks was four blocks from my office.
Easy walking distance.
I thought I heard angels sing.
The stack of documents on my desk taunted me. The Henderson settlement still needed review, the Morrison deposition prep still needed to be finished, and a dozen other client emails still needed responses.
I had so much work to finish before I could even think about going home.
But I also had a meeting at 9 a.m. tomorrow where I’d need to be coherent. That would be impossible if I passed out from hunger in the middle of the conference room.
“Food first, then work,” I grumbled aloud.
I loosened my tie—it had been choking me for the last six hours—and gathered the Henderson documents into what I optimistically called a “stack” but was more of a controlled disaster waiting to happen. After a moment’s thought, I added the Morrison file on top.
Then I turned off my desk lamp and left the office before I could talk myself out of it.
The walk to Barbacks took seven minutes, which I knew because I checked my phone three times to calculate how much work time I was losing by doing something as ridiculous as eating dinner.
The bar was on a corner. A giant banner fluttered in the breeze above the door that read, “GRAND OPENING.” Tall, two-story windows faced the street. I peered through them and saw, well, only a handful of people.
That seemed low for a grand opening on a Friday night in the party heart of town, but then again, I had no idea what made up a successful bar opening. And honestly, fewer people meant I was less likely to be bothered while I tried to work.
I pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The first thing that hit me was the smell of actual food, not the frozen-and-microwaved smell of most bars. I had no clue what was simmering in the kitchen, but the aromas were so savory and delicious they made my stomach growl again.
The second thing I noticed was the general vibe.
It was . . . nice. Comfortable, even.
The TVs were showing a post-game wrap-up.
The Lightning had won, according to the talking head who prattled on despite being muted on most of the screens.
The lighting hanging from the towering ceiling was warm without being too dim.
Booths lined one wall, while high-top tables stood near the windows.
A long bar held court in the center with dozens of bottles backlit behind it.
The Insta post had been honest. This felt like a real neighborhood bar, the kind of place you could relax in without dance music blaring or drugged-up men trying to grab body parts they had no business touching without permission.
One group of loud guys at the bar seemed to know each other.
A couple talked quietly in a booth. They were leaned forward and staring like two dogs about to eat the same strand of spaghetti.
A few solo drinkers watched one TV or another, occasionally glancing about as though unsure how to handle the scene.
It wasn’t packed, but it wasn’t empty either.
I thought the sports theme was a little odd for a gay bar, but somehow it worked. It made it feel less like a typical gay bar and more like a “bar that happened to be gay.” It was what I needed after the day I’d had—correction, was still having.
I scanned the room for an out-of-the-way spot and found a booth in the corner. I could order food and get work done without the fluorescent lights of the office making my eyes bleed.
I made my way over, slid into the booth, and began spreading documents across the table.
The Henderson settlement went on the left, the Morrison deposition prep on the right, and my legal pad in the middle for notes.
After a quick scan, I straightened my legal pad, making sure it was perpendicular with the edge of the table.
My pen was somewhere . . . I fumbled through one stack of papers, trying to remember where I’d—
“Welcome to Barbacks.”
The voice wrapped around me like a hug I hadn’t known I needed. The accent was Irish—definitely Irish. It lilted at the edges, making even a simple introduction sound musical.
“I’m Finn.”
I found my pen and looked up.
And couldn’t stop blinking.
I know this guy. I’m sure of it, but where—
Holy shit, it’s the guy from the sidewalk.
The one I’d crashed into a few weeks ago while having the worst morning of my life. Despite getting checked into a brick wall, he’d bent down to help me gather my exploded documents without making me feel like the disaster I was.
He was standing next to my booth, wearing a black T-shirt and jeans, a bar towel thrown over his shoulder, looking at me with those same blue eyes that I’d somehow managed to remember despite only seeing them for maybe two minutes total.
And he was tall, a lot taller than I remembered. Or maybe I’d never processed it because I was too busy scrambling for my papers on the sidewalk.
He was the bartender? A server? Did gay bars have servers?
No.
Wait.
He’d said, “Welcome to Barbacks. I’m Finn.”
I should speak now.
“Hi,” was all that came out.
Finn’s smile widened, just a fraction.
“Hi,” he said back.
My mouth opened, but nothing else came out. I was fairly certain my brain had stopped working for the night, possibly forever.
Say something, you idiot, something normal, something that won’t make us sound like we’d never had a human conversation before.
Dear God, I was talking in third person and calling myself “we.”
I was becoming the Queen of England’s stupid baby brother.
“I . . .” I started, then stopped. “You’re . . . from the sidewalk.”
Oh God. That was worse. That was so much worse.
But Finn’s smile turned into something brighter and, magically, even more genuine.
“I was wondering if you’d remember me,” he said.
“Oh, I remember you.” The words came out before I could stop them. “I remember you. I mean, yes, I do—did, still do.”
Finn’s eyes danced. “You were running late.”
“I’m always running late.”
“And you’re here now.”
“You are, too,” I said, immediately regretting my unbridled stupidity. “So, new bar? You work here?”
Finn seemed to grow a bit taller as he said, “I’m one of the owners.”
“Congrats on the opening, then.” My brows rose. “The place looks great.”
Finn’s eyes fell to the papers spread across the table. “Still working?”
“Fuck me, I’m always working,” flew out of my mouth. Then my mind caught up and terror seized my soul. “Oh, Jesus. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. Don’t fuck me. I mean, I’m not opposed to . . . no . . . stop . . . I should stop talking now.”
Finn’s laugh bounced off the exposed brick walls.
Until that moment, I’d never known an Irish laugh could make my toes tingle.
“Anyway, I . . . uh . . . I thought I’d get food and review these while I ate. Multitasking, you know, like lawyers do . . . because I am one . . . a lawyer, I mean. I’m a lawyer.”
“That’s depressing,” Finn said, his smile still lighting up my little corner of the bar.
I shrugged. “That’s my life.”
“Let’s get you fed.” Finn flipped open his notepad and held his pen at the ready. “What can I get you?”
What could he get me?
Food.
He was asking about food. I scrambled to open the menu and realized the dishes listed required either a translation or explanation.
“What’s good?” I asked.
“Everything. Our chef is incredible.” He said it with such genuine pride that it made something warm unfurl in my chest. “But if you want my recommendation? Get the Brady Burger and a beer. That burger’s the best thing I’ve eaten in years, and you look like you could use a beer.”
“That’s for sure.”
“Why don’t you just trust me on this? I’ll take care of you tonight, okay?”
“Um, all right.”
Finn closed his notepad, tossed me a wink, then turned and trotted away.
He wants to take care of me? was what echoed in my head as I watched him disappear. That sounds so nice.
He really was the guy from the sidewalk, the one Diego had told me to “casually” go back to Ybor to look for, which I’d dismissed as ridiculous because Tampa was huge and the odds of running into someone randomly on the street were basically zero.
His name was Finn, and he owned a bar.
Four blocks from my office.
I snatched up my phone and texted Diego.
Me: You’re not gonna believe this. I found him.
Diego: Found who?
Me: Sidewalk guy.
Diego: THE SIDEWALK GUY???
Me: He owns a new gay sports bar in Ybor. It opened today and I just walked into it.
Diego: NO FUCKING WAY. Did you know it was his place?
Me: Yes, way. And no, I had no clue.
Diego: What are the odds?
Me: Right?
Diego: Have you talked to him??
Me: He just took my order.
Diego: AND???
Me: I got a burger.
Diego: Are you at least flirting? Please tell me you are.
Me: I’m NOT.
Diego: You better be!
Me: I have work to do. Go away.
Diego: WORK CAN WAIT.
Me: No, it can’t. I have a client meeting at 9am.
Diego: Chase, I swear to God if you blow this . . . I mean, you should totally blow this!
Me: I’m not blowing anything . . . or anyone. I’m eating a burger and going back to the office.
Diego: You are a betrayer of all things gay. When you find fresh meat, you pound it. Every man knows this. It’s in the Manual!
Me: The Manual is a myth.
Diego: You’re hopeless. Enjoy your burger and briefs.
I put my phone away and looked down at the Henderson settlement, trying to focus on the words.
They were still dancing.
But I couldn’t tell if it was because I was so exhausted or because my heart was doing something complicated and my brain was replaying the way Finn had smiled when he recognized me.
He worked four blocks from my office.
I could come back here.
I shouldn’t, but I could.
I looked up and found Finn behind the bar, pulling a beer from the tap. He glanced over, caught me looking, and smiled. I looked back down at my papers, feeling heat creep up my neck. Focus. I had work to do.
My tummy roared again, so I shoved the files aside.
Food first. Then work.