3. Porter
3
porter
When you own a bar, there are things that just become a normal part of your occupation that no other business owner has to go through. Call it the bartender’s version of the death and taxes guarantee.
Regulars will always bitch and moan about something that’s wrong. They don’t care that it’s been wrong for twenty years, they’re still going to complain. Two of my regulars, who bear a striking resemblance to the two old dudes from the Muppets, love to bitch about the lighting. That it’s too dark and they can’t read their newspaper. I inform them that the lighting has been the same every day since they first started coming here when my dad owned it, and maybe, just maybe, that it’s their eyesight getting a little worse for wear.
They tell me to shut my trap, get better bulbs, but before I do that, pour them another beer.
There’s also the guarantee that just when I’m starting to feel comfortable and things are going smoothly, something will break, burst, or catch on fire, needing me to pay a hefty repair bill. Two months ago it was the ice machine. Three before that was the fryer vent. And while I hate forking over that money, if I want The Joint to survive, I need to suck it up and pay the piper.
And lastly, and this is a guarantee: When it’s a Friday night, and the drinks are flowing and the music is playing, that you will get hit on by a woman.
I’m not being conceited. It’s just facts.
“Hey, Porter. What’s a girl got to do to get a drink around here?”
I let out a groan as my back is turned from the voice, which gives me the chance to mumble what I actually want to say.
“Flash your tits to someone. It’s what you do every fucking week.”
But, when I turn around from pouring whiskey into a rocks glass, I’m wearing nothing but my signature smile as I face Emily Babcock.
“Just gotta order, Em. Whatcha feeling tonight?”
I’m purposely non-flirty with her. No use of the word “hun,” “darlin’,” or “beautiful.” But that doesn’t matter when it comes to the one woman in town I’m pretty sure every man has had a nighttime visit with—she’s going to assume you’re flirting with her just by speaking.
“Vodka soda with a lime. And maybe you, if you’re up for it?”
“One vodka soda, coming right up.”
I purposely ignore the last part as I go to make her drink. Emily has always been one to throw herself at men. Hell, she’s been doing it since we were in high school, which is the only time I fell for her come-ons. But I don’t remember it being as bad as it’s been recently.
Then again, I’ve never had live music in here on a regular basis, which I have the past few Fridays. I’m going to assume that’s the direct correlation.
This is what I get for trying to make an extra buck.
Some of my younger clientele—the ones who come in when my grumpy old men head home for the night—have been on me to get some sort of entertainment in here. Which, I don’t know what they’re talking about. I have a jukebox, televisions, and pool tables. What else do you need at a hometown dive bar?
After a while, I was tired of hearing about it, so I caved—but just to prove to them it wasn’t going to work. That it wouldn’t drive up business, or bring in new faces into our small town of Rolling Hills, Tennessee.
All it proved was that I don’t know shit.
So now every Friday night we have some sort of musical act, my bar is busier than ever, and I have to deal with the likes of Emily Babcock more than usual.
“Here you go.” I hand Emily her drink and start to take someone else’s order, figuring she’s going to hand me her credit card. She shouldn’t need me to tell her the price. She’s been coming in nearly every weekend since she turned twenty-one, so I’m a little baffled as to why she’s still standing here. And why she’s staring at me like she’s trying to figure out a riddle.
“Cash or tab?” I ask while I gesture to the next customer. After they signal to get them two more beers, I realize that Emily is still staring.
“Did I grow a tail or somethin’?”
She shakes her head as I reach into the beer cooler to pull out two bottles. “I’m just trying to figure out who’s going to be the woman who finally breaks Porter McCoy.”
Now this makes me laugh. “I’m pretty sure she doesn’t exist, Em. Want me to start you a tab?”
She lets out a little huff and puts her credit card down on the bar. “Sure. But I want you to know, if you’re ever ready… If that big house next door is feeling a little lonely, you know where to find me.”
“See ya later, Emily.”
She thinks she did something there as she tosses me a wink before she turns away. I’m pretty sure a wink isn’t supposed to send a cold shiver down your spine, but that’s what it does when it comes from her.
“Is she ever going to stop? I think my dick just shriveled up in sympathy for you.”
I chuckle at the words from my cousin, Wes Taylor, who’s now standing at the bar with his wife Betsy. I reach across to shake his hand, which ends up being pulled into a bro hug. I also lean over to give Betsy a kiss on the cheek.
“Unfortunately, I’m used to her. Dangers of the job.” I look out to the crowded bar to see if the table that Wes and his crew usually sit at is open, but it isn’t. “Sorry, man. If I would’ve known you were coming, I would’ve reserved your table.”
He shakes his head. “No need. Just the two of us tonight. A little date night, if you will.”
“Married and still going on dates,” I say, pouring them their usual drinks. “Aren’t you two just adorable.”
“Damn right we’re still going on dates,” Betsy says. “I love those kids more than anything, but they’re exhausting.”
“But, they all had plans of their own—when you don’t need to pay a babysitter, you take full advantage.”
“Cheers to that,” I say as I hand them their drinks. Not that I’d know the first thing about the daily dealing of children. But I can assume it’s hell in a hand basket.
“You know, though, Emily did ask a good question.”
I lift my eyebrow to Betsy, because I know where this is going. “Don’t start.”
“What?” she says in mock innocence. “I’m just saying that when you’re one of the most eligible bachelors in Rolling Hills, the people want to know when Porter McCoy will go off the market.”
I shake my head at my cousin-in-law and start making drinks for a few regulars that I can see need another. “How about this? When I find her, you’ll be the first to know.”
Betsy slightly rolls her eyes at my response. “Fine. I guess I’ll accept that. Maybe you can throw in some mozzarella sticks to make the deal binding?”
I laugh and shake my head. “Mozzarella sticks for you to stop hounding me? Say less.”
I don’t know why the state of my love life—or lack thereof—seems to be the hot topic of conversation tonight. People know my situation. Hell, I’ve known most of these people since kindergarten. They’ve never seen me with a woman for more than a few dates. They sure as hell have no idea about the woman I’ve been sleeping with for eight years. So according to them, I’m Porter McCoy, bachelor extraordinaire. And that’s just how I like it.
Plus, they also know my family history, which means they know I have my reasons for not wanting a wife or family.
My family in town is sparse—just Wes and his parents. Pops died eight years ago. Mom took off when I was in middle school. I think she still lives in Indiana, but I could be wrong. I haven’t talked to her since I called to tell her about his death. Silly me thought that she had the right to know that the man she was once married to, and had a son with, was dead. And maybe part of me wanted to know that I still had one parent. I know we didn’t talk much, but the thought of losing the man who raised me being gone turned me into a scared kid all over again.
I should’ve known better. After I told her he was dying, she said that she was sorry and hung up. Didn’t come back for the funeral. Didn’t even send a card.
So yeah, she still could be in Indiana with my stepdad and half-sister. Could be in Alaska. Hell, she could also be dead. I have no clue.
But it is what it is. I learned a long time ago that family isn’t always blood; sometimes it’s the family you choose. Or in my case, the family that chose me. The people who’ve come into this bar faithfully since my dad opened it thirty years ago knew me since I was a straggly kid sitting at the bar doing homework. So yes, I might bitch about them, but they’ve been here for the good times and the bad. They’re the reason my business is still alive and thriving. And why I’m slammed on this Friday night.
I’m running back and forth down the bar, hating that I keep putting off hiring someone else to help me tend the bar. I can normally handle it, but on Fridays it’s been rough. And frankly, it would be nice to have a night off once in a while. But I can’t think about that now. I have a bar three-people deep and there’s no sign of it slowing down.
But as I top off a Long Island iced tea, I happen to catch a glance at the front door. I know most everyone who comes in the bar, but sometimes even friendly faces can take me by surprise. Which is how I feel when I see Maeve Banks walk in the door.
It’s few and far between that The Joint gets a visit from the oldest Banks daughter. Not that she has anything against the bar that she took her first legal drink in-—and the bar she used to steal Smirnoff Ice from when she was a teenager—but now that she lives closer to Nashville with her billionaire husband, we don’t see her as much.
Right behind Maeve are her youngest sisters, Ainsley and Stella. Seeing Stella here isn’t as far-fetched since she works in Rolling Hills with her brother Simon. It’s always shocking to see Ainsley here since I’ve never seen her take a sip of alcohol in her life.
Three Banks sisters have my spidey senses tingling that the fourth might be behind. Though that’s doubtful. She was just home last month, and I’m pretty sure her school year doesn’t end for another month. It was rare we got a non-holiday or vacation visit from Quinn then; I doubt it would happen two months in a row.
Much to my cock’s dismay.
So, as much as I’d like to stare at the door and say a prayer to the God of Hookups, I can’t, as customers start shouting their orders at me. Begrudgingly I serve them, but unfortunately I now have nothing but thoughts of Quinn Banks rolling through my brain.
Fuck, what I’d give to get lost in her curves tonight. Yes, I just saw her last month. I don’t think in our eight years we’ve ever seen each other two months in a row. But it has been three times in the past five months, which is probably why I keep looking to see if my favorite brunette is going to walk in.
Which is ridiculous. I don’t stare at doors. I don’t wish for women to come see me. Hell, I barely initiate small talk when it comes to the opposite gender. I’ve seen the worst in people and relationships. I watch grown folks cheat on each other every day in this bar. I watched my mom pack her suitcases and leave. I know Pops was strong and put on a brave face after she decided that small-town Tennessee life wasn’t for her, but there were nights I heard his tears. I know he wasn’t the same man after she left. And like hell I’m ever going to risk my wellbeing for the chance that maybe I’ll be on the slim chance of a happily ever after.
It’s why Quinn and I are perfect together. I only see her when she comes home from Arizona. We have incredible, string-free sex. She flies back home. I go back to my life. We don’t text in between. We don’t call and pretend to catch up. It’s all physical. No more, no less.
The round of applause from the patrons to the entertainment for the night breaks my thoughts as I turn my back to grab a bottle of tequila. But the thoughts don’t stay away for long as the tequila makes me now think of the one night where I licked this same brand off of Quinn’s luscious body.
That was a good night…
“Jesus Christ, Porter! What’s a girl gotta do around here to get a drink?”
The voice stops me on a dime. There’s no other woman that could scream at me like that, and yet I find it so fucking sexy.
I don’t turn around. I don’t react, except for the smile that no one can see.
Because Quinn Banks is home.