Chapter 6
“Harper’s never going to trust me again.”
Sloane
I stop at the back entrance to Rumrunner.
“Boozer, sit.” I wait until my dog obeys my command before continuing. “This is a big night for me. Harper left me in charge because she’s celebrating Thanksgiving with her family.”
And I’m not jealous at all. Not at all. My stomach gurgles in protest. I ignore it. I don’t want to be part of the Raider clan.
“I want to show her I can handle it. Once she sees how awesome a job I’ve done, she’ll appoint me assistant manager. Which means a raise.”
I desperately need a raise since I don’t have the money to pay a deposit for a new apartment. Which means Boozer and I are currently between homes. It’s temporary.
“All this means I need you to behave tonight.”
Harper will lose her mind if she discovers I brought Boozer to work again. But I don’t have a choice. Pam is away celebrating Thanksgiving with her family. And I can hardly leave my dog in the car while I’m at work.
“Let’s do this.”
We enter the bar, and the sound of the crowd immediately hits me. Thanksgiving is a big day for the speakeasy. Tourists enjoy visiting the island for the long weekend. And exploring the local speakeasy is a must do.
“Oh, good. You made it,” Dave, the bartender, says when he rushes into the hallway. “The crowd is insane tonight.”
Boozer wags his tail at Dave but when the bartender ignores him, he barks. “You brought your dog? Harper is not going to be happy.”
“What she doesn’t know, won’t hurt her.”
Dave snorts – probably because I’ve never managed to get away with bringing Boozer to the bar without Harper finding out – before entering the storage area.
I make my way to the office and unlock the door. I place the doggy bed on the floor and point to it. “Boozer, stay.”
He whines but I ignore him. It’s bad enough I brought him with me to work. I’m not letting him wander around the bar.
He tucks his tail between his balls and slinks to the bed.
“Wish mommy luck.” He barks. Good enough.
I shut the door behind me and make my way to the bar where a line of customers is waiting. I join Dave behind the counter.
“Who’s next?” I ask and get to work. The next thirty minutes fly by as I help customer after customer.
I scan the bar to make sure everything is under control before smiling at the next person in line. “Hi! How can I help you?”
“I demand to see the manager.”
“I’m the manager.” For tonight and – fingers crossed – after tonight, too. Assistant manager. Manager. Same thing.
He sneers at me. “You’re the manager?”
I dial up my smile. “Yes.”
“Is this some kind of joke?”
“No joke, sir. How can I help you?”
“You can get me the real manager.”
“I am the real manager.” I pinch myself. “Ouch! Yep. All real. No fake person here.”
“Don’t be cute with me and go get the manager.”
Dave sidles up to me. “Do we have a problem here?”
The man points at me. “This woman won’t get the manager.”
“Probably because she is the manager this evening.”
I knew there was a reason I liked Dave. Besides him not tattling on me when I bring Boozer to the bar.
“This woman can’t be in charge.”
I blow out a breath. “Okay. Now, I’m getting annoyed. Either tell me what your problem is, or I’ll ask Trent to escort you off the premises.”
I motion to the bouncer and he immediately marches toward us.
“You’re kicking me out?”
“What’s the problem?” I ask instead of explaining myself. It appears Mr. Sexist doesn’t listen anyway.
He slams a glass on the bar with such vehemence, liquid spills over its sides.
“This is not moonshine.”
The glass is engraved with the logo of the Buccaneer’s Whiskey & Distillery. Underneath are the words ‘Smuggler’s Hideaway Moonshine’. “It appears to be moonshine.”
“Moonshine doesn’t burn your nostrils and scar your esophagus.”
Wrong. Moonshine will totally burn your nostrils. And other things if you happen to be too close to an open flame. I swear it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t realize the fire was lit. Besides, eyebrows grow back.
“Smuggler’s Hideaway Moonshine isn’t the same as moonshine you can buy other places.”
“What a crock!”
“The moonshine on the island is prepared according to recipes developed during Prohibition by smugglers.”
“How the hell is that legal?”
I don’t know. It just is.
“I can’t answer any legal questions.”
“I want my money back.”
I cringe. My answer – there are no returns on drinks – will not make him a happy camper. I try another tactic.
“Why don’t you order another drink on the house?”
Accept the drink. Accept the drink.
A sparkle appears in his eye and I swear under my breath. This is not going to be good. “I’ll have a Ramos Gin Fizz.”
Crap. A Ramos Gin Fizz requires shaking for at least ten minutes, and the line behind him is already growing after all of his complaining.
“Coming right up. I am required to warn you that a Ramos Gin Fizz contains raw eggs.” There is no such requirement, but people are freaked out by raw eggs. Let’s hope Mr. Complainer is freaked out, too.
“Raw eggs?” His nose wrinkles. “I’ve never had a Ramos Gin Fizz with raw egg before.”
“Then, you haven’t had a Ramos Gin Fizz. The recipe calls for egg white.”
I hold my breath as I wait for his reply. “Fine. I’ll have a regular gin fizz.”
“Coming right up.”
A gin fizz is a simple cocktail of gin, lemon juice, sugar, and soda water. It doesn’t require at least ten minutes of shaking to emulsify the cream and egg white.
“Good job,” Dave mutters to me when I grab a bottle of gin from the shelf.
His words warm my heart. Dave could easily fight me for the assistant manager position. He’s worked at Bootlegger nearly as long as I have. And he doesn’t have a habit of bringing his dog to work. Or being late. Or forgetting the shipment of beer is coming early.
But he’s not interested in the position. I am. And I can do this. I can be the assistant manager.
I prepare the gin fizz and set it down on the bar in front of the customer. “Here you are. Enjoy.”
He doesn’t walk away – of course not – he sips on the drink in front of me while blocking other customers from being served.
“This is acceptable,” he says and finally wanders away.
“I want to try the moonshine,” the customer behind him says and I nearly groan. “Don’t worry. I can handle my liquor.” He winks and now I do groan.
I pour his drink and hand it to him. I’m about to serve the next customer when I notice a commotion near the entrance to the bathrooms.
“I’ll be right back,” I holler to Dave.
He nods and I make my way to the crowd. “What’s happening?”
“There’s a dog in the women’s restroom.”
I have a sneaking suspicion I know what dog it is. I push through the group until I reach the office. Sure enough, the door is hanging open. I hope he didn’t break the door. I can’t hide a broken door from Harper.
I shut the door before returning to the crowd. I bypass the line to the restroom and enter. There’s a group of women gathered around an open stall.
Before I reach the stall, I can hear slurping. The kind of slurping only a dog makes. Great. Boozer is drinking the toilet water.
I grab his collar and pull him away.
“Hey!” a woman shouts. “What are you doing? You can’t abuse animals this way.”
“This is my dog, Boozer.”
She frowns at me. “Why are you letting him drink from the toilet? There could be germs in there.”
“More germs than on his asshole, which he spends at least an hour every day licking?”
Her nose wrinkles. “You need to take him to the vet.”
As if I have the money for a vet.
I drag Boozer out of the restroom. “Show’s over, folks!”
I set off for the office but Dave’s shout stops me. “The keg for Depth Charge Stout is empty.”
“I got it!” I respond before pivoting in the other direction.
I keep hold of Boozer as I trudge to the wall behind the bar. I tap the wall and a door opens to reveal the hidden walk-in cooler.
I quickly switch out the kegs. I’ve been working at bars since I was old enough to drink. I could do this in my sleep. I probably have.
“And now it’s time for you to return to the office,” I tell Boozer.
He barks before springing for the door. I rush toward him. “No, don’t!”
But I’m too late. The pressure of his paws causes the door to shut. Damn it. The failsafe to open the cooler from the inside is broken. Whenever the door shuts with someone inside, it automatically locks itself. And there’s only one person who has a key.
I dig my phone out of my back pocket.
“What’s wrong?” Harper answers.
“Um… we kind of have a situation.”
So much for Harper not finding out I brought Boozer to work today.