Chapter Six
Audrey
I raise my arms over my head and bend at the waist, stretching my lower back. Heather, a member of my waitstaff and one of my best friends, is bouncing on her toes.
“God, I’m so stiff,” she whines.
“Me too,” I agree.
We run together anytime our schedules allow, which hasn’t been often lately.
“We need to join a gym or something,” she suggests.
I chuckle. “Okay.”
We tried that once. We convinced ourselves that we would go every day before work. I think we made it three, maybe four times before we realized that arriving home at three in the morning and then trying to get motivated before noon just wasn’t possible.
“You should talk Brew into converting the storage closet off the break room into a gym. We could pump iron on our lunch hour or get some reps before heading home at night. If it’s right there, we’d definitely use it,” she suggests.
“The gym is literally two blocks from the bar. I don’t think location is the issue,” I tell her.
I turn and start to jog down the sidewalk at a slow, warm-up pace, and she falls in step beside me. We follow our usual route—from my apartment building to down by the pier and then westbound—increasing our speed at regular intervals.
It’s a beautiful day. The sun is shining, but the air is crisp and cool, with the wind picking up. The news reports a tropical cyclone is developing off the South Carolina coast that could push inland later this week, so people are out and about, prepping for possible inclement weather. Homeowners are bringing in outdoor furniture, and shop employees are putting up hurricane shutters.
We don’t get a lot of severe weather here on the Carolina coast. Mostly just remnants of hurricanes that hit the mainland in Florida every September and lose strength as they crawl northward, but there have been occasions when a storm stalled over us and dumped an insane amount of rain for days. The last was a few years ago.
“Have you guys had any luck hiring anyone yet?” Heather asks as we turn onto Main Street.
“Brew and Van have one they want me to consider. I’m doing her second interview tomorrow afternoon. He hired a temp to help while we find another and get them both trained.”
“Well, that’s good news at least,” she says.
“I guess so.”
She glances over at me and raises a brow.
“He hired Parker Alston.”
“Parker? As in your Parker?”
“He’s not my Parker, but, yes, he is that Parker,” I confirm.
She lets out a low whistle. “I can’t believe you agreed to that.”
Heather knows our story. Parker and his friends spend a lot of time at Whiskey Joe’s and are close friends with Brew. Although I like to think I keep things professional when I’m behind the bar, she noticed the tension between us years ago.
At first, I would just ignore him and force other bartenders to wait on him. Then, when it became too hard to avoid the asshole, I started treating him as just another customer, smiling politely and chatting him up while actively flirting with his friends just to get under his skin.
We’ve basically been locked in a weird pissing contest for years.
The boys came into Whiskey Joe’s for Sebastian’s bachelor party last year, and Parker was poking the bear more than usual, getting in my space. I was particularly aggravated with him that night, and Anson noticed. So, when Anson came to close the bill, he told me they were going to a strip club in Wilmington, and he was going to get Parker laid so maybe he’d stop pining so hard for me. It should have made me happy, but it had the opposite effect. I was irritated as I watched them pile out of the door. Heather picked up on my bad mood and got me to spill the beans over tequila shots after we closed.
“It’s not like I had much of a choice. Leonard and I are running on steam at this point, and I’ve had to pull help from your side to staff the beer bar upstairs the last week. Parker has experience behind a bar and a flexible schedule, so it just makes sense,” I explain.
“Well, one thing’s for sure: he’ll be a hit with the female customers,” she quips.
Leonard is our other full-time mixologist. He’s a fifty-year-old divorced man who loves his job. His girlfriend, who is also a divorcée, is a few years older than him and is part owner of one of the breweries on the island, so their schedules mesh well.
The customers adore him because he is funny and personable, but he’s not exactly eye candy.
“He will be,” I agree.
“You going to be able to handle that?” she asks.
I grunt, “Of course I can.”
She gives me a skeptical look.
“I’m serious. Parker Alston is nothing more than a bad memory from my past. I don’t care what or who he does anymore.”
“I know you want that to be true,” she says.
“I feel a but coming,” I mutter.
“But,” she continues, “we both know that man still has the power to turn you inside out, and working in close quarters with him will probably cause you to combust.”
“I’d like to think I’m a little stronger than that,” I mumble.
“You’re one of the strongest people I know, but, damn, I’m pretty sure that guy could cause Wonder Woman to buckle if he wanted to. And they don’t have a history,” she presses.
“Glad to know you have so much faith in me.”
She slows. I turn back and come to a stop.
“I have faith in you; I just think you two aren’t finished. You have unresolved feelings, and they aren’t going to go away because you want them to.”
“It’s worked so far,” I say.
She rolls her eyes. “No, it hasn’t. But you go ahead and give it the old college try. It’ll be entertaining to watch.”
“I didn’t realize this was going to be a therapy session, Dr. Phil,” I retort.
She grins. “Our runs are always therapy sessions. You’re just usually the one sorting me out. I have to admit, it feels good to be on the other side this time.”
I look down at the health tracker on my fitness watch.
“Looks like we completed our activity circle. Want to get coffee and doughnuts to balance it out before we head back?” I ask.
“Duh. Why else would we put ourselves through this torture if not to sugar and carb load?”
We turn around and head back toward Seaside Delights for our after-workout victory snack before walking back to my place so we can shower and get ready for work.
Calvin is going over the dinner menu with Heather and me when the employee door opens at four sharp. Parker comes swaggering in, wearing well-worn jeans and a dark green henley that clings to his broad chest. His sleeves are pushed up, revealing black ink curling around his forearms. A silver cross dangles from a thin leather chain around his neck, and his hair is wet.
Damn, he looks good.
Heather looks over her shoulder and back to me. “Oh, this is going to be fun,” she mutters under her breath as he rounds the bar.
He tucks a duffel bag in a cubby under the bar and then glances at us.
“Hiya, handsome,” Heather purrs, and I glare at her.
Parker winks at her.
“What are we discussing?” he asks.
Calvin slides one of the paper menus in front of him. “These are today’s dinner selections. We have set pub fare, but I offer a special each weekend based on what’s readily available from one of the local fishermen.”
“I’m aware. Your Cajun blackened redfish is my favorite,” Parker says as he looks over the menu.
“Thanks, man. That one is my grandmama’s recipe. This week is my own creation. Trout in a caper and white wine sauce, served with glazed carrots and roasted broccolini.”
“Fuck, that sounds delicious,” Parker says.
“Yeah? Swing into the kitchen in an hour, and I’ll let you have a taste.”
“I’ll do that.”
Calvin hands Heather a stack of the printed pages and returns to the kitchen as the rest of his cook staff trickles in.
“I’m just going to distribute these to the tables. You two have fun,” Heather says. Then, she leans over to whisper in my ear, “Good luck.”
Once we’re alone, Parker focuses his attention on me. “I’m all yours, Tiger. What’s first?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “What did I say about nicknames?”
“Sorry, old habit. I’m all yours, boss lady,” he corrects.
We spend the next hour reviewing bar procedures—from stocking clean glasses to replenishing draft beer kegs and cleaning the soda lines.
“This is our POS system. All orders need to be entered here. You just click through and add drinks, and for people who are eating at the bar, you can add options from the drop-down menu in this box. The system will shoot an electronic ticket to Calvin’s kitchen, and the food will be brought up to that window,” I say, pointing to the spot to the right of the iPad screen. “Once a tab is closed, you can click here and tap or insert the card on the little thingy on the side.”
He tilts his head to see the credit card reader attachment. “This thingy here?” he asks as he fingers the black box.
“Yep. You tap the credit card to start the tab, and it will assign a number. You hold the card in the appropriate slot here under the monitor until they cash out.”
“Got it.”
“You check patrons’ IDs who order at the bar during lunch and dinner. Anyone who looks under thirty-five is normal practice. After dinner, bouncers will check IDs at the door before they enter. We allow eighteen and up. Anyone twenty-one and up gets a neon plastic bracelet, and anyone underage gets black x ’s on both hands,” I explain, even though he has been here enough to know the protocol. “Here’s the thing: we’ve all been young, and we know all the tricks. They will try to wash the x ’s off in the restroom with mouthwash or their friend’s vodka shots. They’ll try to slide the bracelets off their wrists and let their friends slip it on, then pass it back and forth all night. The bouncers do a good job of making that impossible, but they can be creative. I found one who cut the bracelet and then used nail glue to fasten it to her friend’s wrist before leaving and reentering to get a new bracelet for themselves once. So, if you suspect anything, follow your gut. Re-card them, and if you think someone is using a fake ID, refuse them service. If they cause a scene, call for a bouncer.”
“I don’t need to clear that with anyone?” he asks.
“No. I trust your judgment. We don’t want to harass customers, but we want to protect ourselves and Brew. And we don’t want to do anything that would put us in a position to lose our liquor license, so use your discretion.”
“Understood.”
I look around the bar and let out a breath. It was a lot of information.
“Do you have any questions?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I think I got it.”
“Good, but don’t be afraid to ask if you need help. I scheduled us on the same shifts for a while, just in case,” I inform him.
He rolls his lips to hide a grin.
“Don’t do that,” I say.
“What?”
I waggle my finger in front of his face. “That.”
He reaches out and grabs my wrist. Then, he leans into me. “No smiles?”
“Save them for the customers,” I say, and a shiver runs down my spine from his nearness.
“I’ll add it to the list of rules. Promise it’ll be frowns and scowls from here on out, boss lady,” he murmurs before dropping my hand and stepping back just as Heather walks up.
“Sorry to interrupt, but it’s five till.”
“I’ll open the door,” I say before glancing back at Parker. “Get your apron on. It’s showtime.”