Page 2 of Sealing the Deal

The answer, it turns out, is very. The second I pull the tap, foam erupts over the rim, spilling down my hands, the counter, and probably onto my soul.

The guy waiting barks a laugh. “You lose a bet or something, Wall Street?”

I grimace. “Something like that.”

“Yo, Flic,” he calls out, “where’d you find this guy?”

“Apparently in hell,” she snaps back without missing a beat.

I try again. Slight tilt. Less pressure. Still foam, but beer, too. Truth is, I’m thirty-four years old and have never worked a bar in my life. My summers were spent in my father’s skyscraper office, pretending I didn’t see the dark looks thrown my way or hear the muttering about the Ashborne name. Which, shockingly, feels like a walk in the park compared to my current predicament.

In an instant, Flic is by my side, taking over my woeful attempts to pour a beer, serving three customers at once, and still managing to shoot me a glare. “If you’re going to insist on helping, Rookie, then speed it up.”

“Trying to,” I reply, already fumbling with the bottle opener and knocking a staple gun on the floor in the process. I’ve been called a lot of things in my time, but “rookie” has never been one of them.

But five minutes later, I wrangle the beer tap and slide a beer toward a waiting hand, ignoring how much it sloshes over the rim. I’m suddenly grateful I didn’t tell Donny where I was going tonight. He’s the only person I know in Denver, and one of only two people in the world who isn’t afraid to tell me when I’m being an idiot. He’d be losing his mind laughing right now.

“Hey, Flic,” a woman calls over me. “Is it true what you put on the Red Zone about the new owner of the Stormhawks?”

I pause, frozen in place, and stare at the mention of the Stormhawks’ fans page. Flic rolls her eyes in response. “When am I ever wrong?”

“Unbelievable,” the woman replies.

Someone beside her pipes up. “An idiot New York billionaire who won’t even tell us his name. Can’t be good.”

Flic nods. “Tell me about it. And I have it on good authority he knows nothing about football.”

“Why has he bought a football team then?”

“That’s what worries me,” Flic replies, sliding past me, close enough that her braid brushes my arm and the scent of her perfume catches in my senses. Something warm and spicy, like cinnamon, cutting through the tang of beer foam soaking my shirt. “But if he thinks he can mess us around then he picked the wrong team and the wrong city.” She throws a glance at me as she grabs a bottle and pops the cap one-handed. “You’re in my way.”

“I’m helping,” I offer, deadpan.

She snorts. “Helping would mean you knew what you were doing.” Then she shoves a tray at my chest. “Collect glasses and empties. We’re running low. The glass washer is in the corner.”

I move away from the bar and spot a beam overhead littered with baseball caps and merch from other NFL teams, each one stapled in place like a warning. So that’s what the staple gun’s for. I guess Denver doesn’t do subtle.

I weave through the crowded bar, picking up glasses and empty bottles, trying not to replay every word about the “idiot New York billionaire,” while wondering how quickly I might find myself stapled to that trophy wall.

The messages Donny sent me earlier dart through my thoughts followed by the next and the next.

DONNY: The news leaked. It’s coming out tomorrow.

DONNY: This is going to be a PR nightmare.

DONNY: Call me back! We’re totally fucked!

An understatement, but not one I have time to think about as country music blares from speakers and the crowd starts to dance. By the time the celebration blurs into last call, I’ve managed to pour more than a few decent beers and worked out the trick to the register when the money tray sticks.

The music’s still loud, the fans are still rowdy, but the taps are closed, and for the first time since I walked into The Hay Barn, Flic stops moving. She leans back against the bar, closing her eyes for a second.

“Where was the rest of your staff tonight?” I ask as I slide clean glasses back onto shelves.

She opens one eye. “They got better offers.”

“You should hire more reliable staff.”

“It’s not their fault. My landlord’s a jerk who keeps raising rent on all the buildings on this street. High rent means I can’t pay the best wages. I’ve had to let my regular staff go, and the ones who still work with me have second jobs with a catering company that pays a hell of a lot better than me. If they get offered a catering gig, they ditch my shift. It’s annoying, but I can’t really blame them.”