Page 7 of Prime Time Romance
It usually plays out the same way.
A woman comes in, she smiles and flirts. Sometimes she even buys me a shot. Then we go home together. Maybe we even go on a date or two. But when my work schedule has me unavailable most evenings and weekends, she suddenly wants a boyfriend who can take her to brunch or head up north on a Friday night for a cottage weekend with her friends. It fizzles out as fast as it started. Even without this job, I’ve never been a flowers-and-candlelight kind of guy. And although I tell women this up front, and they claim that’s not what they want, they eventually show back up here on the arm of a new investment banker boyfriend who has a standing Friday-night reservation at some trendy place downtown. I’m nothing more than a memory of a night that got too wild.
The crowd in front of the bar shifts and a new body squeezes through. It’s another beautiful face, but one that I’m used to seeing fast asleep on the couch when I get home late or exhausted and hungry as she comes home from a long day at her agency job, passing me on the stairs as I head out to work.
“What’s up, Brynn? How’s your night going? I didn’t expect to see you here.”
I don’t know Brynn all that well, but she does not strike me as a Devil’s kind of woman. She’s more the early-to-bed, early-to-rise, comfortable-sneakers type, though I will say she has no trouble pulling off the tight skirt and heels she’s wearing tonight.
“Yeah, I’m very much regretting my life choices right now, which means I need to ask you a teeny tiny favor. I know we don’t normally, um…” Her voice trails off as she breaks eye contact. “Any chance I could borrow five bucks?”
It’s not the question I expected, but I turn to the tip jar next to the cash register, pull out a fiver, and hand it to her. “Yeah. No problem. Everything okay?”
She gestures to the group of women she came in with. “I just can’t do that anymore, and my purse and phone are missing. If someone tries to open a tab on a Brynn Smothers Visa card, I don’t know…maybe confiscate it or something?”
She looks tired. Not just the kind of tired that comes with a late night out. The kind of tired that settles into your soul, leaving your eyes just a little dimmer and knocking the bounce out of your walk.
“No worries,” I say, then point at the five in her hands. “But how are you going to get home with that?”
We live in Leslieville. It’s east of the parkway, a thirty-dollar ride home. Thirty-five with a tip.
She shoves the money into her skirt pocket. “I’m just going to take the streetcar. Although, now that I say it—how much is it for your cheapest tequila shot? I also need to borrow whatever that is. I was kidding myself when I bought these shoes.”
Instead of reaching for more money, I grab a glass and pour a generous shot of the Casamigos Reposado we reserve for staff and the odd connoisseur who knows enough to ask. I slide it toward her. “For your feet. On the house.”
She throws the tequila back and winces, then tips the empty glass toward me in a cheers. “You saved my feet, Joshua Bishop, and I’ll pay you back. I promise.”
With that declaration, she turns to head toward the door, but as she does, an uneasy feeling settles in my gut.
“Hey, Brynn,” I call after her. “Can you wait, like, five minutes?”
She turns back around slowly, her eyebrows knit in confusion.
“I’ll come home with you,” I explain. “The streetcar is sketchy this time of night and I don’t think they really need me for much longer.”
She waves me off, hobbling a few more steps toward the door. “It’s fine. It smells a little like Doritos, that’s all. I’m not worried.”
I nod at my manager, who’s standing at the end of the bar, surveying the club. “Let me talk to my boss quickly. Two minutes tops.”
She looks annoyed but nods. “Fine, but if they play the Beibs, I will self-destruct.”
I can’t help but smile. Although I love being a bartender, this place isn’t exactly my hangout of choice either. I prefer some place more laid-back where the vibe is chilled out and unpretentious, where you might get up to dance if a great song comes on, but it’s more about the company. And also the beer.
I glance at the single draft tap and the big-name Belgian brand.
It’s a very real reminder that the whole point of working at Devil’s is that it isn’t my own place. No stakes. No expectations. No reminders of all the things I’ve fucked up and lost. All that’s expected of me is to pour drinks and run tabs, and as long as I show up for my shift on time, I’m pretty much a star employee.
Until now.
I approach my boss, rubbing the back of my neck in a lame attempt to look pained. “Hey, man. Not feeling so hot. Mind if I head home early?”
He checks his watch before eyeing the bar. “I guess the new kid is doing okay on his own. No tips if you leave mid-shift though. Company policy.”
My tip-out is probably close to $400 tonight. Maybe even more. It sucks to lose out on the money. But the city’s been doing road work on our street for the last two weeks. They’ve shut off power to the streetlights. It’s a dark walk. On top of that, one of our female bartenders was mugged walking home the other night. The idea of Brynn alone on the streetcar, then walking, doesn’t sit well with me.
“I’ll come in early tomorrow and make it up to you.”
He slaps me affectionately on the back as I head to the staff room to grab my phone from my locker. I don’t plan on checking my messages, but there’s a notification from my mom that has me quickly swiping open my voicemail and pressing my phone to my ear.
