chapter 2

Dave left well before shift change to go to his other job at an Italian restaurant down by the Galleria. Scott was on a double at the Capital, and wanted to leave for his lunch break, Damian cut out at his scheduled out-time, and the PM hostess, Lucinda, was running late, so for a while, it was just Christyn and the manager left on the floor.

With no one manning the door, she decided to play hostess for the time being, and took a stack of napkins and silverware with her to the host stand to roll for good measure. Her stack of silver was almost fifteen high when Chance came and approached her.

“No one’s here. You can take a break, you know. Get something to eat, on us.”

“Thank you, but I’d rather work. I’ve been on vacation for far too long.”

“Well, I guess I can’t force you to sit down, but everyone needs to eat. At least let me buy you an appetizer.”

“Thanks, but I’m too nervous to eat.”

“Nervous? About what?”

She shrugged. “First day jitters, I guess,” she said, but she was lying.

She’d overheard Chance giving Damian an ultimatum in his office that morning, and as nice as Chance was treating her now, she couldn’t help but wonder how much (or how little) it would take to get fired from this place, or at least demoted like Damian. Then again, maybe a demotion would be a blessing in disguise for her. Truth be told, she’d been nervous since the moment she looked at her training schedule: right off the bat, Chance had her training on the floor every morning this week...and behind the bar at night. She’d been waiting at his office door to ask him if there’d been some mistake; she had specifically applied for a server position and there hadn’t been any discussion of bartending when he interviewed her, but he’d assured her that there was no mistake, he’d spoken to one of her previous employers on the phone who had sung praises of her speed in the service well and aptitude for mixology, and he was sure she would do the establishment proud. She’d only been a barback once before, in her eight-year run in foodservice, so she knew exactly which former workplace had sung her those praises, and she wished they hadn’t.

***

The bar manager’s name was Javier Winrock. He pulled up in front of the restaurant in a stoplight-red Charger with a vanity plate, decked out in a sleek vest and skinny black tie even though the Capital dress code called for neither--Christyn would know; she’d read over the employee handbook five times. He had his hair parted on the side, slick with gel, and he kept on his very expensive looking sunglasses even as he walked indoors. “So you must be the new blood,” he said with a smirk, approaching Christyn where she stood at the host stand. He towered at least a foot over her, and his intimidating, broad-shouldered stature did nothing to calm her nerves.

But despite first impressions, he turned out to be quite a better trainer than Dave, who had left Christyn in the dust in the interest of making his own quick buck. Javier, on the other hand, walked her through every bar seat, every regular’s preferences, and every cocktail recipe--although as the night wore on, it became apparent that she already knew them all.

She watched his expression shift from cool to incredulous as she put together perfect margaritas for the oncoming dinner rush; blue hooters, white russians, kamikaze shots, lemon drop martinis with perfectly sugared rims, seabreezes, birthday cake shots, and one whiskey sour made the classic way with an egg white. Everything she set out was perfectly, almost obsessively mixed, even without a jigger. “Damn,” he said a few minutes before close, “Julian told me you were spirited, but he never told me you were this good.”

Her heart jumped into her throat. “You know Julian Castro?”

Julian Castro being the bar manager from her previous job at Old Town BBQ. Christyn hadn’t included that job on her resume, and with good reason.

“He’s alright, as a person,” said Javier, “but as a bartender…”

“His drinks are too sweet, too weak, have too many ingredients, and are downright irreplicable!” Christyn finished for him. She gasped at her own audacity--within the course of one shift, Javier had made her feel comfortable, but once she’d blurted it out, she worried she had gotten too comfortable.

Until Javier went on, “Oh, abso-fucking-lutely.”

She breathed a sigh of relief.

“Still, you can’t go saying that stuff out loud, not when you work there. Is that how you got fired for insubordination?”

And just like that, she was on edge again.

“It’s alright, you can tell me. I’m the cool manager.”

Well, shit. She knew everyone in this industry liked to talk, but she thought it was going to take a little longer for tales of her notoriety to hit her brand new workplace. She laughed nervously. “Actually, it was the GM I blew up on one day.”

There’d been some money missing from her check; from some of the busboys’ checks, too, and in front of a whole dining room of guests, she’d said to his face that he was either having his books cooked, or just plain going senile. Then she’d thrown a 40-pound dinner tray right to the floor, and she hadn’t been aiming for his foot, but that’s where it landed. She was banned from the building now, and it was a miracle they hadn’t pressed charges.

Javier blinked. “Well, damn, girl.”

“In my defense,” she said, “I was spiraling with the delirium tremens."