“Drunk dude, Mohawk, at the pool table,” Georgia calls into my office, barging in. “He’s asked at least three women to suck his dick, he spit in a guy’s face, and … I’m not even going to describe what he’s doing now.”
I stand from the chair behind my desk and stalk over to the camera monitors across the room. Spotting the culprit doesn’t take long. A lanky guy sporting a Mohawk with a face tattoo is dry-humping a pool stick between his legs and twirling his arm in the air as if he were riding a horse.
Jesus, fuck.
Owning a bar is all fun and games until shit like this happens.
Goofy drunks? I can handle.
Sad drunks? I pat them on the back and pour them another beer on me.
Drunks who repeat stories? I nod and pretend I’ve never heard it before.
What I fail to have patience for are idiots humping pool sticks.
“Shit,” I hiss, storming out of my office with Georgia behind me.
I cut through customers and head straight to Mohawk, who’s still sliding the stick against his junk while grinding against it.
Yeah, that thing is going right in the dumpster.
“You,” I yell when I reach him, gesturing toward the door with my thumb, “Stick Humper. Time for you to go.”
He snorts and ignores me, but thankfully, he removes the stick from his legs.
At least we’re getting somewhere.
“Out,” I demand.
Like the douchebag he’s proven to be, he doesn’t listen. Instead, he snatches a beer from a pub table and chugs it, a smirk playing at his lips when he finishes.
“Come on, man,” I say. “Don’t make this complicated. You’re drunk. Have one of your buddies drive you home, so you can sleep off the booze. You can’t stay here and harass my customers.”
Years of working in the bar industry have taught me the best approach to these situations is keeping my cool and suggesting a plan for them to get the fuck out.
Finn, my friend/bouncer/part-time bartender, appears at my side. “I got this, Co.”
I swing out my arm, stopping him, and shake my head. “Nah, I think he’ll listen.”
“I don’t,” Finn states, straightening his broad shoulders and clenching his fists.
Mohawk slams the empty beer bottle onto the table, shattering it, and the people around him jump back. Finn shoots forward before I can stop him and captures the back of Mohawk’s shirt, causing the stick to drop from his hand. Mohawk grunts when Finn jerks him away from the table.
“Time to go, asshole,” Finn snaps.
The crowd breaks, and all attention is on Finn as he drags Mohawk toward the exit.
A few chicks in the corner clap their hands, and another guy yells, “About damn time!”
Their cheering is interrupted by Polly, my newly hired bartender, scrambling in my direction and yelling my name.
“Cohen!” she shrieks, her attention bouncing between Finn and me. “That’s my boyfriend! Tell Finn to let him go!”
“Your boyfriend is out of here,” Finn yells over his shoulder, her demand not stopping his mission.
Polly throws her purple hair over her shoulder and kicks out her hip. “If he’s out of here, I’m out of here.”
I scrub my hand over my face while groaning.
I don’t need this high school bullshit today.
“What’ll it be?” Polly asks. “Kick him out or lose a bartender?”
“I’ll mail your last paycheck,” I reply with no hesitation.
No way am I allowing a twit dating a Post Malone wannabe to give me ultimatums. I should’ve known it wasn’t a good idea to hire Polly when she said she drank Fireball for breakfast.
“Are … are you serious?” Polly’s eyes widen at the response she didn’t expect.
She picked the wrong bar to work in if she thinks her boyfriend can pull that shit.
I cross my arms. “Dead serious.”
“Fine.” She stomps her foot. “Good luck handling this crowd with one bartender.”
My head throbs at the reminder.
It’s a game day, and we’re busy as fuck. Polly and Archer were my only available bartenders tonight. Finn is working the door, and I was finishing paperwork before leaving for the night. Noah’s babysitter, Sylvia, is scheduled to leave in an hour, and I hate running late.
“Good luck with your scumbag boyfriend,” Georgia retorts.
“Fuck you,” Polly screams before shooting her glare to me. “And fuck you too, Cohen.” She whips around and chases after her loser boyfriend.
I run my hands through my hair and suck in an irritated breath.
Georgia sighs, patting my arm. “Don’t stress, big bro. I’ll cover the bar.”
I shake my head. “You’re waiting tables, and you have class in the morning.”
“And?” She flashes me an amused grin. “It won’t be the first time I’ve pulled an all-nighter and then gone to class. I like to think that I’m a professional at it actually.”
“I’ll act like I didn’t hear that,” I say with a pointed look, and she follows me to the bar. “Not to mention, you and Archer will kill each other if I let you work with him. I can’t be down two more bartenders.”
“I got this, Co!” Archer shouts from behind the bar while two men argue over a game call in front of him. The way his eyes cut to Georgia in irritation confirms he overheard our conversation. “She’s not working with me.”
Georgia flips him off. “You’re a dick.”
Archer shrugs, pours a beer, and then slides it down the bar to a regular.
“Let me call Sylvia,” I say, fishing my phone from my pocket and heading toward my office.
Five minutes later, I’m walking out of the office, my shoulders slumped.
“Is Sylvia staying?” Georgia asks.
I shake my head and scrub a hand over my face.
She pauses for a moment before saying, “What about Jamie?”
I move my hand to stare at her. “What?”
“Ask if she can watch him.”
“Not a good idea.”
“Oh, come on,” she groans, tilting her head back. “She’s been hanging out with him for weeks now.”
“Not alone.”
“It won’t be that long, she’s a doctor, and everything will be okay. Heather is still in Vegas.”
I flinch. Not once since Jamie came into our lives have I asked about Heather. Just her name puts a bad taste in my mouth.
It’s not that I doubt Archer can handle the crowd alone, but customers will bitch if it takes too long for their drinks. Bars aren’t known for patient customers, and we can’t afford to lose the business, especially on game nights. They bring in a shit-ton of money.
Archer shakes his head when I join him behind the bar. “Go home. I’ll call Silas.”
“Silas is at some convention,” I reply, referring to our friend. Silas bartends, does all of Twisted Fox’s marketing, and fills us in on the latest alcohol trends.
“Or I can do it since I’m already here,” Georgia comments before cracking an arrogant smile Archer’s way. “I promise to stay on my side of the bar, and I won’t trip you this time—even though you deserved it last week … and will probably deserve another tripping … or a swift kick in the nuts.”
There’s no way the two of them can work together.
“Give me a minute.”
I scroll through the Contacts in my phone and hit Jamie’s name.
Here goes.