Authors: Faith Sullivan
My head is pounding. It’s my first night on the job, and we are slammed. So far, I knocked a bowl of chili off my tray and down my shirt. I forgot what brands of beer we have on tap. And I was yelled at to speak up so many times I lost count. No one can hear me over the two television sets running ESPN and ESPN2, never mind the constant din from the jukebox coupled with the noise of a full house. I need a break.
Signaling to Connor that I’m heading for the restroom, he rolls his eyes and mouths for me to hurry. When I get there, the door is locked. Why is there always a line for the ladies room? I lean up against the wall, trying to be patient. Knowing that Connor will have a fit if I take too long, I knock. Seconds later, I hear a toilet flush. I step aside as the door opens, and a big, burly guy walks out. He looks at me like it’s the most normal thing in the world that he’s exiting the wrong bathroom and keeps going. Only in New York…
It feels good to sit down, if only for a minute. I was right. My feet are killing me. Behind the closed door, the racket is slightly muffled, but my ears are ringing. Getting up to wash my hands, I dab at the brown splotch on my white shirt, but it’s going to take more than soap and water to remove this stain. Frustrated, I throw the paper towel into the nearly overflowing garbage can—one I’ll probably be emptying before the night is over.
Reentering the scene, I quickly scan my tables. They’re all filled, but surprisingly I see someone expertly flitting between them. She’s older than me, possibly in her late twenties, and she’s running the show like nobody’s business. She’s smiling and laughing, joking with everyone as she runs the orders to the front. Her experience is evident. Why does Connor want me near his customers when he has someone like that working for him?
A piercing whistle cuts through the hustle and bustle. It’s Connor summoning me to the bar. Nervously, I push through the huddle of guys congregated under one of the TVs. When I reach my destination, I can tell he’s not happy.
“I had to call in Tammy. It’s her night off, but you’ve been in over your head since we opened.” I know he’s shouting at me because it’s so loud in here, but his frustration is also evident. “We’re gonna have to take this slower than I thought until you can keep up on your own. I want you to follow Tammy around for the rest of the night. Watch what she does and how she handles herself.”
But I can’t let it go. “Connor, if Tammy’s such a pro, why in the world did you hire someone like me?”
For a moment, I think he’s going to start screaming at me again. Instead, the corner of his mouth twitches as he catches sight of the stain on my shirt. “You’ll get there, Michelle.” Why is he indulging in this crazy experiment? I have no idea. Two guys claim the last remaining stools at the bar, and without another word Connor leaves to take their order.
Okay, he wants me to learn from Tammy? Then that’s what I’ll do. Standing on my toes, I search the crowd for her. It looks like she’s headed in my direction, balancing a full tray of empty glasses. I hold the swinging door to the kitchen for her as she sails through. Without missing a beat, she says, “You must be Michelle. Follow me.”
Tammy places the glasses into one of the large dishwashers. She’s petite and wiry. None of her actions are wasted, and her communication is direct and to the point. She applies a no-nonsense approach to her job, and I can tell she takes no prisoners. I think we’re going to get along just fine until she announces, “For the record, Connor and I slept together.”
My jaw drops. Jesus, who hasn’t Connor slept with?
Before I can respond, she continues, “But it’s over now. He’s good in the sack, don’t get me wrong, but his hook-ups on the side drove me nuts.”
Great. He’s probably a walking STD.
Wiping her hands on her apron, she sizes me up. “I can tell you have a thing for him. Every girl has a thing for him in the beginning. Trust me, you’ll get over it. I certainly did,” she admits, retrieving a pen from behind her ear. “There’s no better place to work, and I wasn’t going to let any drama get in the way of that. Connor can be a son of a bitch, but he’s okay. And besides, the tips are great.”
I blink in rapid succession as a wealth of information rolls off her tongue.
“You’re from a small town, right?” I nod absentmindedly. “Well, I came to New York from some shithole in Ohio when I was seventeen, as soon as I graduated high school, and I never looked back. You’ll adjust, sweetie. We all do.”
“Do you regret it?”
“What?”
“Having to change in order to fit in?”
“Living in Manhattan, it’s a dog-eat-dog world. You gotta do what you gotta do to survive. You’re either tough enough, or you’re not,” she explains. “Connor told me this is your second go-around, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, this time I’m going to make sure you don’t fuck it up, okay?” Gently bumping my arm with her shoulder, she pushes open the door, beckoning me with her finger. “With an ass like yours, you’ll have this city at your feet.”
I laugh despite myself. Maybe I can do this.
“Need a drink?” Connor asks, turning the lock as the last customer of the night stumbles out of the pub.
Collapsing onto a stool, I raise an eyebrow. “Won’t you get in trouble? I’m underage.”
Tammy’s gone, and it’s just the two of us. We still need to clean up the joint, but Connor doesn’t seem to be in any hurry. My aching feet desire nothing more than a soak in the tub. I yawn. Hopefully we’ll make it upstairs before the sun comes up.
“What? Are you tuckering out on me?” Connor teases as he uncorks a bottle of tequila from behind the bar. Placing two shot glasses on the counter, he fills each one to the brim. “To surviving your first night.” He raises his glass and waits for me to follow suit.
Tequila isn’t my beverage of choice. Admittedly, I’m a lightweight when it comes to alcohol, and this shot is not going to feel so good when I wake up in the morning. But I don’t want to be rude. Connor is going out his way to put me at ease after my lousy debut. The least I can do is drink with the guy.
“Cheers,” I say before tipping my head back. I feel the burn shoot down my throat. Plunking the empty glass on the bar, I close my eyes, trying to alleviate the sting.
Amused, Connor laughs. “You should drink before each shift. Maybe it’ll take the edge off. Girl, you gotta learn to relax and loosen up out there.”
Undoubtedly fueled by the alcohol, my self-control slips. “Sorry, I didn’t grow up in a bar like you did.”
A flash of resentment flickers across his face. “Not all of us are lucky enough to come from such wholesome environments.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Well, what did you mean?”
My thoughts are befuddled, and I try to sort through them. “This is where you feel comfortable. I’m still trying to find where I belong.”
Piercing me with his gaze, he asks, “Do you want to go home?”
“No,” I respond without hesitation. “I’m just not used to…to not being good at something.”
With a smirk, he sticks his hand into his tip jar, removing a dollar. Striding across the room, he feeds it into the jukebox and punches in a song number from memory. With his hands splayed across the glass, I can’t help but notice how broad his shoulders are. I sit back and prop my feet up on the adjacent stool, taking him in.
“Enjoying the view?” he asks without turning around.
“Loving it,” I tease back.
“You should definitely drink more often. I’m liking you a little tipsy, not so…”
“Perfect?” With a smile, he faces me. “Exactly.”
The opening notes to ‘Hero’ by Enrique Iglesias fill the room as Connor holds out his hand.
“Wanna dance?” This man throws more curveballs than Andy Pettitte does for the Yankees. I can’t keep up with his mood swings.
His eyes roam the entire length of my body. I feel the heat rising in my cheeks. Ah, what the hell? I slip off the stool and stop directly in front of him. Making his move, he pushes a strand of hair off my face before wrapping his arms around my waist. I reach up and clasp my hands behind his neck. As we begin to sway to the music, I feel dizzy. Pressing my head to his chest, I hear his heart beating. In turn, he rests his cheek on top of my head. His breath is warm against my scalp. He traces small circles across my back, relieving the tension. Without speaking, we cling to each other until the song comes to an end.
The nerves, the anxiety, the pressure—it’s all gone. Being in his arms took it all away. I know he’s not mine, but when he’s like this, it just feels so good. I’d stay with him forever if I could.
As he releases me, I clutch his shirt, not wanting to let go. His chest expands as he takes a deep breath, his ribs pressing against my hands. He bends down, scooping me into his arms. Carrying me, he proceeds up the steps. Nestled against him, I blink to keep my eyes from closing. My exhaustion is threatening to pull me under.
Reaching our floor, he pauses in the hallway outside his room. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks.
But I’m already fast asleep.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The persistent knocking pulls me from my slumber. Lifting my head, I look around. I’m in my room, in my bed, under the covers, still fully dressed except for my shoes. I hear the noise again, but it’s not coming from inside. Shuffling to the window, I peer through the lace curtains.
There’s a guy, pretty strung out, pacing in front of the bar. I move the curtain all the way back and the movement catches his attention. Through the glass, he yells up to me. “Can you go get Connor? It’s an emergency.” I nod to show that I heard him and tiptoe across the hall to Connor’s room.
The door is ajar, so I push it open. Connor’s sprawled across the bed, shirtless and snoring. I can see a ‘Never Forget 9/11’ tattoo on his shoulder. His face is covered in stubble. He looks so peaceful; I don’t want to wake him. Besides, I don’t remember all of the details from last night and what might have happened between us. But the guy said it was an emergency. Swallowing my pride, I place my hand on his back as I whisper in his ear. “Connor, you have to get up. There’s someone here to see you.”
Stretching his limbs, but still half asleep, his hand guides my face closer to his. “Just five more minutes, babe. Then I’ll wake you up the right way.” He smiles although his eyes remain closed. I don’t have time for this. Our lips are a fraction of an inch apart, but this isn’t how I want to kiss him for the first time. With him thinking I’m just one of his random overnight guests.
Pulling away, I shake him more forcefully. “Connor, it’s Michelle, and there’s some crazy guy who is going to throw a fit in the middle of the street if you don’t wake up,” I demand, raising my voice.
Momentarily startled, he sits up abruptly. “Michelle?” he asks. “What are you doing in here?”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Oh no…Miguel,” he whispers, jumping out of bed. “How long has he been out there?”
I try not to look at Connor in his underwear, but I can’t resist. “At least ten minutes, maybe longer. I’m not sure.”
Throwing on a pair of jeans over his boxer briefs, he slides a shirt over his head while shoving his feet into a pair of sneakers. “Great, just great,” he mutters.
“Connor, who is he?”
As he’s about to leave the room, he stops. Glancing at me over his shoulder, he says, “Another person screwed up by 9/11.” He leaves me in his room as his footsteps thunder down the stairs.
Obviously he doesn’t want me to intrude on his conversation with the guy. And I understand. I get it. I sit on his bed. It’s still warm from where his body was pressed up against the sheets. How many girls have been right where I am now? That’s a number I don’t want to consider. Placing my head on the pillow, I breathe in a combination of cigarette smoke and Old Spice aftershave, a turn-on in its utter masculinity.
This is my first time in his room. Surprisingly, it’s almost as sparsely furnished as mine and a tad bit messier. There’s a pile of dirty laundry piled in the corner. On the bureau is an ashtray filled with cigarette butts. But what catches my eye is a framed photograph of two little boys. Getting to my feet, I pick it up to examine it more closely. They look about ten years old and they’re dressed in matching Little League uniforms. By the dimples and the dark hair, I can tell one is Connor. But who is the other boy? He’s too old to be his brother, Sal. I’m intruding. I shouldn’t be snooping through his personal things when he’s not here. Feeling guilty, I put the picture back and leave the room.
There are no loud voices coming from below, so I guess Connor calmed the guy down. I wonder what his story is. Did he lose someone on 9/11? Why does he come here when he freaks out? How does he know Connor?
Too many questions for this early in the morning. Oh God, I’m still wearing my chili-stained shirt. Yuck. Entering my room, I quickly discard my clothes and wrap myself in a robe before proceeding to the bathroom. Turning on the water, I adjust the knobs until the temperature is just right. Slipping out of my robe, I hang it on the door hook and step into the tub.
Little do I know that the sunlight coming through the window is silhouetting the curves of my body against the shower curtain, leaving little to the imagination. With the water running, I don’t hear the door open as someone slips in. Humming to myself, I run a loofah over my body, covering it in suds. I extend each leg before running it between my legs.
“Jesus Christ.”
I freeze. Sticking my head from behind the curtain, I see Connor brushing his teeth at the sink. “What the hell are you doing in here? In case you haven’t noticed, I’m in the shower.”
“Oh, I noticed all right. Need some help in there?” His eyes, full of mirth, meet mine through the mirror.
“Connor, you can’t come in here when I’m taking a shower,” I protest.
“The door wasn’t locked.”
“So what? I must have forgotten.”
“What did I tell you about locking doors?” he asks, facing me head on.
He’s right. He did tell me. “So is this your way of trying to teach me a lesson?”
“Is it working?” he asks.
“Yes!” I exclaim, frazzled.
“Good.” He walks toward me in the steam-filled room. I tremble a bit, naked behind the curtain. “Don’t forget again.” Driving his message home, he walks out, closing the door behind him.