Secrets and High Spirits: Secrets, Book 4 (3 page)

“Oh good. I’d hate to see you sink in a sea of bad relations.” She stood and ruffled his hair while walking past. “Off to work I go. Later, gator.”

Bru
ce had spent the evening and night after meeting Walter simmering in his own juices, but his ill temper had fizzled out by the next day, leaving behind only a tang of resentment. It was hard not to be discontent when he was still there, working for the man, running the bar—Walter’s bar—as he had been for years. He probably shouldn’t have given two weeks’, but not to would’ve been against his work ethic.

Walter hadn’t called, and knowing him, he probably assumed Bruce would change his mind and ask for his job back.
Not a chance
.

Bruce knew he should’ve called Ella, though, and had her pull the offer, but he hadn’t. Not yet. He was still searching for other options. He’d contacted a handful of friends so far, in search of a potential investor or silent partner. He’d had no luck, but several had offered hands-on help in case he did buy the bar. He’d thanked them.

The prospect of soon being out of a job didn’t bother him much—with his experience, he’d find another one soon enough, and cutting all ties with Walter was more important than anything else. He should’ve done it a long time ago.

Meanwhile, he decided to train Lori to take over the running of the place after him. Lori had been working at the Glitter Lounge for less than six months, but she was plenty capable. A butch lesbian with a crew cut and a few piercings, she was intimidating enough to keep lesser drunks in line, and Bruce had seen her in action often enough to know she could handle the difficult ones too.

She wasn’t too happy about the prospect of paperwork. “Shit, man, there better be a pay raise with this crap,” she complained when Bruce explained the intricacies of various deliveries.

“You’ve got to take it up with Walter. I’ll give you his number,” he replied, inwardly snickering at the mental picture of an encounter between the two. Walter’s charms would be useless on Lori, and she wasn’t the type to take shit from anyone.

Bruce was manning his post behind the stick, a shade distracted, when a loudly cheerful voice startled him from his thoughts of money and how to get hold of more of it.

“Candy Man!” The faintly familiar greeting came from a showy young man towing another one—older, far more understated. They nabbed a pair of recently vacated stools along the bar. The young man’s grin sparked recognition in his brain. “Mai Tai?” He hardly ever forgot a face or a drink, though he couldn’t always remember names. He recalled Mai Tai bursting into the Glitter Lounge many months ago—the guy seemed nervous and tense at the time. But not now.

“Yes, please,” the guy said, sitting down. “And a virgin sex on the beach too,” he added, and for some reason, this made his companion redden.

It was early, the Saturday night rush not yet in full swing, so Bruce had time to have a few words with customers between making drinks. Mai Tai turned out to be the chatty type, and within minutes, Bruce knew both their names: Dylan and Simon. Simon was the older one—blond, thirtyish. Oddly, they both sported bow ties, but at least not matching ones. Were bow ties a new fashion thing he didn’t know about?

“I heard you met my friend Teag again,” Dylan said, twirling the paper umbrella from his drink.

“Huh?” Bruce was temporarily caught in the vertigo of distant parts of his world colliding.

“Teag. Yesterday. You were looking at the same property. He and I were here a couple of months ago for similar reasons. Remember?”

Bruce did now, but couldn’t say anything more intelligent than, “Ah, so you’re friends.”

“We used to be roomies till I moved out.” He leaned closer to his friend Simon. “But we also work at the same place. Purlieux. You know the place?”

“Sure.” Everybody knew Purlieux—big fancy place, restaurant, nightclub, the trendiest place in WeHo at the moment.

“I don’t see him as much these days, since I’m on day shift now and he’s still at night,” Dylan went on. “It’s okay for me, since I wait tables, but bartenders get busiest after dark. Right? Anyway, he came in early today and told me about running into you.”

Bruce grimaced. “I can imagine. Is he always so…”

“Grouchy? Nah. He’s just quick-tempered. Normally, he’s sweet as honey.”

“Right,” Bruce said in a tone of doubt.

“He is!” Dylan protested a little too enthusiastically. “Well, he can be a little overbearing, but he means well.”

A crazy idea began to take shape in Bruce’s head. “Is he good? At mixing drinks?” he added quickly, not to be misunderstood. Dylan seemed the type too eager to misinterpret a vague question.

“Good? You kidding me? I told him you mix the best mai tai, and he gave me a lecture on rum. He lives for this stuff. To be honest, I zone out half the time when he goes Professor Booze on me, but he sure knows his liquor.” With a big, overly innocent grin, Dylan added, “Funny you two ran into each other again. It’s a small world, isn’t it?”

Bruce agreed it was, while Dylan made a joke to Simon about androids or something that made them both chuckle, though Bruce had no idea why.

Bruce left the lovebirds to look after other customers in urgent need of de-parching, but shot the two a few stealthy glances as he filled, shook, stirred and poured. Soon they left, waving good-bye and arms around each other. They were an odd couple, seemingly ill-matched, yet obviously reveling in each other. And he was happy for them, on account of them. They gave him hope.

A fresh notion of endless possibilities buoyed his mood, inciting him to reckless actions. Walter had been right about one thing—he was impulsive—but he refused to see this as a bad thing.

“Lori, can you hold the front alone for half an hour? I need to step out,” he asked his colleague.

“No sweat,” she said.

With a sense of purpose and determination, Bruce marched out of the bar and up the street in the direction of Purlieux.

C
hapter Three

B
ruce went to the bar at the restaurant first, looking for Teague, but was directed upstairs to the nightclub. There he had to pay the cover charge, then elbow his way through a throng of sweaty bodies to the bar. He could only imagine what it must be like there on a Friday night. Strobe lights flashed in rhythm with the pulsing music, and raw lust hung in the air thicker than the smog over Los Angeles.

Purlieux was well-known for its staff of eye-candy, but Bruce hadn’t realized the bartenders dressed like strippers—black bow tie, no shirt. He’d figured already that Teag was fit, but now he let his gaze linger, taking in every curve of the smooth chest and the tiny brown nipples. He could practically feel their fleshy bumps hardening under his tongue.

He felt his pulse quicken as imaginary sensations flooded his nerves.
Get a fucking grip
, he scolded himself and took a deep breath.

Catching Teag’s eyes took a while, but when he did, he knew, because they narrowed dangerously. It was fucking hot, and Bruce struggled to keep calm.

“Yes?” Teag asked tersely.

“I need to talk to you.”

“I’m busy.”

“Five minutes. It’s important,” Bruce replied in a tone of urgency.

Teag gave an irritated huff but turned to one of the other shirtless bartenders and whispered something into the guy’s ear.

Bruce saw the other man’s nod, and even though Teag moved from behind the bar without a single glance at Bruce, he followed as if pulled by an invisible leash. Now he could see Teag from the waist down too, and the black slacks, tight as a second skin, left scant little to the imagination, and Bruce’s didn’t need the stimulus to begin with. He snatched his gaze away.

A few seconds and a swarm of writhing bodies later, they stood in a narrow corridor next to an “employees only” door.

“Be quick,” Teag snapped. He couldn’t have known how his tone made Bruce weak in the knees.

Bruce pulled himself together and cut straight to the chase. “We could buy that place and start a bar together.”

Teag gaped for a moment, clearly at a loss for words. But he found them quickly enough. “Why do you think I need you? Why shouldn’t I just buy the place myself?”

This was the easy part. “I don’t think you’d be slinging appletinis half-naked if you had that kind of money,” Bruce pointed out. “We could be partners. Business partners. I’ve put an offer on the place, but I don’t have enough money to cover the renovation and whatever else. But the two of us together could. We want the same thing.” He couldn’t help it, but the other man’s proximity, the scent of lust in the air, and the music rattling his bones made him reckless. He took a step closer. “Let’s put together what we have and make magic.” He recognized too late he’d practically growled the last few words.

Probably not a good thing, because Teag’s eyes were sharp slits now, edged with danger. He seemed to grow two inches as he stabbed one finger at Bruce’s chest. “There will be NO putting our parts together, NO magic. I do NOT need you. Got it?”

“Hey, I didn’t mean…” Bruce started to say, but Teag was already storming away, throwing only a final
fuck off
over his shoulder.

Bruce stared after the retreating figure, dismayed, dejected and horny as hell.

T
eag stomped back behind the bar, muttering disjointed obscenities to himself. The mood of nervous irritation hung around him for the rest of the night. The pounding music and cacophony of human noises made it impossible to think clearly, so his mind kept running around in circles, like a dog chasing its own tail.

He fumed, incensed by the memory of Bruce standing there full of himself and bulging muscles—yes, just like a fucking Tom of Finland illustration, damn it. And the way the bastard was staring at him… He couldn’t quite put a name on Meathead’s expression, but it made his blood boil. He wanted to find Meathead and wipe that expression off and… He lost track here, not clear what else he wanted to do to the guy, but probably nothing nice.

It was finally the ride home through the cold and dark night that blew the red fog out of his head. There’s nothing like freezing your ass off on a moped to calm one’s temper.

To his amazement, his sister was still up when he arrived home. Helen was slouched on the couch with a slice of pizza in one hand, a bottle of beer in the other. The TV was on, but she didn’t seem to be paying much attention.

“What’s up?” he asked circumspectly, noticing the red rim of her eyes. Was it a relationship thing? He’d never seen his sister cry over a guy.

“Work,” she said.

“Ah.” He knew she worked at the emergency room because she was an adrenaline junkie. Nurses and doctors had their defense mechanisms against the daily trauma they witnessed, but every once in a while, something sneaked through. “Wanna talk about it?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Nah. But you can get me another beer.” She thrust the empty bottle in his direction.

He took it while trying to gauge her state of mind and sobriety. “How many have you had?”

She snorted. “One. But don’t worry, tomorrow’s my day off.”

“Well, in that case, you need something more special.” He tossed his helmet and jacket into his room and proceeded to the kitchen, where he whipped up two mugs of hot spiced rum. It was no craft cocktail, but he was in the mood for something hot and simple, and Helen was partial to rum drinks.

She took the proffered mug with a grateful smile and inhaled the steam deeply. “Don’t you get tired of it?” she asked, looking up. “Making drinks for hours? I’d think it’d be the last thing you’d want to do at home.”

He took a seat on the other side of the couch, kicked his shoes off and stretched out. “This is different.” He lifted his mug in salute and took a gentle sip. The spicy liquid, just short of scalding, ran down his throat, spreading out its warming tendrils. “Don’t get me wrong, Purlieux uses the best spirits, and there’s no watering down drinks, but it’s all streamlined so you get the maximum amount of customers served in the minimum amount of time. There’s no artistry to it. I could do it in my sleep.” As matter of fact, he had, many times—it was one of his recurring dreams.

She took a slow, deep swallow of her drink, closed her eyes and leaned her head back. He watched her body relax as the strain holding her gradually released its grip. “I don’t understand half of what you jabber about, but this is liquid goodness.” She opened her eyes and lifted the glass to her lips again. “Mmm… You really need to open your own place. I wish I could give you the money, I really do, but you know…” She made a tired gesture with her free hand.

Teag knew. She’d dumped all her savings into the condo at the advice of
expert
friends—she bought too soon and paid too much. At least Helen was luckier than most, not upside down with her mortgage, but there was no considerable equity in the place either. “That’s all right. I need to work this out on my own,” he said.

“You’re so damn pigheaded, have been since you were little. Would never take advice or help from anyone. You don’t know how frustrating it was to watch you trying to figure out how to tie your shoelaces without help.”

“I don’t see your point. It clearly worked—I’m now an expert in tying my shoelaces.”

She turned her eyes toward the ceiling in a show of exasperation. “I want to whoop you upside the head sometimes. There’s nothing wrong with accepting help from someone else, or having a partner. I bet it’s much easier to run any business if you can share the responsibilities.”

“Not you too,” Teag grumbled with renewed irritation, not the least because she was making sense.
Damn her practical thinking
.

“What do you mean, me too?”

Teag huffed and told her about Bruce’s visit at Purlieux earlier.

Needless to say, she missed his point entirely. “Sounds like a good idea to me.”

“Are you nuts? He’s a horny numbnuts with more tattoos than common sense.”

“Or so you think. Let’s presume—for argument’s sake—that he isn’t just trying to get into your pants. What about the business proposition? Why not at least consider it?”

“You don’t seriously suggest I partner with a complete stranger I don’t even like?”

“Didn’t you say the other day how you don’t trust your instincts about men?”

“That was about personal stuff. And anyway, I don’t know the first thing about this guy. He could be a serial killer or in a satanic cult.”

Predictably, Helen wouldn’t desist. “Simple. We ask Uncle Fester to have a background check run on him. He could also draw up the documents for the business partnership. You know it would be iron-clad if he did it.”

“Hm.” Despite himself, Teag was drawn by the suggestion. Uncle Fester’s real name was Lester, and he wasn’t even really their uncle but a close family friend, one who’d known them since they were little. A jovial, plump man, he’d taken their nickname for him with relish. They hadn’t recognized till many years later the razor-edged mind behind the affable exterior. Uncle Fester was a lawyer, now mostly retired, but as capable as ever. “I don’t know… It’s risky.”

“Anything worth shit in life is risky. It’s like skydiving.” The flush of her cheeks and shine to her eyes had less to do with the hot drink than the memory of jumping out of a plane with nothing but a bundle of silk strapped to her back, Teag realized. She went on, “You stand at the open door, heart pounding, brain screaming at you, but you just have to close your eyes and jump.” She gave a wide grin. “It’s even better if you keep your eyes open.”

Teag shuddered. “Sounds terrifying.”

She wore a beatific expression. “Yes. And the biggest rush of your life. You fly in the air, and it’s scary and exhilarating, and when you land, your legs shake, and you want to do it again.” Her eyes misted up.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“No risk, no gain.”

“Like buying this place?” Teag regretted the dig at her bad decision the moment he uttered it.

Helen shrugged. “Sometimes you land on your feet, other times you fall on your face. That’s life. I’m not saying you must partner up with this guy, only that you should clear your head and consider all your options objectively.”

Teag rubbed his face—he was tired—and Helen was wearing him down, but his misgivings were many. “Okay, let’s say Meathead, I mean Bruce and I manage to iron out our differences and open the bar. It wouldn’t be my place, he’d be there too, trying to do things his own way.”

She rolled her eyes. “Hun, you’re a control freak.”

“I’m not!”

“Yes, you are. When we were kids, I used to mess with your precious toys just to see how big a tantrum you’d throw.”

“You were an evil big sister.”

“I know. And you were a horrible little brat. And sometimes you still are. Think about it this way: you’d be sharing responsibilities. I know you’re passionate about the craft, but running a bar is a lot of work, most of which has little or nothing to do with mixing drinks. Do you really think you can do it all without help?”

H
is sister’s words kept gnawing on Teag even after he went to bed. He had a hard time falling asleep, despite a bone-deep fatigue. He woke the next day late, muzzy after a night of murky dreams. Helen was gone, God knew where—she didn’t leave a note.

She’d been right, he realized. He knew jack shit about running a business. He’d been so overtaken by the shiny vision of himself at his own place, mixing drinks the way they were meant to be, that he’d utterly neglected to look at the whole picture.

At Purlieux, Martin ran everything, and the man seemed to live there—Martin’s car sat in its designated spot when Teag arrived and was still there when he left at the end of the night, even when he’d pulled a double shift. Teag felt suddenly weighed down by the impossibility of his dreams. He refused to even think about partnering with Meathead, no matter what Helen had said, but had to admit he couldn’t do it alone.

The emotional turmoil accompanied him to work too. Between cosmos and appletinis, his mind turned into a battleground of yearning and trepidation. The sensible choice was clear: staying put, doing the same thing forever. Not forever at Purlieux, of course—he’d soon be too old for the place, but there were other bars. The rest of his life lay ahead of him, straight and soul-crushingly dull.

The alternative, tying himself to a tattooed maniac, scared the living daylights out of him. His apprehension went well beyond logical concerns. Something about the man made him…itch. Every time they’d met—even the very first time, before they’d exchanged a single word—his skin prickled and his heart hammered faster. It was a lot like lust, but fear too. He’d never experienced anything like it before.

By the time the restaurant closed, Teag had worked himself into a kind of nervous fury, all his annoyance, stress, anxiety rolled into a tight ball of energy. Thankfully, Julian had recovered from his “stomach flu” and Teag didn’t have to fill in for the guy upstairs. He preferred keeping his shirt on during work hours.

S
ome sort of sixth sense had Bruce glance toward the door just as Teag strode in, flushed and glorious with the determination of a soldier marching into battle. Instantly, the temperature in the Glitter Lounge jumped up ten degrees—or at least Bruce thought so. He wouldn’t have been surprised if every customer at once went quiet and stared mutely at the newcomer, but they went on with their drinking, chattering Sunday-night business as if nothing had happened.

Teag walked straight to where Bruce manned the bar and said, “You. Me. Talk.” No preamble, no wishy-washy dancing around.

“Office,” Bruce replied, indicating the direction with a twitch of his head before heading that way himself. He felt Lori’s gaze on his back as he went.

Bruce led the way into an office twice the size of a broom closet. They sat on metal folding chairs on opposite sides of a tiny desk.

“I want to see your tattoos,” were Teag’s first words.

After a short but bewildered moment, Bruce first pulled the right sleeve of his T-shirt over his shoulder, then stretched his arm over the desk. Teag leaned forward, apparently studying the ink in minute detail, from the sails of a ship starting at the top of his biceps, to the underwater scene below.