Throwing the covers back, I roll out of bed, feeling somewhat pissy for post-orgasm. Normally, I feel lighter, blissful. But I’m supposed to be at work in a few hours for my first official shift at Come Again, and the fact that I can’t get Shaw’s gruff voice or the feel of his facial hair brushing my skin out of my head is a problem. After a dream like that, I’m afraid all I’ll be thinking about today is me coming again, and that’s just wrong and bad...and WHAT. IS. WRONG. WITH. ME?
My phone ringing from the nightstand where I have it plugged in causes me to jump, pulling me out of my lusty haze. I know it’s not my mama. We spoke last night when I called to tell her about my new job. She was happy for me, of course, but still leery of my new location. Also, she mentioned Brant has been calling and that I need to reach out to him. Leaning over to grab my phone, I freeze, my hot blood turning ice cold.
Speak of the devil.
Brant’s name flashes on my screen again and my stomach drops. My palms immediately begin to sweat and I have to swallow a lump. I didn’t think I’d have this reaction to seeing his name. I honestly thought all I would feel is irritation, but this feels a lot like fear. I drop the phone with a thud back on the nightstand and back away from it like it’s a burning flame.
Eventually, the ringing stops and I peer over at it to see if a voicemail shows up. After what feels like forever, and I’m convinced he’s not going to leave one or call back, I back away and into the bathroom.
Quickly, I shower and dress, needing coffee and a clear head before I go to work. Hopefully, after a walk to Jackson Square and a stop at Neutral Grounds, I’ll be all better. No thoughts of Brant. And no thoughts of Shaw. Or the dream. Coffee fixes everything, right?
Wrong.
A few hours later, when I step inside the bar, I’m immediately hit with visions of my dream causing my cheeks to flush. When Shaw clears his throat to get my attention, I practically leap out of my skin.
“Jumpy, are we?” he asks in his typical grumpy way. “At least you’re not late. I’d hate to fire you on your first day.”
See, I don’t like him. Why would I? He’s not nice.
We stand there for a moment, him glaring at me and me trying to avoid eye contact with him so he doesn’t see the awkwardness that’s creeping into the situation. There’s nothing to worry about. It was a dream. He doesn’t know what I’m thinking. He has no clue that right now, if I closed my eyes, I could feel his firm grip on my hips.
No, Avery.
Bad Avery.
“Ahem.” I clear my throat and take a few steps toward the bar. “What would you like me to do?”
He narrows his eyes and I feel the scrutiny, but I don’t know what I did to deserve his ire. Maybe just being here, being me—a girl? Well, he’s the one who agreed to hire me, and I think I proved yesterday that I can follow through on my promise of carrying my own weight.
“Go to the storage room and get a bottle of all our bottom shelf liquors. The list is on the wall beside the light switch for reference. After that, the bottled beer needs restocked. Paulie will be in later and he’ll have some other things for you to do. Until then, that should keep you busy.”
“Okay,” I reply with a dip of my chin. Walking past him, I head down the hall, appreciative of the task to distract me and the reprieve from his glare. The storage room is small and dark, but cool, which is nice since the summer heat is still in full force in New Orleans. Thankfully, unlike some of the bars on Bourbon, Shaw keeps the doors of the bar closed, which holds in the bought air, as my grandpa used to say.
Shut the door, Avery! You’re gonna let out all the bought air.
With that thought, I make myself busy checking the list by the light switch and filling the crate beside the door with the liquor bottles marked for restock. When the crate is full, I muscle it up, thankful for my days on the farm and that my daddy taught me to lift with my legs, and carry it into the bar and behind the counter.
Fortunately, Shaw is nowhere to be seen, so I go about my job in peace, letting the dream fall to the wayside.
“Hey,” Jeremy says, walking in from the hallway.
“Oh, hey. I didn’t know you were here,” I reply with a smile. He seems like a nice guy and it’s great having another newbie to take some of the pressure off me. Jeremy told me yesterday that he just started working at the bar last week. So, we’re kind of learning the ropes together.
“Shaw’s letting me stay upstairs,” he says, nodding his head back down the hallway. “Just until I can get on my feet or find somewhere else to stay.”
His statement kind of catches me off guard. I mean, I know Wyatt said Shaw helps people, but I just assumed he meant give people jobs. “Wow, that’s really...nice,” I tell him, unable to hide the hint of shock in my tone.
Jeremy smirks and chuckles. “He’s not as bad as he seems.”
“Well, he did give me a job, so I guess I can’t complain.” I return to the shelves and continue to rotate out the bottles, bringing the opened ones to the front and putting the unopened ones in the back, giving the shelves a good cleaning as I go. Two birds with one stone. I like to work efficiently, never putting off until tomorrow what can be done today. There’s no sense in that.
Work smarter, not harder—more words of wisdom from my daddy.
“So, what’s your story?”
Turning my head toward him, I smile, unsure of what he’s asking. “Umm...I don’t know. What do you mean?”
“Well, everyone who works here has a story,” he says matter-of-factly. “Where did Shaw find you?”
With that statement, I stop and toss the towel over my shoulder. “Shaw didn’t find me. I came here looking for work.”
“Hmm. Just assumed you were in the program.” He uses air quotes on the program and I can't help but frown.
“The program?” I ask, keeping myself busy, just in case Shaw walks back in, because I know from yesterday he wouldn’t be happy if we were talking when we should be working. I have no desire to get fired on my first day.
“Yeah, Shaw’s program. Well, I guess it’s nothing official, but pretty much everyone who works here or has worked here in the past has been someone Shaw takes in off the street, cleans up, gives a job, and eventually, sends on their merry way.”
“And that’s how you ended up here?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me. Now I need to know everything.
“Yeah, I was hanging out in the alley behind the bar one night.” He shrugs, crossing his arms over his chest. “Strung out. Hadn’t had a good meal or hot shower in days...weeks maybe. I’d lost count.”
The image Jeremy is painting makes my heart hurt. I’ve always had a soft spot for homeless people—those who are less fortunate or down on their luck. When I was little and my parents would drive into the city for supplies or a shopping trip, the men who would stand at the corners of the busy intersections panhandling for change always made me tear up. I felt for them and wanted to help them. My mama would always make my daddy give them a few dollars out the window.
“I’m sorry you were...” I trail off, wondering what the proper terminology is. Do homeless people like to be called homeless? Displaced?
“Homeless,” Jeremy finishes for me. “Don’t be.” He waves me off like it’s nothing, but it doesn’t make me feel less for him, not pity, but just bad.