Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 90098 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90098 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Tomorrow, I’d either go to one of my apps, or I’d stop taking that damn pill for a while.
Furthermore, I couldn’t make a move on a guy who had bigger worries, like finding a place to live or whatever situation he had going on with his son and the rest of his family. Hooking up was probably the last thing on his mind.
No. New plan. We’d get some rest, and if he was asleep later, I wasn’t gonna wake him up. He needed downtime. I’d go back to work. Maybe I’d even have a couple drinks and enjoy the Hawks game from behind the bar. I could shoot the shit with a few regulars; Jamaal was on too. Perhaps we’d crank up the music a bit later on, and…and on the off chance that Ben came down, I’d subtly point out our White Sox roasts around the bar. For instance, we had the donation box with socks in it…? It was obviously called the Sox Box. We had the Life Sox burger too, for those who wanted lettuce and only four hundred calories in a meal.
All right, this was better.
I pushed open the door to the bar with epic timing, just when Jamaal started blasting our game-day playlist. It was our biggest motivator for guests to order more beers with their dinner. The place was packed, energy surged, and people were ready for the game.
“Oh! Sleepin’ beauty!” Jerry was still here…
“Go home to your wife, man,” I told him.
He waved me off. “She don’t want me at home when there’s a game.”
Uh-huh.
I grabbed a short apron from under the counter and tied it around my hips. Then I snatched up a Hawks ball cap too, and I put it on backward, ready to get back to work.
“Trace!” I heard Tonya holler. She was on her way out onto the floor with food. “Two beer samplers, one gin and tonic, and four number twos!”
I gave her a two-finger salute and got cracking. Bobbing my head to the music, I pushed all images of Ben out of my head and let the bar din sweep over me instead. Jerry and Malcolm were bitching about our best seasons, the three hockey fans right in front of me were talking trades, and Jamaal laughed at whatever a patron was saying.
Chicago’s Dallas fans had found their way to the Clover too, all seven of them.
“Kalecki!” a familiar voice boomed out.
I dropped a scoop of ice and a lemon wedge into a glass, then glanced up and tried to locate—ah. I grinned. Of course Scottie and Tina would be here. Right on time, too; they could claim the last seats at the bar. It was filling up, and more people were pouring in.
“Two shots as usual?” I asked.
“You know it!” Tina leaned forward, and I did the same and kissed her cheek. “One for you too!”
“You know what—I think I will. Thanks, hon. I’ll start up a tab for ya.” I finished the first order just in time for Tonya to return, and then I poured three shots of Scottie and Tina’s favorite vodka. “To the Hawks!”
“To the fucking Hawks!” Scottie yelled.
A dozen people nearby cheered and raised their drinks, proving time and time again we had the best fucking fans on the planet.
I threw back the shot, and it burned its way down my throat the way it should.
Only thing that felt better was a big, hard cock.
Ben’s big, hard cock?
Fuck. I slammed the shot glass down on the bar and immediately poured myself another. And considering they’d bought me a glass, it was only fair I treated them to an extra too.
“I need one more, and I don’t drink alone,” I said. “On me.”
“Kalecki came to party!” Scottie rubbed his hands together and grabbed his glass.
Alcohol always helped, didn’t it?
“Whew!” Tina made a face as she swallowed, and so did I. Goddamn. “What do we want, babe? Wings?”
“Fuck yeah. One basket of Dead Wings, extra hot.” Scottie nodded, handing me his card.
“Comin’ right up.” I started their tab first before I put in an order for the wings.
Shit snowballed from there. Most of the dinner guests had received their game food, so the majority of the orders came straight to the bar. Jamaal and I worked as fast as we could, and we cranked up the volume on the song blaring. We were almost there. Countless screens flashed with a flyover of the empty rink, and we had approximately fifteen minutes before we killed the warm-up music.
“Trace?”
“Yeah, in a sec—” Fuck, I knew that voice. He was supposed to be asleep. I kept my back to him as I dipped the sixth margarita glass in syrup, then pink sugar. Jamaal was ready to take it from there, and I wiped my hands on my apron and turned around.