Sex & Sours Read online

  “Ever thought of opening your own place?” Jackson asked.

  “God, no. I mean, yes, I’ve thought about it, and it’s the last thing I want to do. I’d rather be behind the bar than stuffed in that office all day and night. Paperwork is my nightmare.”

  “There’s lots of other things you could do. Start a Youtube channel, write a recipe book …” Audrey suggested.

  “I don’t know ... The book’s not a bad idea. But the YouTube thing … Can you imagine me in front of a camera?”

  They shared a look. “I can, actually,” Jackson said. “Might need to tone down the swearing, though.”

  “Oh, am I offending your virgin ears, pretty boy?”

  “What did you do before you worked at The Basement?” he asked, ignoring my comment.

  I looked between them. Fuck it. “Worked around. I actually hopped from bar to bar for a while, doing a year or so at each. I actually worked for an event planner for a while, running cocktail lessons for corporate events. Never again.”

  “You really should look into the Youtube angle. You could film in your own time, work from home, make it all your own thing,” Jackson said.

  A telltale tingle went down my spine. The good kind. The one that always came before an idea got its hooks in me. “And people actually make money from that?”

  He nodded. “You’d be surprised.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I said, my nonchalant tone disguising the fact that my mind was currently somersaulting through potential ideas like an Olympic gymnast. “For now, my problem is how to deal with Sam.”

  “What’s so bad about working with him?’ Audrey asked. “You’ve said yourself you wanted to change the decor at the bar, and this way, you’d be involved in whatever he plans on doing. You might even be able to make some of the decisions.”

  “I miss the days when you were the one freaking out, and I was the sensible one giving advice.”

  “Turnabout is fair play. Besides, I owe you after what you did for us.”

  “Oh, that’s right. I guess I am completely responsible for this, aren’t I?” I joked, like any of us had forgotten that I’d set them up a year ago.

  “No changing the subject,” Audrey warned. “Now, the Tiff I know doesn’t a) care what anyone thinks, and b) goes down fighting. So, I think you should give this a go. We both know you want to,” she put a hand up to stop me from interrupting, “no matter how you feel about Sam. And we both know you’ll kill it. I’ve never seen you try your hand at anything and not be amazing.”

  And, well … fuck. How could I not at least consider it after that rousing speech?

  The Basement had done well in the last four years, but it could do better. The thing was, the only way any bar did anything in this town was by playing by the arbitrary rules of what the greying mammals in their gilded clubhouse had decided was “in.” Okay, strictly, that wasn’t the entire truth.

  Customers were savvy, and while some enjoyed the relaxed comfort of a sports bar or cozy restaurant, they held their bars to higher standards. Craft breweries, wine bars with extensive imported wine lists, historic locations with prohibition pasts, and in one case (and one of the ones I favored) a hidden little twelve seater with some of the best (if not the best) rare liquors in town.

  And despite my efforts, there was only so much good booze could do for a place like The Basement.

  Something I’d mentioned to Audrey a few times in the past.

  Oh, Jesus, I was actually going to do this, wasn’t I?

  “Fuck.” I said, eloquent as I knew how to be. “If we end up killing each other, I’m blaming you both. And haunting you. You’ll never get to have sex again, you hear me?”

  Audrey squealed a little “Yay,” that I pointedly ignored, while Jackson chuckled. “This ought to be good. You, working with someone.”

  “Hey,” I said, indignant at the suggestion that I was unwilling to compromise. “I’m open to suggestions.”

  Jackson barked a laugh. “Good one.”

  “Shut it, pretty boy. You’re here on a probationary period.” I took a deep breath, feeling a lot better now that I’d made at least one decision.

  After they left, I jumped on my laptop and brought up Youtube, flagging a long list of videos to watch. Maybe if I watched a few, understood the effort involved, it would stop my (currently overenthusiastic) brain from racing ahead of me.

  While I searched, I dialed the number for the bar phone, hoping I wasn’t about to regret the other decision I’d made.

  It didn’t surprise me that Sam was there. He had workaholic written all over him (among other things). Did he ever leave the bar? Before he could say anything, I spoke. “Fine. I’m in. When do we start?”

  “Okay,” he said slowly, but he didn’t question who’d called, so either he recognized my voice or had put the pieces together. “Right. Good. Glad you made the right decision.”

  I should never have agreed to this.

  Whatever goodwill Sam might have earned from me disappeared quicker than sunshine behind storm clouds after our call. He made us swap phone numbers (I’d labeled him “Sir Smuggington” just to make myself laugh) and emails, then waited approximately five seconds before sending me a lengthy request along with a stack of articles to read. It was probably the first email I’d received in years that wasn’t marketing spam.

  Apparently, Sam’s style was obsessively reading about what was happening instead of experiencing it, which I told him in my reply. He responded that it was a waste of time to visit every place without doing the proper research first and that he expected me to give the requisite time to craft a response by filling in any details I knew about each bar. I wanted to crush my phone in my hands but decided to blatantly ignore replying while binge-watching TV for two hours until I’d gotten sick of his smug voice nagging the back of my brain and went through the list he sent.

  A handful were links to economics articles on Gen Z vs. Millennial spending, some general discourse on the fall of the neighborhood bar, and (more surprisingly) a rather in-depth piece on personal branding and the creator economy. He’d marked that last one with a question, “The new competition?” I skipped past all of that for the time being to focus on the first half of the email, which was a list of the currently ranked bars on the North Side. He’d even separated them by area and made notes about the estimated target audience and pricing.

  Honestly, if I hadn’t already seen him make a drink with my own eyes, I would seriously doubt he’d ever left the office before.

  It was a hundred percent clear why he needed a second person on this. Within seconds of seeing the names, I knew exactly which ones were more hype than substance, which were popular because they’d made deals with local tour guides, and which were worth our time. I began listing out some names he hadn’t included that I knew were hidden gems—outliers who were small enough not to make top ten lists but were where anyone who worked in the scene actually went when they wanted a drink. I also marked a few of the new ones that I’d heard nothing about yet. The city was a big place, and there was always something going on, and it hadn’t been my job (until now) to really notice it.

  Time had passed quickly while I’d typed it up on my phone, and I shot it off to him as I watched the coffee pot brew for a second time, feeling oddly productive. It had been a long time (ok, maybe ever) since I’d been asked for my opinion on other bars outside of quick recommendations for afterparties, and I hadn’t realized just how much I knew until that moment.

  Still, I hoped this wasn’t going to be a regular thing. I certainly didn’t want to be spending my spare time reading and writing emails. If I’d wanted that in my life, I wouldn’t be tending bar.

  Clearing out the dozen new junk emails I’d received, I audibly groaned when Sam’s response came through. It was a Saturday; didn’t he have a life? (Says the person still wearing their pajamas at 11 a.m.). Curiosity drove me to open his email, which I realized was a mistake as soon as I’d read the first
sentence:

  While I appreciate the effort, commentary on which establishments “have hotter bartenders” or where “the owner’s a real dick” were not valid critiques.

  This guy. I swear.

  Without reading any further, I wrote back:

  News flash—hot bartenders bring in girls, which bring in guys, and any place where the owner is a dick is also where the drinks are overpriced water and the staff is treated like shit. Kind of thought both those things were worth noting. But what do I know.

  His response was quick:

  Noted.

  I swallowed a scream. Quitting was suddenly looking a hell of a lot more appealing. The next three hours were spent down the Youtube rabbit hole.

  11

  Sam

  Her acceptance of my offer had been, like all things with Tiff, thrown at me with a vehemence that rivaled forced political alliances.

  With anyone else, I might have been surprised at the quick turnabout of events, suspicious even, but with Tiffany, I was becoming used to her unique brand of hotheaded fortitude. She dazzled like a solar flare, but once her mind was made up, she was practically immovable.

  She was also, rather unfortunately, determined to disagree with me at every turn.

  “I’m going to restyle the bar. Make it sleeker, more upmarket.”

  “You don’t think the whole ‘everything and the kitchen sink’ look is upmarket?” she joked.

  “Current market trends,” I ignored her groan, “show that dark and moody spaces are equated with exclusivity, especially in the service industry.”

  She was once again draped over the chair opposite my desk, although today, she’d chosen to lay sideways, letting one leg hang over the arm while the other was tucked underneath. I couldn’t see how it was comfortable, but she was admiring her nails and looked positively bored. “That’s ridiculous.”

  I pointed to the article in question. “It’s what the research says.”

  Her head fell back. “So, we get to turn into another wanky cookie-cutter bar? Great.”

  “And what would you propose?”

  She swiveled, straightening in the chair, more engaged now. “I don’t have anything in mind, but damn, we should have our own voice. Make a statement. Say. Something.”

  “With décor.”

  “Yes.” Like it was obvious.

  “Why do I get the sense you’re arguing with me for the sake of it?”

  Instead of the smirk I’d been expecting, she looked hurt. “Wow, you really think a lot of me, huh?”

  “Sorry. That was rude.”

  She chewed her lip, looking hesitant. I wondered if I’d finally pushed her too far. I never spoke to staff this way, but then, I’d never worked with anyone like Tiffany before. And she’d never backed down from pushing me right back, always with a smirk or a wink or a smart comment.

  Before I could say anything else, she seemed to return to herself, her tone back to its usual prickliness. “I’ll give you this. I’m not exactly married to the grandma chic we currently have going on, but that doesn’t mean I want to become a clone of every other hyped-up place that’s all about glitter and show.”

  “You mean like the ones I’ve owned before.”

  “If the shoe fits.”

  I bit down a flare of indignation. I shouldn’t have to prove anything to her. “And I suppose it doesn’t matter to you that those ‘hyped up’ bars were extremely successful?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Yes, I’ve heard all about your reputation, hot shot. I thought we’d already established it means jack shit out here.”

  Yes, I’d been made aware of that already. Yesterday, a reporter had pushed me to respond to Pierce in print. But there was no way I was going to be baited into personal attacks.

  This was getting nowhere fast. Why had I thought this was a good idea again? If she was just going to argue with me on every point, we weren’t going to achieve anything. If she could just give some ground … Well, I might die of shock first, but something certainly had to give if we were going to work together. It rankled me that it was likely going to have to be me, which was a first. With anyone else, collaboration was something I fostered, focused on. It drove innovation, and I enjoyed challenging pre-conceived notions with data-driven insights and a fresh perspective.

  So, why was the idea of giving in to Tiffany such an issue for me?

  And why did it fill me with as much of a thrill as it did fear?

  Calling a truce, I turned my attention to the magazine in front of me. I slid it across the desk, tapping the image of the latest “bar to watch.” It was called Agenda and was highlighted as an example of “fresh, romantic, & modern” that “encouraged lively conversations and a return to personal interactions that was sorely lacking in today’s digital age.”

  I didn’t have the faintest clue how any of that differed from any other bar, but it was apparently revolutionary, and they had made several references to the outfitting of the space. I knew it would be a good idea to visit and find out what the fuss was about.

  “They open tomorrow night, but I’ve reached out to the owner, and she’s agreed to let us in to have an early look. I planned on going and asking her some questions.”

  She skimmed over the article, and I had to hide a smile when she made a face of revulsion. I suspected she’d just read the part about “personal interactions.”

  Finally, she looked up. “Looks pretentious. You’ll love it.”

  “You’re determined to hate everything, aren’t you?” I asked, shaking my head.

  “Not everything.” Her eyes dropped back down to the article, avoidant. I’d hit a nerve. “So, when do we go?”

  “Now, if you’re available.”

  “Well, considering you asked me to get here hours before my shift started, I guess I’m free.”

  Fortunately, the owner hadn’t been lying when she’d said she was happy for me to come by before the launch.

  Unfortunately, Agenda had the worst decor I’ve ever seen.

  Actually, “decor” was a very loose term for what was, essentially, a handful of high tables and a long bar. The walls were painted in a tan that faded to off-white from one side of the room to the other. From the ceiling hung drop lights with frosted glass; every detail so minimally added as to be invisible to the eye.

  And that was it.

  No artwork. No extras.

  No chairs.

  Perhaps coming before opening wasn’t the best idea, considering they clearly hadn’t finished fitting the room out. Because if it was on purpose? Save me.

  “Is this it?” Tiffany murmured to me when we entered.

  It couldn’t be. This couldn’t be the finished product. I hoped against hope it wasn’t.

  Georgia, the owner, greeted me readily with a handshake, although I noted her smile became clipped when she turned to Tiffany.

  “So, what do you think? It’s different, isn’t it?” She waved to the extremely bare room.

  “It is,” I said because I had nothing else nice to say.

  “We really wanted to just go for it, you know? Bars have become so stale, all these unnecessary details.”

  “Like chairs,” Tiffany chimed in.

  “Exactly!” Georgia clearly hadn’t heard the sarcasm in Tiffany’s voice. “It ruins the flow of the room. We wanted something that agitated. Energized. This way, there aren’t any barriers between people. The limited table space will mean we can fit more people in, or when there are fewer people, give them the opportunity to fill the space with their own energy rather than conform to what some designer thinks. And since people will have to hold on to their drinks, they can’t be on their phones all night. It’s about forcing people to own themselves and interact with each other.”

  “How very …” I struggled to finish my sentence. Every description I wanted to use was hardly polite.

  Tiffany was the last person I expected to assist me. “Imaginative.”

  Georgia looked pleased. “T
hank you. We’re proud of it. And I’m really looking forward to seeing how the public reacts tomorrow, but it helps to know we have industry support.” A voice came from behind us, getting Georgia’s attention. “Sorry, I better take care of this,” she said, motioning to the back of the room.

  Left in the middle of the—apparently on purpose—empty room, I inwardly groaned. If this was what customers in Chicago wanted, I was regretting coming home. There was no way come hell or high water that I would let my bar become a philosophical embodiment of a new age, self-help con artistry.

  And I had spent the last few years living in sin city.

  Tiffany turned her back on the bar to give me a death stare. “Just so you know, I’d rather quit than have the bar turn into this place.”

  I choked on an unexpected laugh, watching her face jump in surprise. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, schooling my expression into something flatter.

  Once we’d returned to the bar, Tiffany propped herself up on a stool, eating a sizeable bag of gummy worms. She hadn’t been carrying anything with her earlier, and we didn’t serve them at the bar, so I had no idea where they’d come from.

  I was immensely aware of her presence in the empty bar. I was incapable of ignoring it lately. Somehow she always smelled like nutmeg and sugar. It was alluring. Maddening. We worked in a sweaty, boozy environment, but sweetness always lingered around her.

  At first, I was convinced it was the syrups behind the bar, but no one else ever registered that way to me. Only Tiffany.

  Now, I was being tormented by her sigh of pleasure as she dug into the stash of sweets. “You don’t like doing anything by the norm, do you?” I asked.

  “Define normal,” she retorted. Touché.

  Her lips curled into a smile when I didn’t answer.

  “So, that was a bust,” she said.

  Indeed. It certainly hadn’t been what I was hoping for. I’d need to take another look at my research. Make some notes.

  “I’m surprised you wanted to see it,” she added.