CHAPTER ONE
COOPER
I’m up to my eyeballs in Jägerbombs. Yesterday, I was married to the blender, pumping out piña coladas and strawberry daiquiris like sweatshop labor. Tonight, it’s vodka Red Bulls and Fireballs. And don’t forget the rosé. These dipshits and their rosé. They’re all slammed against the bar, wall-to-wall pastel linen shirts and three-hundred-dollar haircuts, shouting drink orders at me. It’s too hot for this shit.
In Avalon Bay, the seasons are marked by an endless cycle of exodus and invasion. The way the tides turn in a storm: Summer ends and the churn begins. Sunburned tourists pack up their minivans and sugar-slathered kids and head inland, back to suburbs and cubicles. Replaced by the surge of spray-tanned college brats—the clone armies returning to Garnet College. These are the trust-fund babies whose coastal palaces block out the ocean views for the rest of us scraping by on the change that falls from their pockets.
“Hey, bro, six shots of tequila!” some clone barks, slapping a credit card down on the sticky wet wood of the bar top like I should be impressed. Really, he’s just another typical Garnet fuckhead who walked straight out of a Sperry catalog.
“Remind me why we do this,” I say to Steph as I rack up a line of Jack and Cokes for her at the waitress stand.
She reaches into her bra and lifts each breast so they sit higher and fuller in her black Joe’s Beachfront Bar tank top. “The tips, Coop.”
Right. Nothing spends faster than somebody else’s money. Rich kids spitting bills in a game of one-upmanship, all courtesy of Daddy’s credit card.
Weekends on the boardwalk are like Mardi Gras. Tonight is the last Friday before the fall semester at Garnet begins, and that means three days of raging straight to Monday morning, the bars bursting at the seams. We’re practically printing money. Not that I plan to do this forever. I moonlight here on the weekends to save up some extra dough so I can stop working for other people and start being my own boss. Once I’ve got enough saved, my ass is out from behind this bar for good.
“Watch out for yourself,” I warn Steph as she places the drinks on her tray. “Holler if you need me to grab the bat.”
It wouldn’t be the first time I roughed someone up who couldn’t take no for an answer.
Nights like this, there’s a different energy. Humidity so thick you can slather the salty air on like sunscreen. Bodies on bodies, zero inhibitions, and tequila-infused testosterone full of bad intentions.
Fortunately, Steph’s a tough girl. “I can manage.” With a wink she takes the drinks, plasters a smile on her face, and spins around, long black ponytail swinging.
I don’t know how she tolerates it, these dudes pawing all over her. Don’t get me wrong, I get my fair share of female attention. Some get pretty bold, too friendly. But with chicks, you throw them a grin and a shot, they giggle to their friends and leave you alone. Not these guys, though. The crew team douchebags and Greek Row fuckboys. Steph is constantly getting grabbed and groped and having all manner of vulgarities slithered into her ear over the screech of the blaring music. To her credit, she hardly ever punches any of them.
It’s a constant grind. Catering to the seasonal parasites, this invasive species that uses us locals up, sucks us dry, and leaves their garbage behind.
And yet, this town would hardly exist without them.
“Yo! Let me get those shots!” the clone barks again.
I nod, as if to say Coming right up, when what I really mean is This is me ignoring you on purpose. Instead, a whistle at the other end of the bar catches my attention.
Locals get served first. Without exception. Followed by regulars who tip well, people who are polite, hot women, little old ladies, and then the rest of these overfed jackasses. At the end of the bar, I put down a shot of bourbon for Heidi and pour another for myself. We toss ’em back and I give her a refill.
“What are you doing in here?” I ask, because no self-respecting local is on the boardwalk tonight. Too many clones kill the vibe.
“Dropping off Steph’s keys. Had to run by her place.” Heidi was the prettiest girl in the first grade, and not much has changed since. Even in ratty cutoff shorts and a plain blue crop top, she’s undeniably the hottest woman in this bar. “You closing tonight?”
“Yeah, won’t be outta here till three, probably.”
“Wanna come by after?” Heidi pushes up on her toes to lean across the bar.
“Nah, I’m pulling a double tomorrow. Gotta get some sleep.”
She pouts. Playfully at first, then more flippant when she realizes I’m not interested in hooking up tonight. We might’ve indulged in a string of hookups earlier this summer, but making that a regular thing with one of my best friends starts to resemble a relationship, and that’s not where I’m trying to go. I keep hoping she’ll realize that and stop asking.
“Hey. Hey!” The impatient towheaded dude at the other end of the bar tries flagging me. “I swear to God, man, I will toss you a hundred-dollar bill for a fucking shot.”
“You better get back to work,” Heidi says with a sarcastic smile, blowing me a kiss.
I take my sweet time walking over to him. He’s straight off the clone conveyor belt: standard-issue preppy Ken doll with a side part and the best smile dental insurance can buy. Beside him are a couple of factory-made sidekicks whose idea of manual labor is probably having to wipe their own asses.
“Let’s see it,” I dare him.
The clone slaps down a Benjamin. So proud of himself. I pour a single shot of whiskey because I don’t remember what he asked for and slide it to him. He releases the bill to take the glass. I snatch it up and pocket it.
“I ordered six shots,” he says, smug.
“Put down another five hundred and I’ll pour ’em.”
I expect him to whine, throw a fit. Instead he laughs, shaking his finger at me. To him, this is some of that charming local color they come slumming it down here to find. Rich kids love getting rolled.
To my absolute amazement, this knucklehead flicks out five more bills from a wad of cash and lays them on the bar. “The best you got,” he says.
The best this bar keeps in stock is some Johnnie Walker Blue and a tequila I can’t pronounce. Neither is more than five hundred dollars retail for a bottle. So I act impressed and get up on a stool to pull the dusty bottle of tequila from the top shelf because, okay, I did remember what he asked for, and pour them their overpriced shots.
At that, Richie Rich is satisfied and wanders off to a table.
My fellow bartender Lenny gives me the side-eye. I know I shouldn’t encourage this behavior. It only reinforces the idea that we’re for sale, that they own this town. But screw it, I’m not about to be slinging drinks till I’m dead. I’ve got bigger plans.
“What time do you get off?” a female voice purrs from my left side.
I turn slowly, waiting for the punch line. Traditionally, that question is followed by one of two options:
“Because I want you to get me off.”
Or, “Because I can’t wait to get you off.”
The follow-up is an easy way to determine whether you’re ending up with a woman who’s selfish in the sack or one who loves doling out BJs.