Chapter One
Logan
“Hey, Logan, is there any chance you can pick up a shift on Saturday night? I know it’s hard for you right now, but I’ve asked all of the other bartenders, so I’m kind of in a jam.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem, Vonda. Let me double-check with my mom, and I’ll get back to you.”
“Thanks, you’re a lifesaver. If we need to adjust the hours or anything to accommodate you coming in, let me know. I’ll do what I can, and I’ll make sure you’re cut first.”
“No problem. But honestly, my parents have had date-night on Fridays for as long as I can remember. Saturday shouldn’t be a problem.”
As Vonda walked off, the guy I’d just served his third bourbon and coke, shook the ice in his otherwise empty glass to get my attention. “You have to check in with your mommy to work? What are you, one of those mama’s boys?” He waved his glass a little more forcibly, like I hadn’t noticed that he was already plowing through the drinks at four-thirty in the afternoon.
“Another bourbon and coke?” I asked as I took the glass from his hand.
He grunted with a tip of his head. I set the glass down and filled another glass with ice and water first, leaving it in front of him, hoping he’d guzzle that like he was putting down the bourbon. He ignored it, but then took a solid sip of his fresh mixed drink before saying, “So you never answered me about being a mama’s boy.”
I forced a chuckle, hoping it sounded amused rather than irritated. I loved bartending, and I’d been working for Vonda long enough that she’d accommodated my needs six months ago when my life had blown up. I couldn’t let one jackass ruin my day.
After serving a couple down at the end of the bar, Mr. Bourbon and Coke waved his glass up in the air again. “Are you driving?” I asked as I lifted my hand to take the glass.
Instead of releasing it, he held on. “Why? You want to drive me home, mama’s boy? I bet a big boy like you could really satisfy my thirst tonight.”
Quickly, I calculated the best way to deal with the situation. Men and women trying to pick me up happened all the time, but not as much since I started working strictly day shifts. If I had any compunction to leave with a customer, though, it certainly wouldn’t be the well-dressed, sneering businessman in front of me.
Before I answered, the pressure of a hand on my shoulder stopped me. “I bet you’re one of those in-the-closet guys, aren’t ya?” Bobby said, leaning over the bar toward the man. Bobby was one of the bartenders for the night shift and one of my favorite people to work with. He only covered day shifts as a special favor to Vonda, and with me only covering at night if absolutely necessary, we hadn’t seen much of each other lately.
Mr. Bourbon and Coke bristled and finally let the glass go. “Hey, you can’t talk to me like that. I’m a paying customer.”
Bobby winked—fucking winked at the guy. “You’re not my customer. Annnnd, I’m pretty sure if I went and got the manager right now, she wouldn’t appreciate you harassing one of her favorite employees.”
The jackass tried to sit up straighter in his seat and look intimidating, but the amount of alcohol he’d consumed in less than an hour hindered him slightly, so he wobbled. “I wasn’t harassing him. I was making small talk.”
A man sitting two stools down said, “Nope. Definitely harassing him.”
Mr. Bourbon and Coke jerked his head around. “Mind your business.”
The man shrugged. “Just calling it like I see it. Logan is one of my favorite bartenders, and I’m in here for happy hour all the time. If Bobby hadn’t interrupted, I would’ve gone to get the manager myself.”
“I’m out of here,” Mr. Bourbon and Coke blustered, attempting to rise smoothly to his feet and failing miserably.
“Sir.” I cleared my throat. “Don’t you want your credit card and receipt?”
“Get it. Now,” he said angrily—like I hadn’t been the one to remind him—holding onto the back of the barstool to ground himself.
“I really think you should consider calling an Uber or a friend,” I said softly to the man as I handed him his card and receipt.
He didn’t reply but stomped toward the front of the restaurant like an angry toddler—and I knew what that looked like from personal experience.
“Thanks, Bobby.”
“Anytime.” My much smaller in stature friend pulled me into a hug, slapping my back twice. “I know how you feel about confrontation.”
He wasn’t wrong there. Hating conflict had led me to seek a job in more of a bar and grill environment years ago. At six foot five and two hundred and seventy pounds, trouble found me in bars as the patrons treated me like a bouncer rather than their friendly neighborhood bartender. Bobby and I separated and chatted with the other customers while I closed out and got ready to go home to the most important person in the world to me.
“Brrrrrr. Brrrrr. Here he comes, Jakey. Brrrrr. Watch out. He’s going to— Boom! Oh, noooo.”
My nephew’s sweet giggles filled the bathroom as I catapulted his red and yellow plastic tug boat off of the back of his pink rubber ducky, plunging the vessel into the bathwater right in front of his small body so that it caused a splash. “Aden. Aden, Kuncle Wogan. Aden.”
“Again? We already crashed your poor little boat like ten times.”
The precious toddler squealed with glee, clapping his hands, and my resistance fell as quickly as it did the last three times that he’d demanded that I drive the boat around and crash it into something. “Alright, buddy, last time, though. You’re going to look like a raisin if I don’t get you out of here soon.”
His pert nose wrinkled as he shook his head vigorously from side to side. I knew that would do it. The kid hated raisins. “Okay, Jakey, here we go.” And I made the expected couple of laps around the tub, brrrrr’ing the whole time, before running the boat into his purple octopus, and again sinking it with enough force to cause the splash he enjoyed so much. While he clapped his hands gleefully at his sides into the water, I plucked the toys out from around him and deposited them into the net that hung on the rim of the tub especially for his playthings.
“Okay, time for good little boys to dry off and get into bed.”
Jakey obediently lifted his arms for me to pull him out and wrap him in his gray whale towel. Flipping the hood down so that the teeth would show on his head, I stood up in front of the bathroom mirror, and gave him a minute to point and grin at himself, then carried him into my room to dry him off and wrestle him into the pull-up he wore at night, just in case, and pajamas.
As we finished his bedtime routine, I chatted away, watching his face carefully for signs of pleasure or disgruntlement. “Alrighty, all done. Would you like a story?”
Of course, I knew the answer would be yes, but this was part of our process. The child therapist Jakey and I had been seeing once a week for the last six months had impressed sticking as closely to a routine as possible. It didn’t just help him, though, it helped me, too. Losing his father—my cousin as well as best friend—and his mother in a motorcycle accident six months ago had devastated us both. If Jakey hadn’t needed me to be strong, I would’ve retreated into myself. But when J.J. had cradled his newborn in his strong arms the first time I’d seen him, and asked me to be the little guy’s guardian if something ever happened to him and Haley, I’d accepted the weight of that responsibility with a prayer that it was a request that I’d never have to fulfill. The minute I’d received the call that they had been run off the road and down an embankment, I’d gone to my parents’ house and pulled the two-year-old close, and vowed to my cousin—wherever he was—that I’d do right by his son.