Page 10 of Icy Pour

JOHNNY

I’ve been in this bar nearly every day for two weeks straight, and he’s all my damn mind can focus on.

“Cheers to a good day!” He clinks his glass with mine at the end of another busy shift, a satisfied smirk on his face. “I never imagined being this busy on a Friday night.”

It’s late, and we just finished getting the bar cleaned up, finally sitting down and enjoying a beverage. He takes a long drink of the beer he poured, and I can’t help but watch the way the muscles in his neck swallow it down. The way they flex beneath his smooth skin. The way his fingers grip the glass. The way…

I suck in a sharp breath. I’ve tried my best to keep my head down and work, but it’s damn near impossible not to stare at that man’s sharp cheekbones, rough curve of his lips, or how one side peeks up just a bit more than the other on the rare occasion he smiles, not to mention his deep set chestnut eyes that seem to stare back into mine like they can see right through my damn soul. Every time our arms brush, every time he checks in on me during a rush to see how he can help, my heart bubbles up in my chest like a pot of boiled peanuts.

A few times, he’s scooted past too close behind me at the bar, and I’ve had to excuse myself to go take care of the raging hard on in my pants. I’ve had to walk precariously to the bathroom holding a strategically placed bar towel over my crotch on more than one occasion.

“Did I hear you talking about Alabama football today with a customer? Is that where you’re from?” he asks.

I bite my lip in a sad attempt to fight off a smile at the thought of him listening to me and remembering what I said. “Accent gave me away, didn’t it?”

“Steered me in the right direction.” He takes another sip, eyeing me over the edge. “What made you move all the way up here? On a cold night like this, it sounds like it’d be a hell of a lot warmer place to be.”

I swirl the beer in my glass, staring down at the ripples it makes. “The temperature may be warmer, but that doesn’t mean it’s not cold.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s a long story.” My sip gets stuck in my throat.

“I have time. Is it a story worth telling?”

“Not sure about that.” I shrug. “You really wanna hear me ramble on about my past?”

“I’m still sitting here, aren’t I? Besides, you seem to get everyone else to spill their guts in this damn place. I thought I’d see if I was any good at it.”

My gaze catches his as I huff a quiet laugh. “Well, you are gettin’ me all liquored up, so I guess I better spill something.”

I take in a deep breath, my stomach twisting like a lime being squeezed into a drink. How much to share. What to reveal. What to keep hidden.

I take another sip of liquid courage to help with whatever my damn mouth decides to spit out.

“You asked a while back if I had a family. I did. But I don’t anymore. Parents kicked me out of the house right after I turned eighteen. I’d just graduated, and was planning to stay with them for a bit to figure out my next move. But they…” I trail off, his gaze intense and filled with worry. “We had a…a difference in beliefs, and just like that, I wasn’t their son anymore.”

His shoulders drop. “Shit…shoot, that’s terrible.”

I slowly nod. “But, like always, I figured things out. Lived with a friend whose dad owned a restaurant; he even gave me a job as a busboy for a few years. When I finally turned twenty-one, they taught me how to make drinks. That’s where I got my bartending skills. Taught me a lot about the hospitality industry too.”

“You had good teachers. You’re fantastic.” His eyes go wide, that slight flush that drives me wild crossing his cheeks. “I mean…you’re”—he clears his throat—“I mean you’re a fantastic bartender.”

The corner of my lip tips at the way he fumbles his words. It’s damn sexy as hell. But I shake it off and continue on, my stomach churning and turning about what else I should say.

“One night after work, a few of us went out to a club. It was hot and humid, and I was tired and decided to head out early. We’d normally all walk home together, but it was five minutes to our apartment, so I thought I’d be fine. But, as soon as I stepped out of the bar, I was…I was attacked. A couple of guys beat me up pretty good, called me names, and—” I stop, not able to choke the words out as I notice the fist at Walt’s side. My eyes flutter closed. I know it’s not meant for me. My heart stutters, wishing I had that kind of anger, that kind of rage, on my side when it all happened. Someone to protect me. Someone to stick up for me.

Someone. Anyone. I still don’t underst⁠—

“Did you call the police? Did they catch them?”

I shake my head, my knee bouncing on the footrest. “No.”

Bile rises in my throat as my mouth goes dry. I can still feel the sting in my jaw. I still ache with the agonizing pain from a kick to my stomach. I still choke on the taste of blood in my mouth. I chug the rest of my beer and set the glass down. Walt snatches it up and quickly walks around the bar to pour us both another. Almost like he’s trying to keep himself busy so he doesn't have to deal with the weight of my reality, I can’t say I blame him.

“Why not? Why wouldn’t you try and track them down, figure out who did this?”

“A lot of reasons,” I whisper.