Page 70 of The Bartender Special

“Carol is harder to avoid than you think once she’s focused on you. After running into her at the café, everything just kind of spiraled. One minute I was about to enjoy my coffee, the next I was bitching about the empty roll of painter's tape Roger Norman had in his toolbox.”

Santana gave him another odd look, like she was trying to puzzle something out.

It was starting to grate.

“What?” he asked.

“I've known you a long time, and it just kind of seems like you're going the extra mile after already going an extra mile.” She shrugged. “I have to figure that Benny must be okay to be around because, even to us, you haven't complained about him at all. Just Ms. Peggy, Roger, and cheap painter’s tape.” Her expression softened. “He must be something special, is all I'm saying.

Jack neither confirmed nor denied that sentiment.

“He's a means to an end and vice versa. It's nothing but business between us.”

Well, and the brief but hot make-out session you had with him a few hours ago. In private. Which was in no way a part of your plan.

Santana didn't look convinced.

Jack waved the pad of paper in his hand at her.

“You're borrowing trouble when we should be focusing on the task at hand.” He thumped the pad back onto the bar top, then made a show of looking out at the main room. The regulars were the only ones dotting the tables and booths. The only people left on the patio were a handful just passing through. “We're about to go from under capacity to over at this party we’ve been roped into. If we're lucky. That means we need to make sure we have everything stocked, ordered, and problem-solved by then.” He paused. “No more focusing on how I'm—apparently—usually a dick to people in need.”

Dixon laughed.

Santana raised her eyebrow at him.

“Everything you just said was a deflection,” she said. “I hope you realize that.”

Jack rolled his eyes.

“Deflection or not, if Benny and the Robertsons manage to deliver a crowd to us, we need to make sure we're ready for them.”

Thankfully, no one argued that.

They spent the rest of the night looking over supplies, checking on pending orders, and brainstorming pop-up needs that might arise during the event. The pad of paper filled up, and by the time Jack and Dixon left for the apartment hours later, it felt like they'd had a productive time of it.

Even outside of their front door, Dixon was still in planning mode.

“Toilet paper,” he said, leaning against the wall while Jack fished out the key. “We need to make sure we have a lot of it. And plungers. And—tampons?”

Jack passed him a questioning look.

“Tampons? But we don't have a tampon dispenser to fill.”

“Maybe we can get a little basket or something to put on the counter. We can buy different kinds and make it all look really nice. Give people some options while they party if they need them.” Dixon’s expression soured. “I bet The Drinking Spot doesn't do that.”

“The Drinking Spot has brand-spanking-new bathrooms. Modern chic is how Santana described it. I don't think an assortment of tampons in a wicker basket is going to really impress anyone.”

“Says the man who doesn’t have a hormone cycle to deal with,” Dixon mumbled.

Jack had to give that one to him.

“You got me there,” he said.

Experience had taught Jack that he was looking at a Dixon who was five, maybe ten minutes away from being passed out on his bed. Despite a slow night, they'd spent an extra hour after closing cleaning in preparation for the party.

Jack wasn't far behind in the exhausted department.

He'd had a hell of a day himself.