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If I went to the bar again, would his hand linger?

I let my eyes drift shut as I take another sip. The sweetness is exactly how I like it.

5

EZRA

My first check won’t come for a couple weeks — minus whatever the court takes off — but tips are cashed out every shift, so the first thing I do is hit the junk food aisle to load up on all the MVP’s. Beef jerky, all-dressed chips, flaming hot cheetos, pop tarts… my mouth waters with every bag that hits my cart. It’s the poor man’s charcuterie. For two years I couldn’t get anything like this from the commissary, and now I’m obsessed.

Unfortunately I can’t live off processed corn alone, so I grab some essentials to balance it out. In honor of my health, instead of scarfing down a full-sized bag of chips when I get home I crack open a can of soup. After weeks living off mostly three minute ramen, even that feels like a luxury.

First I snap a picture of my newly replenished snack cupboard and send it to Fitzie.

He replies a minute later.

What the fuck is that?

It’s dinner for the next week, duh

Eat some veggies, you sicko. Don’t you dare die of scurvy before I get there.

Potato chips are a vegetable

Fitzie sends me a grossed out face.

V.E.G.E.T.A.B.L.E.S. You know, the things that grow in the dirt?

I grin at my phone. Fitzie never misses an opportunity to chastise me, but it’s out of love.

Sounds unhygienic

Just so he doesn’t actually worry, I send him a picture of my soup, captionedChef’s special.

The week flies by. Working behind the bar is exhausting, but it’s also surprisingly fun. I easily slot into the rhythm that Orion and Plato have. They’re both great guys, which helps. Orion is into the kind of hardcore scene that’s never been my thing, but he’s patient and a great teacher in spite of his kinda chaotic energy. Plato is just a chill and happy dude. Even the rest of the staff are friendly, though we don’t interact much.

Still, it bugs me that I haven’t met my employer yet — the mysterious Syril. In my head I can’t match up their gloomy apothecary-like office with the rest of the club, which seems totally normal. Even taking into account the fact that someone hosted a poetry slam on stage the other day.

Apoetry slam.

At aclub.

It’s kinda cool, I have to admit.

Is Syril just one of those eccentrics with money to burn? Or is there something I’m missing?

I shouldn’t be looking for trouble when everything’s going great, but I can’t help thinking there’s a catch. Guys like me don’t just get handed great opportunities for no reason.

Friday night there’s a burlesque show, and by the time I get to The Sanctum it’s packed. All three of us are working tonight. Orion is already pulling beers as Plato’s blond head bobs up and down to the beat of the music. I wave at them before squeezing through the crowd to the back room so I can grab my apron. The club might be full and the music blaring, but the atmosphere is totally different from what I’m used to. They don’t even have a bouncer. The crowd is chill and easygoing, none of the tension that usually seeps into places like this.

There’s gotta be something in the water.

I haven’t seen Pretty Boy Lysander since the first night, and my pulse twitches as I scan the crowd. I shake myself. There’s no reason I should be looking for him. The memory of the snub still pricks me with annoyance, but it’s the weird look in his eyes that sticks in my head. He stayed in that booth for at least an hour, nursing the drinks I kept making for him, meeting my eyes any time I looked over. Every time, I felt the same spark.

I know what it is. Anticipation. Like flicking a lighter until it catches.

Finally, he disappeared when I wasn’t looking.

He doesn’t look like the type of guy who’d appreciate burlesque — I know tailored pants when I see them, which means he’s got money. Probably goes to gallery openings instead.