Page 8 of Baby, It’s You (Clairesville #1)

Olive

I ’m bent over filling up the ice bucket when I hear everyone cheer at once.

What the hell? I stand up and follow the patrons’ line of sight to the door where I see three guys standing like deer caught in headlights.

Johnny starts chanting, “ Task, task, task ,” and soon the whole bar has joined in.

These poor guys have no idea what's going on.

They probably think they just walked into a cult.

Rick gives a look around the bar and tells everyone to pipe down. I laugh to myself as I watch the guys walk in, confused as ever.

After speaking to each other in a huddle momentarily, a tall blond one with tattoos on his arms walks up to me at the bar.

He clears his throat, “Hey…Fruity O’s?” he says, while motioning to the box on my face. For my last-minute DIY mask, I cut the cereal box in half and made eye holes and a mouth hole, finishing it off by tying some string around the back to keep it on my face. So needless to say, I look hot.

“That’s Miss Fruity O’s to you,” I tease. “What can I get for you?” I gesture to all the bottles lining the bar.

The blond guy who looks like he was carved on Mount Olympus laughs. “Okay well first, are we allowed to be here or is this a private event?” He looks around at the bar guests, his eyes visibly confused. “What the hell is this?”

At that I laugh with him, knowing how insane we all must look. There hadn’t been a single patron all night without a mask on before they showed up. Our regulars have been dying for someone to come in the door sans mask—which is why the aggressive cheering and chanting happened at their arrival.

“This is Mask or Task night at the bar. Basically, since you're not wearing a mask, you must draw a task out of that bucket over there,” I say, and point in its direction.

He looks over at the blue bucket on the wall, full of papers, and turns back to me. “So, this isn’t a karaoke night? That’s why we came here, for my buddy’s birthday.”

“Oh, it's a karaoke night. We get wild. But first, you all must prove yourselves worthy to partake. This is the way,” I say, mock seriousness in my expression, while gesturing back to the bucket.

He lights up. “I’m so in. This actually sounds fun.” He looks over at his two friends standing together and then says, “Can I get six shots of Jameson first? One of my friends is a little shy.”

I nod and pour them. Then I slide them in his direction and say, “Good luck.”

He gives me a wink as he hands me a fifty-dollar bill and then walks off with the shots.

Before they can even take their first sip, Johnny, wearing a Ghost Face mask and of course, his top hat, goes over and introduces himself.

I see the tallest guy, with tan skin and buzzed black hair shake his head and laugh at something Johnny has said.

He’s got to be at least six-foot-six; the guy towers over everyone else.

Johnny looks up at him and makes a comment that has all the men smiling now.

He could make friends with a shoe; that's one of the things I love about him.

Slapping the guys on their backs one at a time, Johnny points to the stage and then to the bucket again.

The blond guy downs both his shots and pretends to crack his neck.

Then he walks over, digs his hand around the bin, and pulls out a slip of paper.

You could hear a pin drop. He opens it and lets out a hardy laugh after reading the paper.

“Tell us what it says,” a lady at a high-top shouts out.

Giving her a dazzling smile, he says, “Well, it looks like I will be giving a lucky lady who volunteers a lap dance tonight on stage. It also says the song is ‘bartender’s choice.’”

The regulars cheer and everyone turns towards me. I give a thumbs-up in response, knowing exactly what song I’m going to choose, and head over to the jukebox. The blond guy pushes his hair out of his eyes and yells, “Any volunteers to sit in the chair?”

Half of the hands shoot up in the bar and I laugh when I see Johnny has also raised his hand.

I turn to the jukebox and shuffle the selection until I find the song I want.

Then I punch in the number and wait. “Hocus Pocus” by the band Focus begins to blast out through the bar speakers and one of the three guys, the one with curly brown hair, lets out a laugh. A man of good taste , I think.

The blond guy takes Mrs. Frett’s hand, a seventy-year-old widow who always wears cheetah print, and carefully leads her to the stage.

Loud rock music blasts as he guides her to a chair on stage and he bobs his head, looking overly confident.

He grabs the front of his tank top and begins to rip it in half just as yodeling plays through the speakers.

He gives his friends a confused what the fuck look, but then shrugs after a moment and finishes yanking his tank in half.

He flexes and throws the ripped tank into the crowd; someone cheers when they catch it.

He dramatically turns back, fully committing to the routine, and drops down on Mrs. Frett, grinding on her.

She smiles as he quickly turns around and shakes his butt towards her face.

She playfully spanks him while laughing and saying, “Look at that tush!”

No one in the bar can hold back their laughter at this point and I honestly have never seen her happier. After multiple minutes of dancing around like his rent is due, I put him out of his misery.

“Okay, this song is seven minutes long. You’ve paid your dues.

You’re done!” I yell out and begin clapping.

He bows and gently walks Mrs. Frett back to her seat as the bar erupts in cheers.

He joins his friends once more and the tallest of the three guys claps him on the back and says, “I’ll go next. ”

Walking up to the bucket, he shuffles his hand around inside and pulls out a crumpled sheet. As he reads the paper, I can see his face fall. “Hell no,” he says, and hands the paper to his blond friend.

The blond reads it and lets out a bark of a laugh, then says aloud, “Drink a shot of whatever liquid is in the bar mat.”

The bar is full of “ ewwws ” and laughter. My stomach churns just thinking about it.

Mike Layner, wearing a ski mask, proudly stands up and says, “I wrote that one down!”

The tall guy shoots him a look. “Thanks, man,” he says sarcastically. “It’s my birthday today.”

Hearing that, Rick, in a fox mask, pushes back from the bar and stands up. “I will do it for him.”

Everyone turns and looks at him.

“I can’t let you do that,” the tall guy says.

Mike Layner pipes up again, “Well, someone's got to do it! It’s a task.”

I peer at Mike through my cereal box. “Oh shut up and sit down, Mike. Unless you’re gonna take one for the team,” I say.

At that he quickly sits back down. The tall guy runs his hands over his buzzed head and then rubs the side of his face, thinking.

“How about we do it together. Half and half?” he asks Rick.

Rick smiles back. “Great idea, son. What’s your name?”

“Eddie.”

“Eddie, I’m Rick.” He reaches out to shake his hand and then looks over at me and nods.

I stare down at the bar before I pick it up, trying to think of every drink I’ve poured tonight as I turn it sideways into two glasses.

Muddy looking liquid swirls in the two cups and the men step forward, together.

The bar is completely silent. Why is this one of the most dramatic things I've ever witnessed?

“Cheers,” Eddie says, holding his glass out to Rick’s. They clink them together and throw the drinks back in unison. Both men make a sound, and Rick chokes out a cough.

“ Wheewwwwww, ” Eddie shouts as he slams his glass back down on the counter and wipes his mouth. “You guys better have some Creed on karaoke to make up for that shit.”

Laughing, Johnny walks over and reassures him that this bar has many nights of Creed serenades. Eddie smiles, falling into conversation with him once more. Everyone begins to turn back to their friends, the bar filling up with voices again.

Suddenly, someone yells from the other side of the bar, “There’s one more guy!”

I turn to see the final guy with brown hair standing in the corner by the bar exit. His eyes are as wide as saucers when he realizes that everyone's attention turns to him.