Page 11 of Burn Bright (Cobalt Empire #1)

BEN COBALT

I have no experience in bartending. Neither does Harriet, and even though we’re not twenty-one yet and can’t legally drink, it’s legal for us to serve alcohol in New York.

Gavin, the bar manager, is a copper-haired, thirtysomething around Novak’s age. He has a body as thin as a pencil and a mustache-goatee combo like he should be hosting a poetry slam and not taking wooden chairs off the scuffed tables before the bar opens at six.

“Ben Cobalt, you really showed up,” Gavin says with a lopsided, silly grin like he just struck gold.

“In the bare flesh,” I joke and motion to my chest. “Bird shit on me. You wouldn’t believe it, man.”

He laughs. “You’re kidding?”

“Deadass. Though if it helps me get the job, then maybe I should thank the little bird.” I peer down at Harriet.

She scrunches her nose at me, but her cheeks pinch like she’s a teeny-tiny fraction of a second from a smile. It morphs into a full-blown scowl when Gavin appraises her head to toe.

Fire roars in my chest as he lingers too long on her tits.

“This is Harriet Fisher,” I cut in, drawing his attention back to me. “We’re applying together.”

He nods. “And who’s that?” He juts a thumb toward the stoic guy posted at the door.

“Chris Novak. He’s my bodyguard. He won’t get in the way, but he’ll be around if I’m here.”

“Personal security detail. That’s fucking badass, man.

” He slaps a hand to the bar, going around the counter to pluck off a pint glass from the shelf.

“So this is the End of the World.” He motions around the space.

“It’s small but a stubborn old bitch. Been here for decades, but I’ve been running things for the owner for the past eight years.

Terry is retired and just kicks back in his brownstone.

He’ll pop in for a whiskey sour from time to time, but he lets us do whatever, whenever. ”

I can see why this place has survived since the ’80s.

Ripped up magazines cover the plastered walls in a hodgepodge of ads and torn articles like we’re in a teenager’s bedroom during grunge days of Nirvana and Stone Temple Pilots.

It has warmth and charm with several weathered vinyl booths, bumper-sticker vandalized tables, and a projector screen over a brick wall playing Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

Gavin catches me staring as an orange cat paws at a sleeping Audrey Hepburn who wears an iconic turquoise eye-mask. My stomach tightens seeing my little sister’s namesake.

“Movies play every day of the week,” he explains. “It’s the only requirement Terry has. And they all need to have one thing in common.”

“What’s that?” Harriet asks.

“All the films are set in New York.”

I let out a laugh. Of course I choose to apply for a job in New York that’s going to torment me with New York.

Gavin pours himself a beer, then takes a frothy sip. “Let’s get started.”

It’s a majorly short interview. Except for the part where Gavin spends five minutes talking about how his girlfriend is obsessed with the ballet and has seen my brother Beckett dance about two-hundred times.

“He’s her hall pass,” he says casually like he didn’t just mention how he’d let his girlfriend fuck my brother.

Harriet’s face contorts like she swallowed curdled milk.

I half-expect her to tell him this is a shit interview.

More surprised when she doesn’t. She’s not impatiently rocking on her feet or sighing out in frustration.

She’s quietly assessing Gavin, which is pulling her face between a cringe and a scowl.

I’m not a psychiatrist, but it seems like she’s biting her tongue. Maybe Harriet is more used to suppressing whatever tumbles around her head.

I’m more used to being around unfiltered people. And by people , I mean my family.

Gavin doesn’t ask for our experience behind the bar. Just has us make a whiskey sour in case Terry ever stops by. Harriet precisely measures out the bourbon. I confidently wing it.

With not enough shame (where did it go? Pretty sure it never existed), I copy off her. I think she’s pissed at first but then she rolls her eyes and shows me exactly what goes into the drink. Because I have no fucking idea.

“You make these a lot?” I ask her while Gavin sets out the last chairs and leaves us alone behind the bar.

“Once or twice.” Harriet dips down to be eye-level with her lemon juice in the measuring cup. Being very exact.

“You hate the taste?” I wonder.

She stiffens a little as she straightens up. “I never tried it. I didn’t make it for myself.”

For who then?

I probably shouldn’t pry, but as I skim her, several theories crash too aggressively into me. I let one out. “Ex-boyfriend?”

“Yes and no.” She pours her lemon juice into a cocktail shaker. “Mom’s ex-boyfriend.” Her cheeks redden with hot flush. I wonder if she’s burning up all over.

Okay. It’s a sensitive topic. Tread lightly. “You’ve one-upped me because I’ve never made this in my life.”

“You don’t say?” Her brows lift into her bangs. “I couldn’t tell at all.”

I’m smiling while I guess how much lemon juice she used. I dump what I think is a healthy amount into my shaker.

“It’s three-fourths ounce,” she tells me, her voice pitching like I’m about to cut my hand when there are no knives near us, no threat of harm.

I stop and watch her intake a big breath to calm down. I’m not panicked at all. This isn’t a life-or-death situation, but I wonder why she feels like it’s one. “That looked like three-fourths,” I say. “Don’t you think?”

“No,” she says seriously. “It looked like a half a cup. Which is four ounces.”

Fuck. I grab the bottle of bourbon, adding a touch more without measuring.

“You’re diabolical,” she says, watching closely. “Keep going. Keep going.” I take her advice. When I add enough liquor to combat the citrus that might still leave Gavin with permanently puckered cheeks, I set the alcohol aside.

She finds the simple syrup under the bar counter. “So you’ve never made one of these, but have you had one before?”

“No, I’m not much of a drinker.” I’d typically leave it there, but as our eyes catch, her ocean-blues are rough swells on me.

And I find myself diving deeper. “Occasionally, I’ll have a beer, but the first time I got drunk, I felt too out of control around people I hardly knew.

I ended up trying to fight the effects like I was in a duel with vodka. ”

“Who won?” she wonders.

I scratch the back of my head at the memory. I was fifteen at a teammate’s house party. His parents weren’t home. “The vodka, probably.”

She nods slowly when I don’t elaborate, like she understands it might be a bad moment I’m not willing to share, but as she looks away, I just want her back.

“I could feel myself about to pass out at my friend’s party,” I explain, drawing her gaze to mine again. “So I locked myself in his parents’ wine cellar and called my older sister to come pick me up.”

Harriet processes this. “You were afraid someone would mess with you while you were out of it? I thought you trusted easily.” She’s short of saying, you trusted me.

“Not everyone,” I nearly whisper.

She nods more strongly, then slides the simple syrup to me. “You need to triple what I did, and if you’re going to cheat, then maybe you should cheat well , Cobalt boy, and measure it out this time.”

“Cheat,” I almost laugh. Not at all bruised over being called out. “You know that’s a fighting word in my family?”

“Then you must fight a lot with them.”

She’s not wrong. “If I were smarter, I’d tell you I’m not cheating, I’m just flexing my observational skills.”

“You mean if you were cockier.”

I meant smarter , but maybe she’s right. Maybe it’s not my lack of wits but my lack of arrogance that separates me from my siblings. I’ve never had anyone give me a new perspective into my life like this, but I’ve also never been this forthcoming with a friend either.

We focus on finishing our whiskey sours as the bar manager returns to us. When Gavin taste-tests, it’s clear mine is still brutally heavy on the lemon. He triple-blinks and is knocked backward. “Whoa, lay off the citrus next time,” he advises.

There’ll be a next time?

He simply nods when he tries Harriet’s, but I know it has to be perfect. Before he can give a final verdict, Harriet gets a call.

“Sorry.” She’s about to mute the ring.

“Go ahead and take it,” Gavin urges, and Harriet hesitates before accepting his permission. She slips into a booth by the window, a good distance away.

I come around the bar beside Gavin, and he leans an arm on the scratched wood, bowing toward me. “So listen,” he says under his breath.

He didn’t want her to hear this. Anger begins gathering in my lungs. I push it down. “Yeah?”

He eyes Harriet for too long. Her phone is propped to her ear, her finger plugging the other to block out the movie, and I see wrinkles creasing her eyes in a heavy frown before she turns away from us.

It pulls my lips downward.

“You’re great,” Gavin says to me, snapping my attention back to him. “Terry is going to love a Cobalt in the bar on the weekends, but I can’t give your friend a job.”

“Why not?” I ask and sidestep to obstruct his view of her. It’s deeply fucking irritating how he keeps staring at her like she’s a problem. “She’s the reason we got interviews. Her friend who worked here referred us.”

Gavin makes a face. “You mean Ashton? She blew him and spent the night on his couch. I don’t think they’re friends, man.”

I force myself not to glance back at Harriet in confusion, in a tsunami of concern, in muddled emotions that I can’t make sense of right now.

Muscles burn in my neck, and my aggravation toward Gavin intensifies as I come to terms with what he’s saying.

“Regardless, Harriet is better at making cocktails than me. If there’s only one position available—it should go to her.

” I’m not containing the raw heat in my voice.

He hears I’m pissed.

I am a page-turn away from growling out, Hire her.