Page 9 of Just A Little Joy
TRAVIS
Casey still had ten minutes before he was late today. It was just a coincidence that I was up at the front of the bar wiping things down instead of doing paperwork in my office. It definitely wasn’t that I was waiting for him to get here. The skies had been dark all afternoon and the threatened rain seemed to be getting closer and closer. If he didn’t get here soon, he would be soaked to the bone by the time he arrived.
Truth was, I kept drifting up front without meaning to, like my body went looking for him before my brain caught up.
It wasn’t any of my business what he did outside of work, but I couldn’t help wondering about it anyway. He’d mentioned last shift that he usually got off around two or three, so what was he doing now, with the clock creeping toward six?
Caring this much this early made no sense, but trying to stop it felt impossible.
“Hey, Travis,” Casey called as he walked through the door. I refused to examine the instant release of tension in my shoulders at the sound of his sweet, friendly, imminently sexy voice. He was in track pants that were slung low on his hips and a T-shirt that clung to his broad chest.
The way he walked in like he owned the place but still seemed a little unsure hit that instinct in me I kept trying to ignore.
Good. Fucking. Night. Casey was trying to give me a heart attack. How in the hell was I supposed to concentrate on work when he looked like that? This was not in the Bar Management 101 book on my nightstand.
“Hey, good to see you, Casey. I was getting worried you’d already ditched us,” I said with the best non-forced laugh I could muster.
Abandonment was a stupid fear for a grown man, but it still lived under my ribs.
“What? Am I late?” Casey asked.
His panicked tone and expression made me want to kick my own ass. He frantically looked around the room for a clock before remembering he had a phone in his pocket. He hurriedly pulled it out.
“No, not at all. Sorry, I was just…thinking out loud,” I answered lamely. “You’re definitely not late. There’s no problem, and it’s all my fault for phrasing it weird.”
“Oh, whew. I thought I was about to get fired on only my second day.” He paused and then added with what I swore was a fucking wink, “I’m a third-date kind of guy.”
He tossed out that joke so easy, unaware how fast it lodged under my skin.
“Date? Sounds interesting.” Flirting with the boss? That was an HR violation I could get behind.
“Ha! No, day. I said day.”
“Yeah, yeah. That makes more sense,” I said with the fakest laugh imaginable.
Get your shit together, Travis.Gee, buddy, the reason you can’t find a boy of your own is likely because no boy wants a tongue-tied fool for a Daddy. After insulting myself, since therewas no one else around to do it, I returned to the pointless work of wiping down an already immaculate bar.
Thank god, the customers weren’t paying attention to my exchange with Casey. Or, if they did, they were polite enough not to laugh at my obvious bullshit. If I could get through this evening without making an absolute ass of myself, it would be some kind of Christmas miracle.
At six on Thanksgiving, it was too early for the people I knew would be coming. In another hour or so, the place would be packed with people who needed a break from overbearing relatives and noisy kids.
When I bought the neighborhood dive, I figured I’d lean into the sports bar vibe, but I was also determined not to hide the fact that queer people were happily welcomed here. After we’d shifted it up, we’d landed somewhere in the triangle of a sports-themed gay bar with a big local presence. I wasn’t mad about it in the least.
“Where do you need me first?”
I swallowed my wholly inappropriate answer and pointed to the ice instead. “If you wouldn’t mind getting the ice buckets handled, that would be great, thanks.”
Casey flashed a smile before heading to the back and getting started. What I noticed was that Casey happily did anything asked of him, but always sought permission first. Once he’d been cleared, he worked the task to perfection. In time, I imagined he’d feel rested enough not to need step-by-step instructions, but for the second day on the job, he was doing great.
“Hey, Trav, Gerry just called in,” Myla, my evening bartender, said as she hung up the phone on the side of the bar.
“What?”
“Yeah, again. Said he’s sick.”
“Sick, my fucking ass. He’s either hungover or too drunk.”
“My vote is drunk.”