Page 5 of Mourner for Hire

He plants a fresh straw in the drink and presents it before me. I take a sip and let the flavors explode on my tongue.

“It’s essentially a mojito with blueberries to darken it and a slice of basil to add depth,” he tells me.

I take another sip. “It’s really good.”

“You like it.”

I nod. It’s not too sweet, not too strong. “It’s perfect, but I’ll be honest, I thought most bartenders hate making mojitos.”

“Bartenders who say that don’t enjoy the craft of a good cocktail,” he responds. “Plus, I like to name cocktails after people based on their personalities.”

He isn’t complimenting me necessarily—just the liquor in the cocktail—but still, my cheeks warm.

“You’re making a lot of assumptions,” I say.

“I am,” he agrees, almost smiling.

I take another sip as he turns around and starts writing my name on the chalkboard, followed by the list of ingredients. I shake my head as he turns around with a triumphant grin.

“So tell me more about volunteering,” I prompt, not wanting to part from him.

He leans over the bar now, closer than he’s been all night. His scent drifts toward me, and I hate how much I like it. He should smell like a bar, but he smells like a man who’s been chopping wood in a dewy forest and then peeled an orange and lit a vanilla candle.

“I want to tell you everything,” he says.

And he does. For the next several hours, as the patrons drift out of the bar—some walking home, others finally able to drive as the highway opens up—Dunner and I talk all night over several games of Pacman and darts until I’ve lost track of my p’s, q’s, and time.

Then, after two rounds of pool, I realize the bar is empty except for us. “Oh my God, you’re probably dying for me to leave. I’m the only one still here. I’m sorry, I don’t normally drink like this, I?—”

“Don’t worry. It’s been fun for me.”

I nod, checking the time. It’s only nine. “Is business usually this slow?”

“I’m not usually open on Mondays,” he reasons, though something like defeat passes over his expression. “I just came outside to see what all the traffic was.”

“Oh.” I realize my bladder and I are the reason he opened up the bar. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s all good. I probably would have had more than just you asking to come in.

We take care of each other around here. And, as you said, I live above the bar, and pretty much everyone else in the traffic jam knows that, so they would have been knocking on my door instead of running straight into me. ”

I let out a light laugh. “Sorry. It was a long drive from Portland.”

He nods.

I glance around the bar. I should go. I don’t want to keep him up or invade his space any more than I already have.

“Hey, do you think there will be any Ubers out tonight?—”

“Do you want to play another round of pool?—”

We speak at the same time, and both smile at each other as we try to decide what to say next.

“Well,” he begins. “You might be able to get an Uber in an hour, so we might as well play a round of pool.”

He chalks the tip of the pole and hands it to me. I consider my next move.

“I think I want one more drink,” I say, hopping up and sitting on the edge of the pool table .

Dunner stands between my legs, his thumb barely grazing beneath the hem of my dress. “I think we’ve had enough.”

I register his words and pout.

“Fine,” he relents.

The absence of him between my legs when he walks to the bar makes me feel unusually reckless, but I can tell this is just another day for him, having the new woman in town melt at his feet after a couple of mojitos and a few rounds of pool.

It should turn me off, but it doesn’t. I like his smile and the way his honey-colored eyes lighten when he looks at me.

I like the sound of his voice and the smell of his skin.

I’m drunk enough to not care—probably drunk enough to beg.

When Dunner comes back with two tumblers, filled to the brim with ice and clear liquid, I take it. The cold condensation drifts over my fingertips as he holds his glass between us.

“To meeting you,” he says.

“Cheers,” I say, clinking his glass. It takes me one sip to realize it’s just water. I toss my head back and laugh. “Am I already that sloppy?”

Dunner laughs, still standing between my legs, a hand shamelessly resting on my thigh. “No, I just make sure to always take care of my customers.”

“You sound like an escort,” I tease.

“You sound like a smart ass,” he says, moving his mouth closer to mine.

“I don’t really want to play pool anymore,” I whisper, our breaths intertwining.

His hands are in my hair now, cradling my head so my lips are tilted toward his, ready for the taking.

“If I kiss you, will you be okay with it?” he asks.

My vision blurs, and my mind spins. It’s always that first sip of water after drinking too much to make you realize how drunk you are.

“Yes,” I pant. Because I don’t care that I’m drunk. He probably could have kissed me when my bladder was about to burst, and I would have willingly chosen to wet my pants just so I could get a taste of him. “Please, Dunner. Kiss me.”

And his lips crash into mine. Despite us both being drunk, the kiss isn’t sloppy.

It’s thoughtful and passionate. He’s a man who also kisses with his hands, and it makes all of my senses scream.

His tongue glides against mine, and my stomach drops and flutters and kicks my need for him into high gear.

I tug at his shirt and run my hands over his abs.

“Oh my God, are you real?”

He chuckles against my jaw before sinking his teeth into my neck.

“Ah, vampire shit. I’m into it,” I add with a moan.

A rough laugh trembles out of his mouth and vibrates on the tender skin of my neck.

He takes my mouth once more, and I bite his lower lip, sucking and pulling just enough that a low rumble vibrates in the back of his throat.

He digs his fingers in my hair, and I whimper, my body betraying me as I inadvertently move closer to his.

We’re on the cusp of this kiss getting very out of hand, and if the room would just stop spinning, I will lead the way into passionate chaos.

He pulls back, staring at me. “I like how you taste.”

I hum, pulling him closer as he kisses my neck again.

My head grows even dizzier, and as I try to focus so I can stay in the moment, my gaze catches on the tin analog clock hanging on the wall in a gallery of bar art.

It’s probably fourteen inches in diameter and rusted along the edges with worn numbers, except for the six, which is a sun.

I know this clock. A faint, dream-like memory pulls me into it, and I can hear my five-year-old voice asking my mom, Why’s there a sun instead of a six?

Because the sun wakes up at six in the morning to tell us to start our day— she kissed the top of my head— then is done shining at six to tell us it’s time to wind down for the night .

And sing You Are My Sunshine?

Yes, baby, every night.

Before tonight, I didn’t even know that memory of my mother existed. It was buried deep underneath the other lucid memories and coping mechanisms. Somewhere deep in the threads of my mind—under the heartbreak and bruises that now seem fresh and new.

“Are you okay?” Dunner asks, cradling my face with his hands as I stare at the clock on the wall.

“My mom had a clock like that… I think.”

I can barely look at him, and I can hardly tell if my vision is blurring because of the tears pooling in my eyes or if it’s because I had way too much to drink.

My head feels weighed down, and I rest it on his shoulder, attempting to breathe through the visceral shock of the memory.

But when he wraps his arms around me, my emotional defiance breaks, my sadness cutting through the guard I’ve built around my trauma, and I start crying.

No, not just crying. Full-on heaving, sobbing.

“What happened? I’m sorry if I?—”

I shake my head, cutting him off. I know he’s about to apologize for kissing me, and the apology doesn’t need to be said. “No, you’re fine.”

“But you’re not.”

“Not usually,” I admit, wiping at my face, trying to be fine.

He laughs a little at this, tucking my hair behind my ear with a gentle and hesitant hand. Anxiety tingles over my skin—a warning flare—and I feel like I need to quickly be held together with duct tape so I don’t fall apart.

“Can you just hold me for a minute?”

“Yeah,” he starts hesitantly then softens. “As long as you need.”

I breathe in the smell of his soap and laundry detergent. The last thing I remember saying is, “You smell good for having a dog’s name.”