Page 7 of Structure of Love

My bartender leaned in to nudge my elbow. Once he had my attention, he nodded to the guy slouching over the bar. “Gonna cut that one off.”

I looked the kid over, saw how he hung onto the bar to avoid falling off the stool, and grunted. “Good call. He belligerent?”

“Mostly just sitting there muttering to himself.”

Ah, so he was a morose drunk. Well, sometimes they were problematic, sometimes not. I guessed I’d get to see before the night was over.

Being the owner of my bar, most people assumed I would only manage and not do any of the grunt work. Far from it. I liked bartending—it helped me keep a finger on the pulse of the business, and if someone called out, I was able to fill in. Most of the time, I liked my customers, too.

Most of the time.

I glanced at the kid, keeping a better eye on him now that he’d been pointed out to me. He was an interesting mix of looking incredibly young and already sporting a cynical edge. Reminded me of myself at his age. His gelled light brown hairlooked a bit mussed, sticking up in the back. He sported a five o’clock shadow, and his slate grey eyes looked bloodshot. He’d clearly drunk too much and wasn’t in any state to drink more.

I let him nurse his beer, though, and glanced around for my bouncer. Hopefully the kid would let me call someone to come get him and I wouldn’t need to toss him out on his ear. I didn’t even trust him in a taxi right now; he wouldn’t make it through the front door without assistance.

Blackbird was hopping, and with the live music going on in the corner and the many conversations overlapping, it was noisy as hell in here. I was used to it, after years of working in a bar, and to me noise meant money. People were having a good time and enjoying themselves, and that was all I cared about. It did mean I needed to step out into the back office to make a call, though, if I wanted this kid picked up. No one would be able to hear me over a phone.

I leaned over the bar so I could speak easier to him and tapped the kid on the shoulder. “Hey. I gotta cut you off.”

His bloodshot eyes blearily focused on me before he snorted like I’d told him a deadpan joke. “I ain’ drunk.”

“Kid, you’re listing so far on that barstool, it’s a miracle it hasn’t toppled over yet. Play nice with me. Who can I call?”

He eyed me for another long moment. He realized I was serious, and he wasn’t getting another drop of alcohol. The kid sighed, resigned, and unlocked his phone. He pulled up a contact and texted something.

No answer. Or at least, he kept staring at the screen. When he didn’t get an immediate answer, he switched to a call, then put it on speaker.

Like speaker would even work in this noisy place. Kid was too drunk to even make good calling decisions.

Only the call was denied. Whoever it was refused to answer. For some reason, it bothered the kid. He stared at his phone,eyes a touch bright, as if he were on the verge of crying. Emotional drunk? Or had the person declining the call hurt him that badly?

“Who was that?”

“My brother.” He tried to play it off, laughing, but it sounded bitter. He took another sip of beer. “Maybe I should drink myself to death. My brother hates me. He barely takes my calls now.”

Ah, yes, that stage. Where you’d burned everyone who cared about you, and no one trusted you enough to help again. Been there, done that. I’d pulled myself out of it, though, and not many did. This kid either didn’t seem to know how or didn’t want to put in the work to straighten himself out. Hard to tell.

Also not my problem.

I rotated his phone, looked at the number he’d called, and typed it into my own phone. Then I walked back into the office so I could hear better. The music and conversations became muted once the door was closed, a reprieve.

The phone picked up, a baritone voice sounding in my ear. Nice voice, too, like a cognac over ice. “This is Gage.”

“Hey, name’s Logan. Your brother is dead drunk at Blackbird. If you don’t want to get him, I understand, but give me an address so I can pour him into a taxi.”

There was a long sigh. “He’s actually drunk and not throwing a pity party?”

Did that often, huh? “Yeah, he’s smashed. I think he came in tipsy, as he’s only had three beers.”

“That’s his usual MO. All right, I’m coming. Blackbird, you said?”

“That’s right.”

“Be there in twenty. Thanks for the call.”

“Sure.”

I hung up and shook my head. Poor guy. He sounded both resigned and flat-out done. His no-fucks-left-to-give tone toldits own story. I’d bet he was worn out with his brother’s bad decisions. I’d bet my eyeteeth, because I knew that tone all too well. People used to direct it at me.