THE KISS (Manhattan Nights #4)

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

DEACON

PRESENT DAYSaturday afternoon

“Kevin, tell me you have something on underneath that…thing.”

I’d point…but I can’t risk the beer in my cup slipping to the floor. It would be the fifth one I’ve dropped today, not counting the sixth I inhaled in the bathroom stall a half an hour ago, and as a new business owner I could only afford to lose so much money.

I was already digging myself out of the hole.

It’s a good thing the taste of beer number six is still on my tongue, making my head swim.

The strong, fragrant aroma of wheat, barley and bad decisions follow me as I pass by the elongated oak bar to my right and under the dim amber lighting of New York City’s best-kept secret of a bar, known to all who love it as The Alchemist, I can feel the hairs on the edge of my skin rise, my own pulse picking up pace.

I can’t believe how much has changed in the last six months.

Rounding the corner with another set of the same beers we’ve arranged for tonight, for the biggest party we’ve ever thrown, it’s almost as if I can also taste the nerves in the room, the tension made even worse when I see what my general manager is wearing.

I stop.

“Kevin?” I verbally press the round-waisted, bearded man in front of me, standing there…in a kilt—this slip of red and green material shorter than my senior prom date’s dress.

I set the beers aside, pushing them to the edge of a nearby wooden table as he faces me, his normally ruddy cheeks beet-red. He grins, a sheepish look on his face as he glances down, his eyebrows rising high.

“Well, that answer depends, boss,” he finally lets out, his shoulder lifting in a half-shrug.

I stare. “On what exactly?”

“On whether or not you’d like me to lie to you…”

“Jesus.” I rub a hand across my forehead, hoping to erase the crease that’s settling in there. I glance at Nancy—seemingly my only employee I can trust in this nut house. “Nance, did you make sure the shipments of Guinness are in?”

“Sure did.” The red-haired bartender nods behinds the world’s biggest bar, her green eyes bright. “Every single box accounted for.”

I inhale. “Did you double-check?”

“I did one better. I triple-checked.” She smiles with a wink.

“Fantastic.” I nod towards Andrew, the server. “Nice job on the decorations, Drew. Everything looks great.”

The recent college grad beams, his hairless chin raised. “Has to be, boss.” He slaps a white towel in his hand over his shoulder before clapping a palm on mine, his heavy hand landing just across my back. “Sevin Smith only retires from the Fever once. And he only has one retirement party from his beloved city of New York.”

I take another deep breath. Damn straight he does.

The confidence of my team is enough to make a new owner proud. Inside the wooden, gray-painted walls of my little Manhattan bar, I should feel like the king of my castle, the proud purveyor of a good time to be had by all.

I’m a lucky bastard. Lucky enough to throw the “unofficial retirement party” for Sevin Smith—old friend, the National Baseball League’s Most Valuable Player and the best thing to ever happen to New York City.

When the New York Fever decided to trade Sevin just before the league’s summer deadline, the city collectively gasped. Very few things were more traumatic to NYC sports fans than the thought that Sevin—star second-fielder—would go to rival team, the Chicago Cougars.

But here we were… On the eve of watching one of our citywide treasures walk away.

Baseball enthusiasts, women and sexually-curious men were crying all over the state tonight.

Me? I was trying to stay sane amidst the madness. And all the while missing the one person I knew should be here.

I try to keep my mind from straying to Kayla and a certain call I’ve been waiting to come through when Kevin, again, cuts into my thoughts.

His dark beard bobs.

“So, uh, Deacon…you think I could get you alone for a minute?” He motions over his shoulder. “In the back of the bar?”

I glance down at his kilt. “Seriously, Kevin?”

He raises his meaty hands in the air. “No funny business, I swear. Just to talk.”

I sigh, swiping wasted-cup-of-beer-number-seven. Taking a sip from its edge, I resist the temptation to swallow the entire drink. Finding an ounce of willpower, I let the lager settle in my system, soothing my frayed senses.

Raising one finger, I yell out. “You’ve got one minute, Kev… But not before you slip on a pair of boxers or briefs…” My stare slants. “That’s a non-negotiable.”

I disappear behind the back of the bar, stepping into my square closet of an office. The air feels tighter in the small dark space, more restricted, but less than two minutes later, Kevin joins, filling the tiny area with his large frame—supposedly with a fresh pair of underwear on.

Not wanting to know where he got the new underwear, I suppress a small shudder, sitting on the edge of my desk as Kev clears his throat, his normally half-hooded eyes wide. He inhales.

I blink. “So, what’s this about, Kev? Is there something you need from me? More hours? More money?” I hesitate. “More lotion for those bare knees you insist on showing beneath that skirt?”

He chuckles, a low sound that rumbles lightly in the office. “What makes you think I want something?”

I tilt my head. “You’ve got the look of a man who’s missing out on more than just a pair of clean drawers.”

Kevin shakes his head, a smile forming on his lips as he closes his eyes briefly, his normally jolly demeanor peeking—for just a sec—behind a curtain of his awkward shiftiness. I sit and wait.

“As you know,” he begins, “we’ve been having some trouble with the bar lately…”

I lift my chin. “Only the financial and legal kind.”

“Right. Well, with some anonymous person making it a point to call the cops on us every weekend for whatever person capacity, fire or city code they think we’ve violated that day, we’ve been having a lot of money go out of the door…”

“Tell me about it…”

“And the stolen shipments of our latest IPAs haven’t helped,” he continues, his face growing a bit redder with every passing minute. He huffs. “With the renovations we took when you took over the bar from your mom, that leaves us with very little leg-room when it comes to financing events.” I watch Kevin swallow heavily, his fleshy chin hanging by just a bit. “Like tonight’s party…”

“Ah, I see,” I say, Kev’s point finally emerging. I straighten to my feet, pushing away from the edge of my desk, my own arms crossing over my chest. I stretch to my full height. “And you just wanted to warn me.”

“Well…yeah.”

My general manager—as big as a bull and much more gentle than a mouse—sighs, the weight of the world seemingly on his shoulders. My chest twists at the sight of the worry on his face.

Worry for me. Worry for the bar.

His concern—as sugary sweet as it is—makes my throat tighten, and though I’ve only officially been the owner of The Alchemist for six whole months, my mouth goes dry at the thought of all that I’ve inherited from my stepfather’s untimely demise.

With his recent passing and the passing of the bar he once owned with my mother shifting to me, I’ve not only taken on his fortune, but his problems as well.

His bar. His debts. His business. His people.

People that, in just six months, have managed to worm their way into my existence in a way I could have never seen coming.

I want to tell Kevin that we’ll be fine. That the bar will be fine. That the expenses it took to throw tonight’s upcoming party will be offset by the scores of New Yorkers who will flock here to celebrate Sevin.

I want to tell him lies.

But a small twinge of doubt traps the words behind my teeth, numbing my tongue. And just as I open my mouth to speak, that damn cell that I’ve been staring at all evening finally rings, cutting the silence into two.

I glance down at it, reading the one name I’ve been waiting to appear all day. My eyes flicker up to Kevin’s face.

He nods, needing no instructions. “I get it. Feel free to take your time…”

I sigh. “Sorry about this, Kev. I’ve just…been kinda waiting for this call for a while now.”

“Say no more.” The teddy bear of a man turns towards the door. “We’ll talk later.”

I nod at him, and he shuts my office door. I answer the phone in my hand, clearing my throat, my voice a rasp that I can barely hear.

“Deacon here.”

“Deacon.” My lawyer Emily breathes my name. “I’m glad you picked up. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

I think back to the party, back to Kev briefly, brushing both aside against my will. I lick my lips. “No, not at all.”

“Good, good,” she repeats, her small voice even smaller than I remember. “Are you sitting down?”

“Do I need to be?”

“Well, it might help. Gives you a shorter distance to the ground when you pass out from the news. I wasn’t sitting when I heard so I figured I might warn ya.”

I exhale, my breath leaving my lungs in a rush. I clutch the phone harder. “How bad are the hospital bills?”

“Bad,” she says plainly, no hint of humor in her voice. “Your grandmother’s been through the worst part of her surgery, but there’s a lot more recovery involved. And she has no insurance…”

“The woman never did believe in it much.”

Emily snorts softly. “A dangerous concept in a place like Chicago.”

“At least her belief system doesn’t discriminate. Should have seen how the tooth fairy and Santa Claus took it to heart when she banned them from the house.”

Emily laughs again—this time harder. “Grandmama Cross sure is tough.”

“The toughest.” I smile. “In a fight against Mike Tyson, you know who my money would be on…”

“I’d take that bet myself.”

I can hear Emily grin, but it does nothing to calm the beating of my suddenly galloping heart. “After all of this treatment, sounds like her heart will be as healthy as a horse’s. Now if I could only get her to quit those damn cigarettes.” I sigh. “Anyway…just send me the bills.”

“Will do.” I hear from Emily’s end of the line. “Oh and Deacon?”

“Yeah?”

“Hang in there.” Her voice is but a sigh. “The hardest part of your grandmother’s health ordeal is almost over…”

I hang up shortly after, not mentioning to Emily that though my grandmama’s massive heart attack and recovery is on its way to being over—thank God…mine is not.

I somehow have to figure out a way to tell my bar employees that we might be on the brink of collapse. Drowning in a sea of hospital bills and New York City code violations might not be the worst way to die…but the guilt sure as hell will be the most agonizing way to go.