good dive bar?
They are literally made for therapeutic conversation and budding friendships. These places serve dual purposes.
The people who come into 9-5 Slide on the regular are my people. Laid-back, a little rough around the edges, but real. Maybe it’s because I just often feel out of place with Patrick’s perfect family, but I have a hard time dealing with fake, plastic-like individuals.
In the bar at two in the morning, you are your truest self, all bullshit aside, and I respect that more than I respect someone trying to keep up appearances.
“Hey, Nic,” John’s voice greets me with a smile from behind the old mahogany bar, seeing me walk in as he’s drying glasses.
“There he is!” I say enthusiastically. “Ready to make some serious cash tonight?”
My sarcasm isn’t lost on him.
He throws his head back in a dramatic laugh. “Right.”
I’ve been working with John for exactly eight months now. How do I know this? Because his girlfriend got pregnant right before he applied for the job. More spending money for diapers and shit, he always said.
I enjoy working with him because he is the type of guy that’s clearly overqualified for the job, like me. He’s an engineering student at the university by day, and bartender by night, keeping a rainy day fund from the tips he’s collecting. Hard worker, funny as hell. A perfect coworker in my book.
Just as the night is getting on and the patrons fill up the space, I pour another Jack on the rocks for my old friend Leonard.
“Shall I add it to the tab?”
“Sure thing, darlin’.” He nods, handing me a few dollars for a tip before getting back to his reading.
He’s probably my favorite person. Leonard is here every Thursday night, drinking his Jack while reading his old novels. He claims the missus talks too much, so he comes to a bar to read, where everyone talks all the time.
Adding the drink to his tab, I hear someone clear their throat, awaiting service.
I turn, then immediately lower my brows when I’m met with a tall guy donning the brightest bleach blonde I’ve ever seen, with spiky hair and piercings covering his face. Who the hell is this Billy Idol knockoff?
“What can I get for you?” I ask politely, shrugging off the initial shock.
He eyes me up and down like a snack with a little smirk plastered on his strangely attractive face. “Depends what’s on the menu.”
He leans into the bar on his elbows with a shit-eating grin, getting closer, obviously trying to make a pass at me.
I cock my head to the side, waiting for his order with my brows raised, not feeding into his attempts.
“Ah, alright…” He chuckles. “Can I get a round of Tequila for my guys? We’re celebrating tonight. At that corner booth in the back.” He points with a half-smile. “Should come join us when your shift is over.”
“I’ll be right over with the shots,” I respond, ignoring the last comment while ringing him up.
“None of the frilly shit needed. We’ll take ’em straight,” he adds, as I check out his tatted-up arms, covering every inch of available flesh, handing him his card back.
He’s littered with them. Hours of work, I’m sure.
God, these guys and their tats. If tattoos were a genetic trait, he’d be related to Hawke by the looks of it. Probably his first cousin.
I grab a tray and fill it with the five shots of Tequila he requested and make my way around the bar to the back corner booth by the pool tables.
“Guys,” I say, interrupting their conversation and setting the tray on the table.
I look up and nod to the blonde to take them off, as he takes one and the other four hands follow.
The last hand to grab a shot has a bird tattoo on the back of it, accompanied by a few black rings. The bird is not just any bird; the bird is a hawk.
My eyes snap up. There he is, sitting in the booth’s corner, staring at me as he grabs the shot. His eyes do that weird thing again, looking through me like we’re in on some little secret together.
“To Hawke! So glad to have you back,” Billy Idol says to the group, holding his shot in the air.
They’re celebrating his prison release. In a hole-in-the-wall bar with shots. How idyllic.
They all throw their Tequila straight back, Hawke’s eyes on mine while he finishes his. I watch the warm liquid slide down his throat, the roll of his Adam’s apple hypnotizing me.
I swallow nervously, needing an escape from the strange knot forming in my stomach, and turn to head back to the bar.
Billy Idol wannabe catches my elbow, pulling me back. “Wait, stay.” He grins cheekily at me.
“She can’t,” Hawke announces firmly from the corner.
He’s looking down at his phone, not making eye contact with anyone. His voice is authoritative and harsh, making me feel suddenly weak.
“What? Why not? The bar is empty, plus that golfer-looking guy is right there. She can hang for a bit.”
“She can’t,” he says again, definitively.
I narrow my eyes at his tone.
What an ass. As if I’d actually want to hang with this group of heathens. They probably brought heroin to snort in the bathroom stalls later. Or whatever they do with it.
“Well, if you’re bored later, you’re welcome to come back to my place. We can talk about the stars and see if our astrological signs coexist, or whatever it is you girls like to do.” He winks flirtatiously, earning him a few laughs from the other guys.
He’s actually kind of cute, minus the spiky blonde hair, the piercings, and the never-ending tattoos. And kind of funny too. So funny that I give him my best nose chuckle.
“It’ll never happen,” Hawke says before downing the rest of his drink and pushing past the guys to get out of the booth.
“Where ya going?” Billy Idol asks with his hands raised.
Hawke throws his leather jacket on and heads towards the door, not answering.
“Ah, forget him.” He tosses his hand in Hawke’s direction.
He leaves the bar, pushing a shoulder roughly through the doors as if someone did something wrong to him.
Some people are just assholes by nature.
I head back behind the bar, serving up a few more drinks. Tips aren’t great tonight, but they’re alright. Leonard closes out his tab for the evening and as he’s walking outside to leave, I see Hawke smoking a cigarette in the parking lot.
Ah, so that’s where he went. One of many addictions, perhaps?
Ashing out, he heads back inside. To my surprise, he walks straight up to the bar with his intimidatingly tall form. To me.
He leans forward, elbows on the scuffed-up wooden surface, looking at me with a scowl. “Kid.” He tosses his thumb behind him. “He doesn’t know.”
I get a whiff of him as he leans inward. His scent, best described as a combination of cigarettes, fresh mint, and leather, is not horrible for some odd reason. I cock an eyebrow, having no clue what he’s talking about. Wondering why he’s even talking to me when he wouldn’t even address me a minute ago.
He runs that hand, the one with the hawk tattoo, through his shaggy, eye level dark locks, pushing it back as best he can over top of the shaved area beneath. “Kid,” he says, pointing more directly to the wired-out blondie. “The guy that was hitting on you. He doesn’t know you’re married.”
My eyebrows run together as I frown, looking at my hand and back. “I’m not married.”
He tips his head to the side with a give me a break look about him.
“Whatever, it’s fine. He seems fun.” I brush it off.
“He’s not. Mind your business,” he commands, glaring at me with those piercing greenish-blue eyes.
I cock my head at his threats, shooting a questionable look in his direction.
Who does this guy think he is? Does he really think I’d step out on my relationship with Patrick for Billy Idol? Of course, I’m going to stay away from him. Mind my business? Please, because I’m so interested in hearing about random hookups and junkie parties.
“Yeah. Okay.” I roll my eyes, turning to go dry some glasses from the wash cycle.
I hear him huff with frustration before turning to leave through the doors with a slam.
“Jesus, what’d you do to that one?” John asks, filling a drink beside me.
“No idea, probably breathed wrong.” I shake my head.
I sneak into the house late after work, trying to set my keys on the key tray as quietly as I can by the door. All the lights are off, including the one to Hawke’s room. I didn’t see him with a vehicle at the bar, and to be honest, I don’t think he even has a car. God only knows his whereabouts.
I tiptoe into the bathroom and do all my nighttime regimens before slipping into some short shorts and a camisole for bed. Crawling under the covers, I slide up against Patrick’s warm body. He lets out a little groan, moving from his side to flat on his back.
Feeling courageous, I slide my hand across his exposed hair lined stomach. My fingertips reach the edge of his boxers as I toy with the elastic band. Finally dipping my hand inside, my fingers graze his member, sending a little shock wave through him.
He moans, opening his eyes, looking down at my hand, then back at me with a slow, growing grin. “Angel.”
I continue stroking him until he grows hard and his chest is rising and falling at a faster rate. I quickly straddle him, pulling my shorts to the side as he reaches the nightstand, grabbing a condom.
He rolls it on as I’m breathless and ready to go. Opening my hips wide, I sink myself onto him.
“Ahh, shit.” He moans, grabbing my hips softly.
I grind against him, enjoying the sensation of me being on top, when I forget what it does to him.
“Wait. Stop,” he says, out of breath, holding a hand flat against my stomach.
I can’t stop. I need this. I want this. With all the tension that’s built up around me lately, I just need a good orgasm to be set right again. Right?
I continue grinding myself against his pelvis while backing onto him. I’m beginning to build up to what seems like an amazing sensation—what I think is about to be an orgasm—when I feel him jerk beneath me.
“Shit, Nic!” He groans a few times, his chin to his chest before his head falls against the bed.
I hang my head, sighing in frustration, as his breathing relaxes along with mine.
“I’m sorry, Angel, you know what that position does to me,” he says, moving my hair out of my face and bringing his lips to mine. “Just look at it as a good thing. It means you overwhelm me in the best possible way.”
I reluctantly kiss him when he pulls my chin towards his lips before rolling off him onto my back. I’m upset.
“C’mon, lie back. I’ll go down on you.” He grins, his head drifting beneath the covers.
“N-no. It’s fine, I’m tired anyway,” I say, stopping him.
The mood is ruined. I don’t even like it when he goes down on me. It’s awkward and uncomfortable imagining just how gross he probably thinks the process is. He showers after sex, for crying out loud.
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Let’s just go to bed.” I flip over while he sits there for a second.
“Love you, Nic.” He kisses the side of my head before getting up and off the bed.
I hear him head towards the bathroom, turning on the shower as the tears fall from my eyes just like the water down the drain.
