3- The Lock Box

Harrison POV

 

It's Friday afternoon at The Lock Box Bar downtown and I’m the only one working the bar. Work is slow, and my coworker and boss, Jeff, is in the back doing an inventory before tonight’s rush.

The phone on the back wall started to ring, and I ditched my cleaning of the glassware to answer it.

 

“Thanks for calling The Lock Box, how can we make your day awesome?”

 

“Hey Harrison, it’s Rhett.”

 

I smiled and shifted my weight to one leg at the sound of his voice. “Oh, hey. What’s up?”

 

“Harrison! What have I told you about personal calls on the business line?!” my boss shouts from the back room, but I choose to ignore him and listen to Rhett.

 

“I wanted to know if you could get together for lunch today?”

 

I checked my watch and saw the time was now a quarter till noon. “It’s kind of short notice, Rhett. I don’t know if I can make that. My boss gets super crabby when he’s stressed before a rush and I don’t want to get in trouble.”

 

“That’s fine. Can I stop by the bar?”

 

I’m sure my eyes were twinkling as he offered to visit me instead. “Sure! That’d be great. You know where to find me.”

 

I spot Jeff coming out from the backroom and hurry to hang up the phone before Rhett can respond, rushing back to my chores to prepare the bar for tonight. Jeff glared at me, but I looked away from him and mumbled, “It’s not breaking the rules if HE calls ME.”

 

*

 

I spent the rest of the day giddy and excited, perking up any time I heard the front door open, expecting it to be Rhett. He wanted to meet for lunch, so I expected him shortly after the phone call, but he didn’t show up. I was a little bummed, but the rush of a Friday night crowd at the bar didn’t give me much time to dwell on it.

 

The music was blasting and the crowd was almost shoulder-to-shoulder by the time it was fully dark out. Two more employees had come in to help me man the bar, yet we were still overflowing.

 

My red tank and jeans were damp from the various liquids that the new bartender would spill on me while trying some ridiculous tricks with the bottles.

 

“This isn’t Coyote Ugly, Brennan! Knock it off!” I snatched the tequila bottle from him, making the two girls across from him at the bar who he was trying to impress giggle, and pushed him aside.

 

Thank God there’s a no-smoking rule in the bar or I swear I would have gone up in flames by now with how much liquor this kid has spilled on me.

 

Taking over his corner, I palm-spun the two bottles in each of my hands before pouring shots for the two girls. They smiled and their eyes twinkled at me, and I winked at them as I pushed the shot glasses closer to them.

 

Turning to Brennan, who was fuming at me with his arms crossed, I walked to him and said over the loud music, “I’ll teach you the fancy shit tomorrow. Stop trying to show off.” I slapped him on the back and threw the rag over my shoulder before walking to the next customer at the end of the bar.

 

He was cute! Tall, medium build, with brown hair that was dyed blonde at the tips, fresh-shaven olive skin, and kind green eyes, similar to Rhett's. He dressed in a suit and looked like he had just gotten off work.

 

“Need something to take the edge off?” I asked as I grabbed a bottle of whisky and scotch, presenting each one to the man for him to choose.

 

He smiled at my gesture, and I about melted at his smile. He had dimples and the corner of his eyes wrinkled slightly. He had to be just over thirty, but no more than thirty-five. Signs of a hard worker to have crow’s feet at such a young age.

 

“Dirty martini,” he hollered over the crowd, placing one elbow on the bar and leaning on it.

 

I lifted my eyebrows and turned around to get what I needed with a smirk. ‘Not a bourbon or scotch guy, okay, I see you, boo,’ I thought to myself with some amusement. ‘Was that a French accent I picked up on? Bonjour, Monsieur Martini.’

 

Turning back to build the drink, I placed the martini glass on the mahogany bar and got to mixing. I notice that he’s browsing the bar as if he’s looking for someone; extending his neck every few seconds to see over someone’s head.

 

“Got a hot date coming?”

 

“Na. Work colleague,” he said with what sounded like regret.

 

I figured I shouldn’t comment on it and decided to simply nod my head and go about my work. I stabbed two olives with a toothpick before plopping them into the drink, then pushed it across the bar to the handsome man with a napkin underneath. He smiled at me in thanks, and I went on to the next person.

 

A group of girls caught my attention because they were regulars and always tipped well. They loved when we put on a show for them; Taylor and I were the best bartenders in town and worked like magic together, turning the entire twenty-foot-long bar into a show. Our record was thirty-five shot glasses in a row to be filled without a single drop spilled and lit by a flame thrower at one end. Stupid? Yes. Worth it? Also yes. Would we do it again? Depends on how much money you plan on tipping us… and if Jeff is present.

 

“Harrison! Do the twirly thing!” one of the girls hollered at me while bouncing on her toes in excitement.

 

I chuckled at them and went about the “twirly thing,” throwing the bottle up into the air and catching it behind my back numerous times.

 

I did some ice throwing for other drinks and a shaker flip around my thumb for some extra flair. They cheered and hollered, and eventually, the entire bar was rooting for me. “Harr-i-son! Harr-i-son!” Before I knew it, I was practically juggling, but the tip jar was filling up past the rim and I was lost in the moment.

 

Suddenly, a familiar face made its way to me, and I recognized my best friend, Rhett, smiling at the end of the bar behind the crowd of admirers as they chanted my name. I smiled at him, finished my little show, and took a slight bow at the applause before leaving the bar to greet him.

 

He was standing next to the cute man who ordered a dirty martini, and I concluded that Rhett was the work colleague this man had been looking for earlier. He smiled as I neared him, and I walked out from behind the bar to hug him.

 

“Good to see you, man!” He gave me a bro hug and clapped my back a few times. “Have you met Milo?” He motioned to the man in a suit next to him, who promptly lifted a hand and smiled at me.

 

I smiled back. “We are familiar.” I extended a hand to him and properly introduced myself, “Harrison Monroe.”

 

“Milo Lavigne.”

 

“Pleasure.”

 

“Harrison!” I roll my eyes as Jeff's voice reaches my ears. I turn to find him behind me. “You riled up all the customers with your fancy bottle tricks - get back to it! We have paying customers here!”

 

I give him a sarcastic salute after he turns around and returned to the other side of the bar to fix Rhett his usual drink. Jeff is pretty good about the backhanded compliments that leave you wondering if you should be flattered or frightened.

 

“I wanted to tell you something important, Harrison.” Rhett leaned against the bar with both forearms bracing him.

 

He seemed serious, and I wondered if maybe he was sick? Was Milo here as support for when he tells his best friend that he’s dying and that’s why he seemed upset when he mentioned his colleague was coming?

 

“What’s going on?” I ask with concern, only to get called over by Taylor to help him out with something. I hold up a finger to Rhett to tell him I’ll be right back and he nods with a smile. If he’s smiling then it can’t be so bad, right? I should calm down.

 

I kept getting pulled every which way for the next five-or-so minutes, and I could tell Rhett was losing his patience. I looked at him with an apologetic look and pulled my shoulder-length blonde hair into a small ponytail; it was getting too hot and my mind was all over the place. I just wanted to finish my shift and hang out with Rhett. At least he had Milo to keep him company.

 

The glass I had been filling began to shake and I looked down the bar to see Rhett hitting the bar with the palm of his hand in an attempt to get my attention. He cupped his hands around his mouth and hollered what he had been meaning to say to me, “Harry, I’m getting married!”

 

“What?!” I turned, startled, and slipped on a wet patch on the ground, falling to my ass.

 

Married? Why couldn’t he just be sick?