something?”
“Sure.”
“I know why Teag’s doing this bar thing, but what about you?”
It was a good question, and Bruce had a simple but honest answer. “I like people. And they tend to like me. Most of them. I’m told I’m easy to talk to. And I’ve been in this business for some time now—I mixed my first drink professionally about twelve years ago.”
“What was it?”
“Screwdriver. Yeah, not the hardest of cocktails, but trust me, I can float a B-52 or make a Bailey’s comet without burning down the bar. But working at my own bar would mean something much more.”
“Being your own boss.”
“Yes, and also it couldn’t be sold out from under me.” And it would mean proving Walter wrong.
The seemingly never-ending procession of paperwork and inspectors had pushed Teag to the edge of despair. Fortunately, Bruce had more patience—and time—to navigate them, and Teag had reluctantly agreed to share the reins.
But far too many weeks’ negotiations later, they were finally here, half-naked, sweaty and panting. And covered in dust. Bruce’s burly friends had come through first, emptying the place of junk and ripping the place apart in a single weekend. They’d removed the sheetrock from all the walls and ceilings on both floors, and stripped the upstairs to its subflooring.
The downstairs floor had presented a bigger challenge, but they had answered it. Well, Bruce did. He had his naked back to Teag as Teag came downstairs and watched him work. The buzz of the power scraper drowned out the sound of Teag’s steps.
Empty and well-lit, the space seemed so much bigger. The front entrance was still boarded up, so they’d been using the back, and it made sense—the rented Dumpster took up half the alley-facing parking lot. It blocked one of the doors, but fortunately, there were two.
Teag stood by the open door surveying his…their new property. To his immediate left stood a wall, an actual load-bearing wall. It had two doorways, one right there, opening to the stairs connecting the two floors. The other one was farther up, giving access to the kitchen.
Bright halogen lights illuminated the main area, adding their heat to the unexpected March heat wave. The power had to be turned off inside, so they brought it in straight from the box outside. It had been one of the things Bruce had negotiated with the electric company. The orange extension cords hung from nails on the wall studs to keep them out of the way.
Stepping closer, Teag had an excellent view of sweat trickling down Bruce’s back. The moisture covering his skin in a glossy sheen collected into a rivulet in the channel of his spine and slipped downward. Teag’s gaze tracked it disappearing into a gap between Bruce’s hip and jeans. Bruce was on his knees, and while he didn’t display a plumber’s crack, there was definitely a hint of things.
Nice ass popped into Teag’s head. Annoyed, he cursed himself, and the thought beat a hasty retreat. “Good job,” he said, voice raised, and took another step.
Bruce turned off the scraper and looked up. “Thanks, I’m almost done.” On his knees, sweat matting his chest hair, he made a far more lurid picture. Teag forced his eyes to the floor. “I can understand the top two layers of vinyl, but what idiot puts orange tile on top of hardwood floor?”
Bruce shrugged. “Must’ve been a Southwest theme.” He stood, and it was hard for Teag not to stare, especially at that silver stud.
Teag cleared his throat and turned, redirecting his scrutiny to the original hardwood floor barely visible under the blackened layer of ancient glue. “Can we refinish it?”
“I think so, but it won’t be like new. I’m betting on darker and lighter patches.”
“Not a problem. It adds character.”
Teag turned slowly, taking in the walls and ceiling stripped to the studs. “I can’t wait to be done with this part and move from deconstruction to actual construction.”
“What about
“Sure.”
“I know why Teag’s doing this bar thing, but what about you?”
It was a good question, and Bruce had a simple but honest answer. “I like people. And they tend to like me. Most of them. I’m told I’m easy to talk to. And I’ve been in this business for some time now—I mixed my first drink professionally about twelve years ago.”
“What was it?”
“Screwdriver. Yeah, not the hardest of cocktails, but trust me, I can float a B-52 or make a Bailey’s comet without burning down the bar. But working at my own bar would mean something much more.”
“Being your own boss.”
“Yes, and also it couldn’t be sold out from under me.” And it would mean proving Walter wrong.
The seemingly never-ending procession of paperwork and inspectors had pushed Teag to the edge of despair. Fortunately, Bruce had more patience—and time—to navigate them, and Teag had reluctantly agreed to share the reins.
But far too many weeks’ negotiations later, they were finally here, half-naked, sweaty and panting. And covered in dust. Bruce’s burly friends had come through first, emptying the place of junk and ripping the place apart in a single weekend. They’d removed the sheetrock from all the walls and ceilings on both floors, and stripped the upstairs to its subflooring.
The downstairs floor had presented a bigger challenge, but they had answered it. Well, Bruce did. He had his naked back to Teag as Teag came downstairs and watched him work. The buzz of the power scraper drowned out the sound of Teag’s steps.
Empty and well-lit, the space seemed so much bigger. The front entrance was still boarded up, so they’d been using the back, and it made sense—the rented Dumpster took up half the alley-facing parking lot. It blocked one of the doors, but fortunately, there were two.
Teag stood by the open door surveying his…their new property. To his immediate left stood a wall, an actual load-bearing wall. It had two doorways, one right there, opening to the stairs connecting the two floors. The other one was farther up, giving access to the kitchen.
Bright halogen lights illuminated the main area, adding their heat to the unexpected March heat wave. The power had to be turned off inside, so they brought it in straight from the box outside. It had been one of the things Bruce had negotiated with the electric company. The orange extension cords hung from nails on the wall studs to keep them out of the way.
Stepping closer, Teag had an excellent view of sweat trickling down Bruce’s back. The moisture covering his skin in a glossy sheen collected into a rivulet in the channel of his spine and slipped downward. Teag’s gaze tracked it disappearing into a gap between Bruce’s hip and jeans. Bruce was on his knees, and while he didn’t display a plumber’s crack, there was definitely a hint of things.
Nice ass popped into Teag’s head. Annoyed, he cursed himself, and the thought beat a hasty retreat. “Good job,” he said, voice raised, and took another step.
Bruce turned off the scraper and looked up. “Thanks, I’m almost done.” On his knees, sweat matting his chest hair, he made a far more lurid picture. Teag forced his eyes to the floor. “I can understand the top two layers of vinyl, but what idiot puts orange tile on top of hardwood floor?”
Bruce shrugged. “Must’ve been a Southwest theme.” He stood, and it was hard for Teag not to stare, especially at that silver stud.
Teag cleared his throat and turned, redirecting his scrutiny to the original hardwood floor barely visible under the blackened layer of ancient glue. “Can we refinish it?”
“I think so, but it won’t be like new. I’m betting on darker and lighter patches.”
“Not a problem. It adds character.”
Teag turned slowly, taking in the walls and ceiling stripped to the studs. “I can’t wait to be done with this part and move from deconstruction to actual construction.”
“What about
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