“Bram,” Nicola warns quietly, eyes wide as a deer.

“So,” I go on to the wanker, ignoring her, “pay up if you thought her service was good. I was watching. It was good.”

The wanker eyes my hand on his shoulder but I’ve got height and breadth and he’s got…bloody awful hair. He looks at one of his friends who quickly whips out a five from the change she gave back and smacks it down on the table. I take my hand away and they walk off to a booth in the corner, shooting me daggers as they go. They can shoot all they want. If I survived Nicola’s death glares, I can survive anything.

“Bram,” she says again, admonishing me as I turn back to her. “It was fine.”

“It wasn’t,” I told her. “They would have tipped you but your smile for me was so much more beautiful than your smile for them. Jealousy makes dickheads do dickish things.”

She rolls her eyes and flips a dishrag over her shoulder. “I’ve been here long enough to learn some things, you know.”

“I also know you work part-time and tips are as important as blood. I did say it would be a hard job.”

Now there’s a hint of a smile, just a subtle lifting of her lips. “It was easy until you got here.”

I lean forward more on the counter until my eyes are level with her cleavage. She took that advice of mine too. Show off those beautiful tits for tips. But like the gentleman I am, I keep my eyes trained to hers. Even in this light I can make out the many shades of brown in them, the way they all snake in vibrant lines toward her pupil, the very pupil that’s widening before my eyes, as if she likes what she sees.

You better fucking like what you see, I think to myself, wishing now that we weren’t here at all, but back in her apartment or mine, sharing a bottle of wine. Oh the things I could do to try and break down that wall. I’d pull out brick by brick with my teeth until she’s screaming my name.

As if she can see the filthy images in my head, her cheeks grow pink and she looks away for a moment. “So now that you’re here, what will it be?” she asks, her voice now cheery but false. She’s back in bartender mode with polite professionalism.

“Make me something,” I tell her, straightening up. “Anything. Make a Bram McGregor.”

“I don’t think we have enough ego for that,” she says.

I grin at her. “I suppose I have enough already, don’t I? I’m serious though. Make me anything sour.”

She raises her perfectly shaped brow. “Sour? I would have thought you a sweet kind of guy.”

“There’s nothing about me that’s sweet, and you know it.”

But from the way she’s staring at me, I can tell she doesn’t agree with that. “Maybe a shot of sweet,” she concludes after searching my face like a puzzle. “But it’s definitely spicy all the way.”

“All right then, babe,” I tell her. “Take your best shot.”

Even though there’s a small line forming behind me (the other bartender is James and he seems swamped), Nicola takes her time trying to figure out what Bram McGregor tastes like. I wish she could find out for herself. I’ve seen that cute, pink little tongue at times and I think it could give me a real lashing. I tell her she should add some salt in there for good measure and I swear her cheeks go crimson.

When she’s finally done she slides the drink toward me.

“This is what I call the Bram McGregor. Mainly spicy with a kick of sweet and salty.”

I take the highball from her and my fingers brush against hers as I do so. I pounce.

“I found the kettle in my room this morning. When abouts did you return it and how did you get into my apartment?”

The question takes her completely off-guard but from the way she looks absolutely bashful and ashamed, I know she must have done it when I was whacking off.

“Just when I got home,” she says quickly, suddenly eyeing the next person in line. “I thought you were asleep so I just put it in the kitchen and left.”

Bullshit. But I let it go because even if I called her on catching me in the act, she would deny it – anything to get out of that conversation.

As she tends to the next person, I slip a fifty in the tip jar and take a sip of my drink. The Bram McGregor certainly has a fucking kick to it. It’s actually pretty damn good.

I leave her be for now and look for an empty bar stool and find one by none other than Linden who is at the end of the bar talking to James as he shakes a martini.

“Fuckface,” Linden says when he sees me saunter over, our usual term of endearment. “What the hell are you doing here?”

I shrug. “Bored.” I look at James and pass him the drink. “You have to try this.”

James’s brow piercing raises as he eyes it. “What is it?”

“Your new bartender made it,” I told him. “Try it.”

James does so and then considers it with a tilt of his head. “Not bad.”

“It’s called the Bram McGregor,” I tell him.

“Of course it is,” Linden says with a groan.

I go on, “You should give that gal a raise. Anyone that can make something this tasty on the fly is someone to hold on to.”

“Well I am trying to get her more shifts,” James explains, “but it’s not easy when I had full staff to begin with. I gave her the job to help her out but I’m not sure what else I can do.”

“Fire someone,” I suggest.

“Bram,” Linden warns. “Don’t get all embroiled in someone else’s business. You have your own to attend to, brother.”

“Well, Jenny isn’t exactly working out,” James admits. “I mean, she’s efficient and dependable but the more she works here, the more she thinks men are responsible for the doom of civilization. I can’t have a conversation with her unless some weird sector of feminism is brought up.”

“She does work here though,” Linden points out. “You can’t really blame her.”

“Like I said, fire her,” I say.

“I’ll give it time,” James says. “I hate to sound like a douche, but I just don’t know how reliable single moms can be.”

For some reason the comment makes my veins feel black and poisonous, like squid ink.

“She’s reliable,” I tell him, my voice stern. “I’m her damn landlord, I know she is.”

He gives me a look, the look that doesn’t take me seriously whatsoever. I should be used to that. “She doesn’t pay you rent. So you can’t really compare. Look, I like Nicola and I think she’s great, but what if something happens to her kid. We all know she’s sick. She could have a problem and then Nicola would have to up and leave.”

“Well, if you’re going to look at it that way, Jen Jen or whatever her name is, could have a flat tire on the way to work, or get food poisoning, or hell, just play hooky for a day. Anyone could. Having a damn kid doesn’t make you any less dependable. Don’t you think she needs this fucking job?”

“Easy brother,” Linden says, putting his hand on my shoulder. “Just finish your ego drink and relax. James is just speculating. He’ll help Nicola as much as he can, right James?”

James nods, looking a bit weirded out, like he thought I was going to punch him or something. “Definitely. I’ll help.” Then he backs away and disappears around the other side of the bar.

“Scares easy, doesn’t he?” I ask Linden.

“Does he ever,” he says with a sigh, then finishes the rest of his Anchor Steam. He gives me a discerning look. “What are you really doing here?”

I shrug and take a sip of my drink, pretending my mouth isn’t on fire. I have a sudden notion of cooling it off with an ice cube and then my mind wanders over to Nicola, wondering if she’d squirm if poured the spicy drink over her breasts then rubbed my ice cold tongue on them after.

“Oh, I see,” Linden says and I immediately snap my attention to him.

“What?”

He jerks his chin down the bar at Nicola. “You’re here for her.”

“I guess I want to see if she’ll eventually pay me rent.”

A slow smile spreads across my brother’s face and he shakes his head in disbelief. “No you don’t. You’d let her live there forever rent free, I reckon.”