Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 90098 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90098 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
His face was blank as he poured some sauce over his wings too. “He fucked us over.”
I had a feeling.
He blew out a breath. “Long story short, I had to pick up the pieces of fucking nothing, and he went to prison for money laundering and embezzlement.”
Jesus fuck.
I shook my head and licked sauce from the corner of my mouth. “World’s full of fucking scum, man. That sucks.”
He hummed around a mouthful of food. “There are some bright spots, though.”
The way he eyed me there for a sec made me so certain he was implying that I was a bright spot, and I had zero tact. I gobbled that shit up with a sauce-drenched grin and kicked at his stool.
“Get outta here, you sweet dingbat. You’re talking about me.”
He laughed and threw a napkin at my face. “I was clearly referring to my son.”
Fuck that! He was lying. I was a bright spot.
After we’d eaten, I couldn’t postpone cleanup any longer. Luckily, my second attempt at approaching the topic of Ben possibly working here one day was more successful. As we worked on clearing the floor of all the chairs, I told him about my hope to find an Adam 2.0 in the near future.
“I held out hope that they’d eventually settle here in the city, but I’ve lost them to California,” I said.
“Fucking California,” Ben muttered.
A man after my own heart.
But that wasn’t the point. “Anyway…I hope this spring, I’ll be able to hire someone full time.”
“What about Jamaal?”
What about you, you slow fuck?
“He’d be great at it,” I replied honestly. “But he’s been talking about going back to school.” I went over to the last table and flipped those chairs too. “That’s the problem with the younger staff. Jamaal’s an exception—he’s my age. But usually, it’s the college students. They don’t stick around for long. Or they only wanna pick up shifts on breaks and whatnot. Which I get. I get it. I just need more stability for the staff that has responsibilities that go beyond showing up and taking orders.”
“Makes sense.”
I was learning to read him. When he grew pensive like that, he was mulling something over, and then maybe he’d propose a suggestion…or get a fucking clue. He could apply for a job as a plumber up in fucking Skokie but not even consider working in a sports bar? Maybe the hourly pay wasn’t much to write home about, though we made sure it was above average, but we did well on tips in this joint.
It was highly possible that I was the poorest fucker working here, not counting the waitstaff. Wasn’t that always the case with business owners on the small side? We couldn’t skimp on anything when we hired people, because nobody would apply for the jobs. We got the scraps, and the month dictated everything. The seasons mattered as well. Football season was good, and it was a combination of the fans and the weather. The beginning of the hockey season too, when fans still held out hope. Hope made us generous.
Summers were terrible unless it was a game day—or they used to be. We’d become creative with themed nights, pub quizzes, and throwback Thursdays when we showed old games. But even then, most didn’t wanna spend their nights in a dark sports bar when they could be at the lake or whatever the fuck they did on vacation.
With all the chairs flipped, I went to grab us the mops and buckets, and by the time I came back, I noticed Ben had cleared our dinner spot. And he was inspecting the crack in the wooden top.
“You weren’t kidding about this.”
“There’s another one farther down.” I pointed toward the other end of the bar. “Some of the booths need fixin’ up too, but I could only afford new padding last time we worked on upgrades.”
Having mopped these floors more times than I could count, I worked on autopilot, starting with the dining section farthest away. Up to code, down with rats, my ma liked to say. It was why we never turned off the lights until the whole place smelled of the degreaser we used.
“Hey, the curious kid has another question,” I said.
He was on his way over with the other mop. “I can’t wait for this. What is it?”
I grinned to myself and maneuvered the mop under the table of a booth. “Were your folks happy?”
“With each other, or in general?”
“Uh, each other.”
“No.”
Christ. “In general?”
“Not that either.”
I cracked up. Then why the fuck did he need the distinction?
I caught him smirking to himself as he got started in the next section.
“Okay, I exaggerated a bit,” he admitted with a chuckle. “Ma’s happier these days. She’s a natural worrier, bordering on neurotic, but she’s happy. It started around the time my dad kicked the bucket.”