Rest, My Love

Chapter 1- Rahl

Chapter 1

~Rahl~

I approached the other male bartender. “Hey, Jude. I remember you saying you’re Presley’s personal trainer. We have a date on Tuesday at Brix. What do you know about her?”

“Nothing.” He growled the word while walking to the other side of the bar and pretended to be busy at the three-compartment sink washing pint glasses.

“That’s right. I forgot…you’re a douchebag.” I slammed a bottle of rum back into its place in the liquor storage.

“You’d know, Vendetti,” Jude said over his shoulder. “You’re the king of bad attitude.”

“Mind your own business, Saylor.” Several expletives exited under my breath to finish our conversation.   

I didn’t expect him to give me Presley’s measurements, but something to start the conversation would have been doing a bro a solid. I didn’t need his help anyway. She accepted my invitation and I was ready to get to know her better. Kind of got the feeling he was trying to send me a signal last night that he was interested in her, but I didn’t give a shit in the desert what he was interested in. Presley was beautiful and even drunk she seemed to have her life together, not that I necessarily had mine together, but maybe she and I would hit it off and enjoy a nice life together. Or even just a night or two. I would be fine with whatever and if it pissed off Jude Saylor, it was even better.  

“Rahl, I need another lemon-drop shot. A random aisle dancer knocked over the last one.”

One of our best waitresses at Two Fine Irishmen, Sage, rolled her pale green eyes at me while she wiped dripping liquid from her black serving tray into the garbage.

“Here you go.” I filled another shotglass with citron vodka and went back to filling pints for the ten people who made the seats at the hand-carved wood bar their home station for the night.

Out of the corner of my eye, I witnessed Sage down the shot herself.

She normally doesn’t drink…at all.

The same band from last night droned to the blue, red, and green flashing dance lights. To a bartender, cover bands acted as white noise. Tonight’s music was no different.

I watched as Jude filled another lemon-drop shot for Sage and as before, when he turned his back, she downed that one, too.

What is the deal?

Sage Whiteman was a pretty girl and pretty talented, too. I was a fan of hers ever since fellow waitress, Tia Cotes, convinced her to get up on the stage and she sang an acoustic version of “Falling For You” by Colbie Caillat. If angels sang like that, I’d like to think my buddies who lost their lives in that hell on Earth were truly in a better place.

After watching the wavy brown-haired, slender girl down several shots over the course of the night, I was concerned. Between her absence of waitressing effort and Jude’s ample and abysmal attitude, I worked harder than I should have had to. I wasn’t complaining. Just felt like they both needed a swift kick in the ass. But, because I’d experienced a bad night or two in the recent past, I kept my boot-covered feet to myself.

The evening wound down and our boss exited the office. “What the hell?” he mumbled when he saw Sage leaning into the counter wavering on her legs.

“Hey, Sam.” I tried to avert his attention.

Sam Enselman had owned the Two Fine for years. It was known as one of the best in west Omaha, Nebraska. They had reasonably priced drinks, and no cover charge to hear popular bands. It was a hot spot for the up-and-coming twenty-somethings and the settled thirty and forty-somethings, plus a few older generations came out for dancing or a night of people watching.