口は災いの元
kuchi wa wazawai no moto
“The mouth is the source of disaster.”
~Japanese proverb
Kit
My eyes feel like they have sand in them, and they’re so heavy that it might take someone physically peeling my eyelids back for me to be able to open them.
I hate the weekends. It’s always harder for some reason, especially with the full moon, but this was the fourth job in two months that I knew would most likely fire me if I didn’t show up.
I did everything right, though.
I took all my medicine on time.
I shoved caffeine down my throat.
But the minute I walked into the darkness of the club and saw him, I felt… safe, warm, and so sleepy I just… fell.
Like a drunken idiot.
I groan a bit, then something hard taps my side. “You alive?”
The voice is really deep and slightly accented, but I can’t really place from where other than if the person belonging to this voice decided to start narrating audiobooks, I would be all over it.
I groan again and try to open my eyes.
His heavy and annoyed sigh isn’t exactly helping the situation. It feels like I’m lying on a soft leather couch; the room smells like Bourbon and cigars.
I make another attempt to open my eyes.
Success!
It’s bright above my head like I’m about to get accused of a crime and interrogated. I blink again, and a face appears in my line of vision.
I don’t really have the words to explain the man I’m staring at. The club had been too dark, but now that I see the light, I don’t think I ever want to turn the lights off again.
His hair is bright blond, almost white; it’s wavy and kisses his broad shoulders. It’s like he missed his casting call for Vikings on Netflix. His eyes are crystal blue, and he has this Henry Cavill sort of Witcher look to him that shows off his strong, flexing jaw and full lips.
I lick my lips in response, maybe because my body has no idea what to do other than stare, lick, stare, and hope I don’t get fired.
He has a black tattoo that outlines his left eye, which reminds me of Egyptian tattoos I’ve seen in pictures, as the edges flick out by the corner of his eye and then trace down into an upside-down triangle. It makes his left eye look so blue it’s hypnotic.
I lean forward, wanting to examine just that one eye’s beauty. It’s perfect, and I don’t even like tattoos.
His eyes narrow. “Are you drunk?”
“No.” I try to sit up and struggle to get my sluggish body in an upright position.
He doesn’t help me.
I finally manage to sit straight on the brown leather couch and look around the room. It’s extremely bare for an office. A few books that look older than the Bible occupy a nearly empty bookshelf. A black wooden desk with a metal chair sits in the middle of the room, but other than that, nothing.
Not even a pen.
Did he just get hired too?
I squint up at him. “How long was I out?”
“Seven hours.” He crosses his arms.
“WHAT?”
“It was a joke.” Then why isn’t he laughing? “You were out around ten minutes and almost fell onto my boot.”
Is that a cardinal sin? “Oh.”
He takes a step away from me. “We drug test.”
“I passed mine.”
“No, you just passed out.”
“I don’t—“ I stop myself, draw a deep breath, and start over. “Certain times, I don’t sleep, so I take a lot of caffeine, and sometimes I crash. Today was one of those days. Just call me an insomniac, which is why…” My voice wavers as I try to stand on giraffe-like shaky legs. “…this is the best job for me.”
“Are you Asian?” He’s so blunt I’m taken back. And I kind of want to punch him for no reason. Isn’t it obvious?
“Japanese American,” I say, keeping my tone even. Damn, he’s blunt. “My grandparents immigrated to the states back in—“
“Pretty,” he interrupts me. “All right, let’s get started unless you need another ten-minute nap, a cracker, or more pills from your bag?”
He’s rude.
So freaking rude, I clench my teeth. I’m still unsteady on my feet. Could he have at least made sure my blood sugar was okay? Offered water? A Mountain Dew?
A peanut?
I would take a peanut.
“Yeah, let’s get started,” I grind out and leave my purse in his weird office.
The club music is so loud it’s hard to think. Several tall tables are scattered about the club, surrounded by people laughing and drinking, taking shots, and screaming, “Shots, shots, shots.”
I don’t roll my eyes, though, because those very same people will be giving me tips, and I need my A-game if I want to make rent this month. With both parents dead and no family around, it seems like all I’ve done is struggle and attempt to sleep when I can and work when I’m not sleeping.
Yet, I never get ahead.
How nice for these folks to be able to order twelve-dollar shots on a Friday night.
I wonder what that’s even like.
I’m still wondering when I slam into the giant god of a man in front of me. He hangs his head, looks over his shoulder, and then tosses his hair before tucking it behind his ears. Okay, now I’m getting Brad Pitt hair vibes.
My throat goes dry.
He seethes. “Can you not walk?”
“I walk.” It’s a very lame answer. I’m aware of this as his eyes roam painfully slow, from my Adidas sneakers all the way up to my face, which I have no doubt is as pale as a piece of paper.
He shakes his head slowly. “Did you get the training manual for the drinks?”
Why do I feel like I need to salute him like he’s a soldier and then bow because he’s also a prince? “Yes. I memorized everything, and I have experience, so I don’t think it’s going to be a problem.”
“You passed out minutes after walking into the bar,” he just has to add. “You snored.”
“I was tired.”
“I’ve been tired for thousands of years; try me.” He rolls his eyes.
“Exaggerate much?” I mumble.
“I always tell the truth,” he barks back. “Now get behind the bar and make me a Dirty Thirty.”
I walk around him and step behind the bar; it’s a giant U-shape that has several customers already begging for drinks and a super attractive guy serving them up like he could do it blindfolded. His brown hair is pulled into a tight man bun, the swoon-worthy kind every woman wants to mess up. He has dimples, and he’s super tall; not as tall as grumpy pants behind me, but still tall.
Do they only hire hot men in their thirties, or what?
I shake it off and walk over to the guy. “Hey, I’m the new trainee, and that guy behind me said to make him a drink.”
The guy glances over my shoulder. “Still scowling, I see.”
“Is that his thing?”
“Some might call it his kink.” Hot guy winks. “But he’s easily… agitated. Age does that to a person you know. I signed him up for AARP last month. He was happy about the discount until he realized what it meant. So pissed. Put all of my Jordans outside in the rain. I held a funeral, it was a whole thing.”
My eyes widen. “Who does that?”
“Gods among men who look like that.” He winks again. “Am I right? Oh, and I’m Tarek, by the way. Bartender by night, wolf by day.”
I laugh. What’s with these guys?
“Cute.” I find myself with this weird urge to pat him on the head and curl my fingers inward to stop myself from reaching out.
Is it me?
The lack of sleep?
Or the new job?
“So, what did he want you to make?” Tarek throws a towel over his shoulder.
I have to be imagining things, but I feel like he’s flirting with me to purposefully make my new trainer mad. But that would be weird; neither of them even knows me, and it’s not like I stand out. I have naturally dark hair I used to dye blonde that has seen better days and pink tips at the bottom that refuse to actually take the dye and change color. I’m kind of a mess, average height, and I guess I have a nice smile. The only thing really unique about me are my light brown, almost green eyes, but people tend to be more creeped out by them than anything.
I’ve been told my eyes look “too deep,” whatever that means.
I snap out of my musing and cross my arms nervously. “He wants a Dirty Thirty.”
Tarek does a little bow toward the bar. “Give him hell.”
I smile and instantly relax. I’m back where I belong, in a place where I do everything right and don’t think about the nights of no sleep or the days of feeling chased by nothing but air and loneliness.
I grab one of the tall glasses and fill it with ice, then pour in a shot of Tito’s, followed by a splash of lime. Cranberry juice is next, followed by some cherry juice and two dark cherries. A shot of Bacardi floats on the top with a squeeze of lime and a spicy chili-sugar agave nectar garnish.
Normally people stir the Dirty Thirty since it can be intense, but I like to think of it as a Macchiato… let the flavors settle, then you stir, but the first sip should always taste a bit strong and spicy, just like turning thirty and realizing you’ve done nothing with your life and only have ten years until forty, thus the name, Dirty Thirty.
The crowd intensifies, and Tarek disappears with another bartender filling orders while I bring the tall drink over to the one who never smiles.
He looks down at the drink, back up at me, then down at it. “No stir?”
I give him the same look, then shrug. “Didn’t think you were so delicate. Can’t you handle a bit of alcohol?”
He scoffs. “Trust me, it’s not that. I’m just wondering if the first taste is going to make me gag.”
I roll my eyes. “Just try it before you bring judgment.” I lift the glass. “Bottoms up.”
“Such a weird phrase,” he grumbles, taking the glass in his massive hand. He’s wearing a large gold ring on his right hand; it has the symbol of a falcon, and just above the ring is a black tattoo of an eye.
Cool, so he’s part of the Illuminati.
Makes sense.
I smile at my own joke while he lifts the drink to his stupidly lush lips and takes a small sip. He doesn’t cough, but I notice his eyes water a bit. They’re so blue I can’t tell if it’s a trick of the light or if they really are starting to shed some tears.
He coughs into his hand and sets the glass down. “Again.”
“What?” I grab the drink, ready to take a sip, but he snatches it away and gulps it down like he’s not one more away from a hangover.
“I said”—he clears his throat—“again.”
Who died and made him the expert? I may not be good at a lot of things, but I damn well know how to make good drinks.
I clench my teeth and smile. “All right, same drink?”
“Isn’t that what again means?”
Where did they find this guy? Shouldn’t HR be notified that the trainer has the personality of an ass?
I turn around before I say something stupid and get fired, and wedge myself between the other two bartenders. Tarek is on the far side of the bar, pouring out shots and smiling at all the girls flirting with him. One hands him a twenty that he puts in his pocket.
He makes it look way too easy.
Okay, focus.
I grab a fresh glass and repeat the process, except at the end, where I would normally add in the garnish, I decide to add some of the dark cherry juice on top with a slice of lime and orange. It will give it a similar effect. With one last sprinkle of crystalized chili powder, I make my way back to my trainer and hand the glass over. “Cheers.”
He stares down at it. “This isn’t a Dirty Thirty.”
“You didn’t like the real version of the Dirty Thirty. I assumed it was a test, so here’s my version of the drink. If you hate it, I’ll try again, but I figured you might like a little… twist.”
His eyes flash like he’s intrigued, but he abruptly looks down, grabs the glass, and tilts it back.
He starts choking immediately. The drink sloshes over the side of the glass when he sets it down on the bar top.
He wipes the back of his mouth with his arm. I’m convinced I just poisoned him, or he’s allergic to limes. This is it. I’ve finally done it.
I guess there was one more bar owned by a similar scary guy in Chicago, Sin, was it? Though rumors have it that the bar hides some weird tiger that eats people if they get out of line and that the main guy likes to taunt the Russian mob, but there’s no way that’s true. At this point I wonder if I’d be safer there than staring at this giant angry God of a man. I make a mental note to contact them and wait for the inevitable words: “This isn’t going to work out.”
“It’s good.” He finally squeezes out. “Might kill a few people, but what the hell.” He grabs another drink. “What made you think of altering it like this?”
“Spice,” I say simply. “It’s not enough to have it on the rim, where you have to lick it off, you need it in the body of the drink.”
His tongue slowly rolls across his lower lip, his eyes holding my gaze. “I’m Horus, by the way.”
“So I only get your name after my drinks meet your approval?”
“Yes.”
“Blunt.”
“Honest,” he counters. “I’ve spent way too long wasting time on needless words and actions. You either are or aren’t, so would you like to continue training now?”
I nod my head eagerly. “Yes. I would.”
He starts walking away, I’m assuming I’m supposed to follow, but he suddenly stops and turns back around, drumming his fingers on the bar top. “This whole passing out thing. Is it normal for you?”
I want to lie.
Correction. I always lie. I always say no.
But today, I want to say yes. I want someone to know my struggle. Wow, how sad and pathetic is that?
All I do is work and try not to sleep.
I want to scream into the darkness of night.
And I want to cry during the day.
Instead, I force a watery smile. “I have a sleeping condition. It’s bad during weird weather.” True. “And when the moon is full, which sounds ridiculous even though I know it happens every time.”
He nods. “It’s a full moon tonight.”
“Yeah.” My voice cracks.
“Is it because you can’t sleep or because you won’t?” His eyes lock onto mine with an intensity I’ve never felt before like he’s reading my soul and every mistake and triumph in my short forty-two-year life span.
I can’t speak. He’s not intimidating or even curious; I can handle those things. No, he’s looking at me like he sees the pain.
He looks at me the way I look at myself.
Without hope.