I honestly have never met anyone that I hate as much as I hate Luke Ewan.
It's not enough that he treats being the manager of a bar like it's the same as being the manager of a French bistro with a Michelin star. Or that he dresses like he has a date with an old spice commercial. Or that his scruff is always the perfect amount of scruffy, as if he has a setting on his electric razor called "Adam Levine."
No, the thing I hate most about Luke is how much he obviously hates me. He doesn't seem to hate everyone-to most people he acts like a regular boss (if a little tough). But he has it out for me. And today is no exception.
As soon as I get to the bar I punch in my 4-digit employee code to clock in (with two minutes to spare, thankyouverymuch) and his eyes lock in on me from across the room.
"Maya!" he barks. "Is that shirt a part of the uniform?"
I look down at the Dogfish Head t-shirt that I've worn at least one shift a week since I started working at Rico's.
"I'm pretty sure it is, Luke."
He walks slowly over to me, putting down his clipboard and sticking his pencil behind his ear. I feel my palms begin to sweat. I hate getting reprimanded on the floor, and no one can deliver a dressing-down like Luke.
"Come on, Maya," he says with a knowing smile that says he's about to be a huge dick. "You know the rules. Black t-shirts, Rico's t-shirts, or a brewery we have on tap."
I glance nervously behind the bar. Sure enough, the Dogfish Head pull that's stood above the bar for the six months I've been working here is nowhere to be found.
"Come on, Luke," I groan. "When did you take it off the list, yesterday?"
His expression sours. He likes backtalk about as much as I like public reprimanding. He glares down at me from his towering six feet, and I try my best not to be intimidated, but the man is disturbingly scary-looking. He's got crazy wide shoulders and jet-black hair and a smattering of well-placed tattoos, including one that peeks out from under his shirt collar. I mean, he practically walked off the set of Sons of Anarchy. I tear my eyes away from his tattoos and meet his gaze, apprehension building in the pit of my stomach.
"There are old Rico's t-shirts in the back office," he says, giving me another once-over. "Change after you're done with inventory."
But I don't end up having time. Tonight is trivia night, and by the time I'm done with marking down all the bottles we have in the fridge, the place is packed. I'm running all over the place, I'm hot and sweaty, I keep having to tug down my new black miniskirt because it's riding up so far that I'm giving customers a free show. So by the time I get a break to head to the back office and change, I've already worked half my shift in the offending Dogfish Head shirt. I'm not looking forward to the talking-to I'm sure to get at the end of the night. I'll probably get some kind of demerit. I just know he has a little notebook somewhere where he keeps track of everything I've ever done wrong like the sick control freak that he is.
I search through the stacks of t-shirts in the plastic bin on the floor but all I'm finding is L, L, XL. I'm not what you'd call supermodel thin, but a men's large t-shirt would absolutely drown me. I pull out one that has some black marker on the tag that I'm pretty sure is a small and peel off my other shirt. Then when I hold it up against me I can see that no way, this is definitely a large, and prepare to dive back into the tub. I bend over and feel the breeze on my ass that says that my skirt is definitely riding up again, but I'm determined to find a shirt that doesn't make me look like the smallest kid in gym class. Maybe at the bottom of the pile?
And that's when I hear the worst sound in the world.
The door opens.
I stand up as as fast as I can and spin around before realizing that, of course, in my haste to keep the intruder from seeing my backside I've forgotten that I'm not wearing a shirt.
I'm standing there in my stupidest bra, a bra that I bought at the MLM "party" of a high school friend, the one that's basically just lace and underwire. You could barely even call it a bra, it's more like a boob decoration.
And Luke is standing there, eyes burning with fury, mouth tight like he doesn't know whether to give me one of his famous lectures or fire me on the spot.
I recover my senses, snap my mouth shut, and yank the giant t-shirt over my head. He stands aside without a word when I shove past him, but I know he's just filing it away for later. He'll insist that it was the height of unprofessionalism to change without locking the door first. He'll probably accuse me of sexual harassment. Sure, there's this thing called knocking, but at Rico's nothing is ever Luke's fault.
I work the rest of my shift with a lump of dread in my stomach. I know he's gonna fire me tonight, I just know it.
I guess I could get a job at a different grubby bar, but this one is right on my way home from class. The tips are generally pretty good, and I actually like the people who work here. Well, other than Luke.
When I see him lock the front door and take the drawer to the back to count the cash at the end of the night, I know I should just get it over with. I finish wiping down the tables and head back to his office. I take a deep breath, steel myself, and open the door.
And there's Luke behind the desk with his hand down his pants and his eyes closed.
Shit. Shit!
This is not good. This is the darkest timeline.
He groans a little. I can't see exactly what's going on under the desk but I can see the muscles in his forearm rippling and his face getting tight. My mouth goes absolutely dry. Panic blurs my brain, and something else is stopping me from being able to think clearly. Oh, God, am I turned on right now? As if it wasn't bad enough that I walked in on him touching himself and didn't immediately shut the door, now I'm actually getting off on the whole thing, I'm such a creep. FOCUS, MAYA.
Should I try and sneak out and pretend like nothing happened? Should I stay and attempt to blackmail him into not firing me?
Just as I'm deciding to back quietly away, his eyelids flutter a little, and then they snap open and he freezes.
I clear my throat. The silence feels oppressive. It feels like the room is full of Jell-o. I just want to go home and drink my weight in anything alcoholic and pretend this never happened.
He slowly takes his hand out of his pants and rests it on his thigh. He looks me right in the eye, glowering. And then he does something I would have never expected.
He bursts out laughing.
His eyes crinkle, his breath stutters and heaves, and his mouth is open in a giant grin. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was almost human.
"I guess both of us could learn to knock," he says after a minute. "Here, sit down."
I slide onto the faded pleather couch in the corner while he does up his fly. I do not look. I do NOT look. I am a lady, after all.
"So," he says.
"Um," I say back. I'm not sure what to do. I came in here to take whatever punishment he was ready to hand out, but now the point seems sort of moot.
"I'm sorry," he says in a low voice. All of a sudden he seems to find the floor really interesting. He won't look at me.
"That's okay," I say carefully. "You're right, I should have knocked."
He waves this away, then he takes a deep breath and looks me in the face with considerable effort. "I'm sorry if this is going to be weird for you. And I understand if you have to tell Richard." Richard is the owner. I guess "Richard's" didn't quite have the alluring ring of possible mob involvement that "Rico's" does. But I'm not sure why he thinks I'd blab, it seems like none of my business.
"Hey, it's your office, you're free to do whatever you want in here," I shrug. I can't help but add, "But I hope you wash your hands before you count the cash. And maybe lock the door next time."
He laughs and shakes his head. "Um, it's not like I do this often."
It takes me a minute to realize what he's implying. And at that same moment, he seems to realize that I didn't already know why he was suddenly overcome with the urge to beat one off before he could even make it home.
"Shit," he says under his breath.
"Um," I say again.
"I'm really sorry," he chokes out.
"I thought you were mad at me," is all I can think to say. Oh my god, I'm blushing. What am I, twelve? "I thought I was going to get fired."
He shakes his head emphatically and comes around the desk to sit next to me on the couch. "You're not getting fired. If anyone is getting fired here, it's me. That was so unprofessional, I'm so sorry Maya. I never wanted to make you uncomfortable."
This nice version of Luke is really weird. I'd gotten so used to the nitpicking and the public humiliation, I almost don't know what to do with myself.
"It's okay," I say. "I guess I just wonder, though . . . why are you always so hard on me? I thought it was because you didn't like me, but now . . ." Unless he was hate-fantasizing about me. Oh my god, I'm an idiot. What if he really hates me but he just liked the stupid MLM bra?
"Ahhh," he says, sitting back and rubbing his neck. "I guess I over-corrected a little."
"What?" I ask, totally in the dark.
"I try really hard not to show favoritism," he says, smiling in an abashed sort of way.
I can't believe it. I've been coming to work for six months totally dreading what fresh hell the next shift might bring because he LIKES me?
"You ass!" I yelp, and hit him in the shoulder.
He nods. "I deserve that."
"Do you have any idea what it's been like? I can never do anything right, everything is always my fault-"
"I thought you knew!"
"You thought I KNEW? When you're making me redo inventory and yelling at me because I haven't cleaned up a table that someone just left ten minutes ago, and making me change my shirt-" I hadn't realized how much he had been getting to me. To my horror, tears spring to my eyes. I shoot up and go for the door, not wanting to let him see my cry.
He's up in a second, holding my wrist.
"Wait, please-" he says, and before I know it I'm colliding with a warm, solid chest. He smells so good, like some kind of warm-scented cologne and a little bit like beer. On instinct, my traitorous body sinks into his, and I could swear he sighs before his arms wrap around me.
"I'm sorry, this is so dumb," I whisper as a single tear sneaks out past my defenses.
"Hey, hey," he says, swiping his thumb across my cheek and pulling me a little tighter, rubbing my back. I melt a little inside, seeing the naked concern on his face.
And then I feel him start to get hard against me. He groans and loosens his hold on me.
