The Corner Table At Mickeys Pt 01

A lot of this story is conversation in a bar and none of it is explicit sex. If that sounds boring to you, well, you've been warned. *smile*

It's also a long story. It's all written and parts will be published in quick succession, but if you like your romances short and to the point, not patiently wending your way along a character's struggle, this one is not a good choice.

Right up front, thank you to MsCherylTerra for reading this while I was in the midst of it. Her amusement at some of the scenes was a welcome pick-me-up a few times when I was feeling stuck, and her suggestions

always

made the story better. I've shamelessly adopted them.

—C

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Monday found Jim Watson sitting on a stool at the far end of the bar in Mickey's. He was a man upset about something a man had a right to be upset about ... although he wasn't upset for the reasons you'd expect a man to be upset for.

He tilted the lowball glass to catch the last ice cube in his mouth and chewed it. Tom, who had been polishing up nearby, picked up another glass, scooped up some ice, poured some Jameson into it, and set it in front of him.

Tom reached automatically for the used glass, then smiled as Jim shook his head and pulled it back, setting it carefully with the four empty ones already in front of him: three on the bottom, now two resting on top of them.

"I bet the pharaohs didn't have to worry about people stealing the building materials for

their

pyramids," he said when it was in place.

Tom just rolled his eyes and shook his head.

Tom and Jim had been friends, bartender–customer friends, for several years. On quiet nights like this, Tom would often lean on the counter to chat a bit.

When Jim had first dropped onto the corner bar stool that afternoon, Tom asked, "You're here early. What's up?"

At Jim's reply, all Tom said was, "Gimme your keys."

Now, Jim took a drink from the new glass, closed his eyes, and sighed. He liked his whiskey on the rocks but still loved that first sip, undiluted by the melting ice, with the bite of the alcohol reaching back into his sinuses.

Maybe it's time to hit the john though

.

As he set the glass down, a partially eaten salad plopped down next to him along with the tail end of a Yuengling. He turned to see a swirl of long, dark hair tossed back over a shoulder as a woman settled onto the stool to his left. "Mallory! How are you?"

"I'm good. I saw you sitting over here and thought I'd join you." As he faced her, she saw that the smile on his lips didn't quite match the expression around his eyes. "Hey, you don't mind, do you?"

"Oh, no, no. It's fine. Hey, Tom!" Jim called and pointed at her beer.

Tom looked over at Mallory, and when she tilted her head in acceptance, he set a fresh one in front of her. "Enjoy, Mal."

On hearing a nickname, Jim tilted his head. "Do you come here often? I haven't seen you here."

"Tom and I go way back. I go to the gym across the street and stop in here most days. Usually, it's for a late lunch, but today I had to go in early and then eat at my desk. I hate missing my workout, and missing my run is even worse. So here I am." She tipped her bottle at Jim in thanks. "Two's my limit, but your next one's on me."

Tom cleared her empty and wiped the counter. He looked back and forth between his two customers. "So, how do you two know each other?"

"Through work: his company supplies packaging for us," she answered. "Jim here stops by and takes us all out to lunch every month or so." She leaned forward conspiratorially and stage-whispered, "He claims he's greasing the wheels for more business, but I think he's just looking for an excuse not to do any work for an hour or two."

Jim didn't react to the friendly jab. He had stayed silent through the explanation with a slightly glassy smile. Now he slid down off the stool. "Mallory, you caught me just as I was about to see a man about a horse. Don't leave. I'll be right back."

He headed down the little hallway to the restrooms. Mallory noticed that he touched the wall briefly for balance as he turned to open the door.

"Tom, should he be having any more?" She looked at the five empty glasses and the sixth one he had started. "It's not even seven thirty."

The bartender shrugged. "Every once in a while, you just feel like letting go, I guess."

"Is something wrong?"

"Can't say." His tone implied,

Won't say

. He smiled apologetically as he turned to check on other people's drinks.

When Jim came back, he said, "I was just thinking—"

"Is that what you were doing in there?" She grinned.

He made a face to acknowledge her joke. "I'm not very good company right now. Since a ... a drunk probably didn't figure in your plans for this evening, maybe we can take a rain check on you buying me a drink?"

A drunk hadn't been in her plans. She had just come over to say hello to a friendly face. However, while it wasn't hard to see he shouldn't be driving, he didn't seem to be at the point of nasty, maudlin, or falling asleep.

"Well, I haven't finished my dinner, and you just bought me a beer, so I'm good. But, sure, rain check. When will you be around here again?"

"Tomorrow at opening time?"

"Hmm. Well, we'll see." She took another bite. "Quite a lineup there." She nodded at his glasses.

He shrugged. "I've been here since maybe four o'clock."

"Wow! You always swore to us that you never left the office till well after six. Liar!"

Her tone was teasing but Jim wasn't so far gone that he couldn't hear the faint note of relief in her voice and understand the reason for it. He tilted his chin and pulled his glasses slightly down his nose so that his blue eyes looked at her over the rims. Affecting the most pretentious drawl he could manage, he said, "My dear woman, I am a man of

prodigious

abilities. However, five whiskeys in an hour would render even one such as I under the stool, not on it."

She cocked her head to the side. "Prodigious?"

"Prodigious!"

"Well, if you're sure ..."

"Indubitably!" The five-dollar word cracked her up, especially because he stumbled in the pronunciation—it came out more as "indoobtabuly"—and she cringed in sympathy. He laughed at himself and the smile finally reached his eyes, causing them to crinkle in that way she was used to. "Evidently, there are limits to those abilities."

"Well, if you end up passed out under a bar stool, we'll call you a cab home."

The smile evaporated as quickly as it had appeared. He turned back to take a sip of his drink. "We can't have that happening, can we?" he said.

Mallory didn't respond, though it did give her some inkling of what might be going on, and she took a bite to cover her uncertainty about what to say.

Jim noticed her reaction.

Nice way to make things awkward, idiot

. He searched for something to keep the conversation undemanding, but the alcohol and his mood made it difficult to come up with anything beyond a banal, "So, you run at lunch?"

Mallory shook her head. "No, time is too short. Normally I run before work then just work out at lunch."

They spent the next fifteen minutes wandering through topics ranging from the running, which he hadn't done since high school sports; to getting up early, which both found they liked to do; to the misery of countless hours on a StairMaster to counteract her "complete inability to stop eating butter pecan ice cream in piggish quantities." It struck Jim as a somewhat surprising concern given the lean, well-toned figure he had idly noticed once or twice in the past.

Finally, she set down her empty bottle and pulled a couple of bills out of her pocket, dropping them on the counter. "I need to head out. It was nice to run into you."

"Okay. Thanks for, umm, well, putting up with me."

"Don't sweat it. You weren't bad company at all. Thanks for the beer and I owe you one."

Jim raised his glass in a salute. "You know where to find me."

• • •

The next day Mallory came in after her lunchtime workout. "The usual, please, Shannon," she said to the redhead, who was wiping up behind the bar and pointedly ignoring the game on TV that Tom was crowing over. Mallory was pretty sure they were an item, but at least on paper, Tom had hired Shannon to handle the kitchen side of things in the bar.

"A Cobb salad coming up and, if Himself can tear his eyes off the game"—Mallory smiled as always, both at the delightful brogue and Tom's eye roll—"you'll have your seltzer in a mo'."

While she was waiting, Mallory let her eyes roam around the room. "I guess Jim didn't make opening time after all," she said when Tom brought her drink.

He shook his head. "No. He called to say he'd stop by later for his keys. He sounded like he was hurting a bit."

It was about four hours later that Mallory walked back into Mickey's. Tom gave a mock double-take upon seeing her. He was busy pouring a beer but eventually made his way over to her. "You missed me?" he teased, throwing his arms open like he wanted a hug.

"Do I need to talk with Shannon?" she retorted, gambling her guess about them was right.

He laughed. "She knows my history," he said, confirming it. "Seltzer?"

She nodded. "Jim coming in?" He tilted his head to peer at her as she tried to pass it off as a casual thing. "Oh, I promised him a drink yesterday and I was in the area ..." Her voice trailed off as he raised his eyebrows. She flushed a little. "Okay. That was pretty lame. Look, we're not BFFs or anything, but he saved my ass at work once, and I like to think we're friends."

"Hmm," was all Tom had to say. He threw some ice in a glass and filled it with liquor. His eyes slanted over to the right toward a figure sitting in the dark booth at the far end, his back to the room at large.

Jim looked up in surprise as she slid in across from him. Before he could speak, she set the glass down. "I keep my promises."

"I thought you were just being polite."

"Nope," she said.

Jim knocked back the remains of the one in his hand. He looked a little worse for the wear but not nearly as drunk as he had been the previous night. "Thanks, then."

He asked her how her day had been: fine.

He asked about the others in the office: doing well.

He commented on the weather: yes, it was unseasonably warm.

In turn, she asked him how he felt: a little drained but fairly good, considering a night on a rock-hard motel bed. She kept any reaction off her face at that.

Talk stalled there. Mallory bent her head, picking at the label on her bottle while she tried to think of where to take the conversation. She didn't want to trip over a conversational land mine. However, as Jim turned and leaned back into the corner of the booth, a glance at his face gave her the impression that he wasn't uncomfortable with the silence, nor with her presence. He was just too preoccupied with what was bothering him to make idle chitchat.

When her drink was done, she picked up the empties and scooted sideways to go get another round. At the edge of the bench, she paused and, without looking directly at him, said, "I'm guessing problems at home, and if it's none of my business, tell me to butt out. But I had a few of my own once, and I'm a very good listener."

Without waiting for a reply, she stood up and went over to the bar.

When she came back, she settled in without making any reference to her previous remark, just casual comments about the game playing on the TV. After about two minutes, though, Jim said in a very neutral voice, "My wife is having an affair."

Not for the first time, Mallory reflected on the fact that Jim didn't have much of a filter about himself. It had been the second or third group lunch with her staff when he'd told a story about the school bully pantsing him in grade school.

It hadn't been a "poor me" thing. The twinkle and grin he wore as he told it had the girls laughing between their winces. "So, there I am, in my Mortal Kombat underwear printed with my favorite character, and this girl we all thought was the cute one in school says, 'So you're a Sub-Zero?' You can imagine how funny grade-schoolers found that. I didn't live down that nickname for a long time."

It had struck her as charmingly self-deprecating and yet kind of self-confident ... and funny, of course, definitely funny. "Did you ever get payback?" she'd asked.

"He has—" Jim had cut himself off. "Well, telling you what he does might tell you who he is. Let's just say my company spends north of a quarter mil a year on something he sells, and I make sure his competitor gets every cent of it."

She'd thought,

I can still see a little of that dorky kid in him

,

wrapped up in the business-owner exterior.

Now, she realized the awkwardness of her silence and thought he might read it as judgment. She floundered for something to say, mustering a weak, "Are you sure?"

His eyes met hers for a second. He nodded. "I kind of caught them."

"Oh, shit!"

He smiled dryly, clearly agreeing. He took another long swallow. "Hey, not that I don't appreciate the company, but I can think of tons of reasons why you might not want to be here."

She lifted her chin. "Yeah? Name three."

"It is my firm intention to get drunk again tonight."

"As long as you don't vomit on me, not a real problem. Give me another."

"Well, I've got some anger issues at the moment."

"Hmmm," she said, touching her finger to her chin and pretending to think deeply about it, before asking with mock gravity, "Are you angry at women in general because we're all unfaithful bitches? Or, is your anger pretty well-focused?"

"Oh, it's focused on Lori. Though, if you're going to tell me that you feel compelled to stand by your fellow-woman, that it's just my ego and I need to get over it, I've got enough to go around." His eyes met hers directly.

"Ouch! That's aggressive. Still, you'll have to do better than that 'cause I'm not going there."

"Well then, how about I'm angry and thinking of payback. I might hit on you once I've had a few more. Then you'll get mad, and that would spoil a pleasant working relationship."

Mallory couldn't help herself and burst into laughter at that one. "Jim, I'm a big girl. I can say no and make it stick without it becoming a big deal."

He grinned. "So, it'd be no?"

"I think you just stepped into flirting territory and, yes, it would be no. Jeez Louise, I just promoted you from business associate to friend." She was smiling as she said it.

"Friends!" He made a choking sound. "Neutered before I even got started!"

She threw a piece of bar popcorn at him.

A while later, he swirled the ice in his glass while thinking about a response to her latest question. Once she had him starting to talk, his drinking had slowed dramatically. "I guess the answer depends on what you mean. I only became certain yesterday, if that's what you mean."

"But you've suspected longer?"

He considered. "I started becoming uneasy about something some time back. Things just kept getting more and more concrete in my mind as time went by. I can't point to a moment, but I guess I've known inside for a while now. I just had trouble facing pieces of it." He took another sip, not meeting her eyes. "Until yesterday, that is."

Something about that sounded a little unusual, but she didn't dwell on it. "What happened yesterday?"

"Lori's father called in the afternoon. Her mother started having a loss of vision and trouble speaking. He rushed her to the ER, and it turned out she had a mini-stroke, a transient something or other."

"Transient ischemic attack?" Mallory supplied. "My aunt had one."

"Yeah. Anyway, that's what he found out later. At the time, he was panicked. All he was hearing was the word stroke. He said Lori's phone was just going to voicemail. He had tried her at work—she works mornings at a doctor's office—but they said she had left for the day. If I knew where she was, could I go and get her to come to the hospital right away?

"I didn't know what to do. She had turned her phone off, probably to avoid inconvenient calls from me, but I couldn't leave her dad sitting there by himself. I like her father," he said, "and I couldn't do that to him just because I was reluctant. So, I went over and started knocking on the asshole's door. Of course, he didn't answer it but, come on, her car was parked out front, for Christ's sake!"

He stopped talking at that point and looked away, obviously fighting a flare of anger. In doing so, he missed the look of puzzlement on her face. She started to say something, then cut herself off and turned it into clearing her throat when he turned back to her.

After a sip of his drink, Jim, continued, "After a bit of pounding, I figured they were listening or even standing on the other side looking through the peephole so I yelled out, 'Tell my wife that her mother has just been admitted to the emergency room, and her father needs her there right now,' and left." He smiled bitterly.

"Then what?" Mallory asked.

"I drove a couple of blocks so they'd see my car leave then doubled back on a side street to where I could see his door. Maybe two minutes later I saw her come out. Asshole was standing in the doorway in just gym shorts, and she was pulling a brush through her hair as if she had just gotten done screw—" He stopped short, but Mallory just smiled and waved him to go on.

"I did one of those group text things to her father and her that said I had gotten the message to her, but I was at a customer's site and couldn't come right away myself. I didn't want him wondering why I wasn't with her. Then I turned off my phone and came here."

"Wow! I don't know what to say to that except it sucks!"

"Yep."

"Have you talked to her since?"

"Nope."

"She's probably pretty worried about you, Jim," she said carefully.

"Do I care?" he answered, his jaw tight.

Mallory persisted, "Fair enough. The only thing is, do you want her eventually calling all your friends, the office, maybe even the police?" She held her hands up, palms forward as if to ward off his anger. "I'm just asking."

It took a few seconds, but his jaw loosened, and he gave a nod. He pulled out his cell phone, hit the power button, and laid it on the table between them. Jim peered at it. "Seven voicemails and about a zillion texts. I guess she's anxious to talk, huh?"

Mallory started to stand up. "I'll give you some privacy while you listen to them."

He snorted. "I'm not going to listen to them. This will be very short."

Giving him a sympathetic grin, she stood anyway and moved over to the bar.

The call was picked up almost instantly and he started talking, not bothering to keep his voice down. "It's me. ... I'm as good as can be expected. ... Doesn't matter where I am. ... No, I'm not. ... Why do you think? ... Just

STOP

! I'll be home tomorrow sometime in the late afternoon. If you want to talk, be there. In the meantime, stop calling and texting me." He cut the call and stabbed the power button.

He looked across the intervening fifteen feet and raised his eyebrows at Mallory. "Okay?"

She nodded. "Good luck. I hope things go ... well, not horribly."

• • •

"How'd it go with Lori on Tuesday? And I guess yesterday also." Mallory asked as she slid onto the stool next to him on Thursday.

Jim shrugged. "It was a short conversation and I ended up here again." He nodded at Tom's relief to get her a drink and then continued, "I thought lunchtime was your thing."

"Another long day trying to get this project done and so I had to go to the gym after. I wondered if you were here," she said.

He smiled. "And here I was looking at a lonely evening with only the bartender for company, and I end up with a date." He didn't see her stiffen at that. "Let's move to a table; drinks and dinner on me. Let me grab some menus," he said.