While I was working my way through college, I got a job at this dirty little bar. It was a real toilet. Every night, the same people passed out on the same stools. Underage college kids tried to sneak beer, and pinch the waitresses' asses. Most of them didn't care as long as the tips were good. Hell, half of them hustled on the side anyway.
But there were three good things about this bar: the drinks were free for the staff, the tips were unbelievable, and Whitney was the other bartender. God she was hot. Our uniform was blue jeans and a white t-shirt. She was very talented at filling out both. When I first got there I made my pass, like every one else. I also got shot down like everyone else. I soon forgot my damaged pride when I realized what a good pair we made. I made the drinks and handled any problems; she flirted with the old men to get us better tips. It was perfect! One night working that bar with Whitney, and I would clear more than I had in a month at my other bartending job.
Anyway, I've always been real good at what I do. So it wasn't long before my lush boss gave me the keys to the place. All he wanted to do was sit at home and drink himself blind. I got a raise when I got the keys, but that didn't matter as much as the fact I would be alone with Whitney when we closed. I wanted her bad, and I meant to have her. It had nothing to do with love. Weeks of working together behind a tiny bar, brushing against each other, innocent little games where we only pretended it was an accident, had led to a very acute awareness of each other's sexuality. I would make jokes when she wouldn't wear a bra and her nipples were visible through her shirt. She would slap my butt when I wore my Wrangler jeans. Still there was a wall there. We seemed to both know where the line was, and always stopped short. There was nothing but time.
One night I called Last Call, and locked that heavy green door. It was wide enough for three people to pass through shoulder to shoulder. Last Call was always when Whitney and I had our first drink. When I got back from locking the door, she had them waiting, whiskey on the rocks for me and a buttery nipple for her. The customers that weren't too drunk to walk came up to get another round, the rest waited for their waitress. At two o'clock I carried the stragglers out and left them on the doorstep. The waitresses went home and I locked the door behind them. It was just Whitney and I, and she had another drink waiting when I got back, as was our ritual. We sat and talked for a few minuets every night, nothing intense, just a bit of gossip about the customers and the staff. After we were done talking, I started flipping chairs, and she wiped down the bar. Everything was going as usual until I remembered I hadn't cleared out the upstairs yet. There was a couple of pool tables and a jukebox up there, and sometimes customers didn't hear last call.
