Barkeep For Keeps

A/N: This is a standalone short story set in the same world as my Tikbalang novels. Enjoy!

Slamming and sliding a cold Cerveza Negra down the glossy hardwood bartop straight into a regular's hand like a pro is par for a night's work for any self-respecting barkeep. Mak was a pro who'd been serving alcohol for what felt like centuries now, and she hoped that didn't show—she wore her statement shirts ("I demand satisfaction" in black on skin-tight red cotton tonight) and glammed-up face precisely so her jaded soul wouldn't show. Thank goodness the night was almost done, and it was just an hour to last call.

Things were busy at Pepe's Pole on a Friday payday night: All the younglings with cash and lust to burn converged on the dance floor and in her area of jurisdiction at this bar, where you could walk all over the damn wild side and live to tell the tale. This was Mak's den of iniquity, where foreplay on the dance floor presaged sex in dark corners and, for the really adventurous ones, right atop the gleaming mahogany of the bar itself.

"I'd like a Screaming Orgasm, please."

Mak swung her head up at the low, husky voice of the man asking for a cocktail and drank in Mr. Tall, Dusky and Sexy's form: His midnight curls were a bit longer than was the current fashion, and they framed the dark tan skin of his face quite beautifully. His eyes were the color of dark Tanduay rum, surrounded by eyelashes that were thick, curly, long, and would definitely be the envy of any woman who has had to buy falsies.

His face would have been angelic but for his nose. It looked like it had been broken a long time ago, maybe more than once, and had set a bit crookedly, but that went well with the angles of his strong jaw and high cheekbones, a hint of highland ancestry from the Cordillera region of Luzon island, probably.

"Do you mean the drink, or the literal orgasm?" Mak asked the question with a wicked smile as she flipped the straight midnight waterfall of her high ponytail over one shoulder, her perfect cat's eye makeup glinting metallic gold against the strobes from the dance floor so the ash-blue rings surrounding her dark brown irises showed up to perfection. Most people thought those were contact lenses, and Mak didn't disabuse them of the notion. Pepe's Pole was a haven for the weird ones, after all.

"The cocktail is for my friend over there." He gestured toward the dance floor with a slight tilt of his chin without taking his eyes off the gorgeous bartender with the dangerous curves. Not that Mak could see his friend amid the people gyrating against each other to the music through the flashing colors of strobe lights, and not that she cared. "I'd prefer a long, hot toddy of barkeep myself. If you don't mind, that is."

Oh, be still my immortal heart,

Mak thought as she turned to reach for the ingredients of the requested cocktail from a high shelf.

Or there will be lava flows from Laguna de Bay to Metro Manila, because horny diwata do that, whether they like it or not.

That gorgeous specimen of the male sex was making unwitting promises with his beautiful body that Mak almost hoped he'd keep. She needed to manage her expectations before her desires set her mountain off. The physics of sex was predictable: Friction, pressure, heat and sensation all resulted in bodily satisfaction, but she needed more than that, which was why she was behind the bar, not in front of it and flirting. Maybe he could deliver, and maybe not.

Meanwhile, he'd ordered a drink and she sure as hell should be making it instead of imagining him naked and groaning while she swallowed him down like a row of tequila shots.

"You're going to have to tell me your name. I don't give orgasms to men I don't know," Mak said with a lilt in her voice. She put on a show of making the requested cocktail, shimmying so the bottles tumbled from one shoulder to another and down into the cradle of her cleavage so the booze fell into the glasses in measured streams of clear vodka, lush Irish cream and dark coffee liquer. She topped the cocktail with a generous dollop of whipped cream, used sleight of hand to pop the cherry onto the creamy peak, and put the dainty drink in front of him. Mak peeked between her thick lashes and smoky cat's eye makeup to see how he'd liked the show.

He hadn't taken his eyes off her, had, in fact, drunk in her show like a parched man who'd been served his favorite poison and was savoring it well before he picked the Screaming Orgasm up and held it to his chest.

"Call me Ridge," he answered his eyes bright with appreciation for Mak's fine form and bottle-flipping expertise, "And I'd like to call you mine. All mine."

Well this IS a bold one,

Mak blinked slowly, steadying her pulse as she looked him over again and locked eyes with him. Interesting. She'd better stay sober tonight, then.

"Only if you like older women, Ridge. My name is Mak," she said on a red pout before Ridge grinned and turned to leave the bar. He'd gotten under her sturdy diwata skin and she'd not felt the fires of lust in ages.

"I'll take that as a challenge, my lady Mak, since you can't be much older than I am. Be right back." He sketched a slight bow, turned and walked away from Mak.

Ridge's walk was like foreplay: Masculine and sure, with enough swagger to convey confidence, a strong stride that told her he'd be up for the vertical mamba as well as the horizontal kind, and Mak's guesswork was buttressed by the motion of his tight, high and very tasty-looking gluteus maximus under the charcoal denim that hugged that muscle the way her hands itched to clasp it. Bathala,

I hope he has enough stamina for several rounds of fucking

—she caught herself mid-thought and shook it off. Back to work, lady. You're still on the job.

He'd handed the drink to a woman with hair as blue as her turquoise hanky-top, whispered in the woman's ear and pointed in the direction of the bar while moving his hips fluidly to the snappy beat and showing off a smooth—and very sexy—dance move. He waggled his brows at Ms. Blue Hair, smiling at her, and retraced his way back to the bar with his eyes fixed firmly on Mak.

Ridge's friend had nodded as he turned, then began a slow grind with the man behind her after taking a long pull of the Screaming Orgasm that she raised high in the air like she just didn't care.

All right.

Mak sent her potentially jealous thoughts to the back burner.

She's not competition. Down, diwata.

Mak called on what discipline she possessed to turn away from the long, tall drink of headiness that was Ridge so she could continue uncapping beers and sliding them down the bar, pouring and mixing drinks—her job for the next thirty or so minutes—before she totally forgot herself in the strong gravitational pull of attraction drawing her to him.

***

Ridge took a seat on a barstool at the far end of the hardwood bar. This gave him a fine view of Mak's fluid movements and full form, from the top of her ponytail down her skin-tight clothes and tiny biker-boots clad feet.

From this vantage point, she was perfectly framed in mirrors and dark wood. Her rosy-tan skin and the clean lines of her shoulders and back curved into a gracefully rounded ass that would feel divine sitting in his hands while he wrung moans and screams from her, he'd bet.

He took in the small dimple at the right corner of her lush mouth when she'd smile at the patrons ordering drinks and cock her head to the right, cupping the gentle slope of her cheek on a propped hand while she conversed with them, dispensing wit with the drinks and advice where needed.

Ah, so she does have a kind heart in that to-die-for body.

That observation gave Ridge even more reason to pursue the barkeep after hours, beyond the obvious (and growing more obvious by the minute) reason behind the button fly of his gray jeans.

There was a wary air to her, though, whenever she'd catch him watching her intently. He'd been doing that hours before he decided to walk up to her and order the Screaming Orgasm. It was almost as if she was sensing his intents, and wasn't sure she liked them.

She will definitely like most of those intents. She'd scream in delight, even.

Promises made were promises to keep, after all, even if he didn't speak them out loud to her. Yet.

This gorgeous woman in black denim and that sassy red t-shirt had all his senses on high alert. He wanted to explore her, kiss her senseless, make her come, and make her his. He wanted to see what made her laugh, what brought joy to her face, how he could make her bad days better. He'd waited long enough and searched hard enough for this. He could wait a bit more, even if his body was impatient about getting to know hers.

For sure, the sex would be volcanic, because Ridge felt the slow lava of lust flowing beneath her tight control in the same the way one would feel a warm breath brushing one's forearms—or other, more sensitive body parts. The sensation was physically slight, but it

definitely

was there. Lust is a very good starting point, and she felt it. So did he.

He knew she would be more than just a body to bang, or a notch on his headboard, so he made sure his erstwhile date was set up with a more suitable man, and that date did not seem to mind one bit.

Ridge had come to this realm seeking his soul's partner, and he'd had to go through many of the courtship rituals mortals used with several females before he found his fun-sized bartender here, of all places.

All the disappointments he'd experienced prepared him for this woman, Ridge realized. She was worth the fortune in flowers, meals, chocolates and hotel rooms he'd spent on to learn about how one won a woman's attention. Practice, after all, makes perfect—and once he had her attention, he could find a way to gain access to her body, her mind, her heart. Everything has to start somewhere.

It had been very interesting, learning about these things called "dating" and "hooking up." The people of his world would do well to learn them, too, to ease the boredom between the world-saving sessions they all had to embark on, time and again. Being the hero was good, but working at finding one's life partner was even better.

He reminded himself that he was Dumakulem, the guardian god of the mountains and the patron of hunters. Since his name is such an archaic (and unwieldy) mouthful (what were his parents thinking when they named him?), he chose a name that was easier for mortals to pronounce, one that sounded very good when a woman yelled it out or moaned it like a prayer.

He'd answer the little bartender's demand for satisfaction well—she had worn that shirt for a reason, right? All Mak needed to do was find and speak his true name instead of his nickname, just once, and she would be all his. Ridge's body and mind were focused unerringly on a prize named Mak, and a little thing like their age difference of about an eon or two wouldn't put him off his hunt. She thought she was the elder in this chase? She could think again.

***

"Last call! Place your orders now or keep your peace for the rest of the evening!" Mak threw her voice across the Pepe's Pole interior as she swept glasses up from the bartop and swept a towel lovingly across the wood. "Last call, people!" Ridge almost wished he were the bar's surface, feeling her fingertips through the white cotton cloth.

A few stragglers ordered Pale Pilsens, Red Horse beers, the odd rum cola, and whiskeys straight up, no ice. Simple enough, and Mak gave them all her best showmanship. Her motto was to start with a bang and end with one. This closing set wasn't going to be any different. She wrapped up nice and prided herself on it. It wasn't as if she had someone waiting at home for her, was it?

"I'd like to order one hot bartender on my lap, please. Hot kisses on the side."

The slow, dark whisper from behind her startled Mak, and she almost dropped the highball glass in her hand.

"Bathala's hairy butt!" Her epithet ended up being muffled in Ridge's black t-shirt, because, even with the chunky heels of her boots boosting her height a couple of extra inches, Mak only came up to his crewneck collar.

Boy, does he smell good, like the fresh mountain air and new leaves breaking bud...

The bartender gave herself a firm mental shake.

You aren't a newbie to flirting, diwata. Woman up. Been there, done them thrice, seven ways to Sunday and back. This is not new to you, so don't act like it is.

Mak stepped back to cast a censoring look up at Ridge's face, putting on her best stern tone and almost succeeding, but for the squeak at the end: "Patrons stay on the other side of the bar, sir."

The asperity in her tone drew a chuckle from Ridge, and he smiled even wider at the hint of a squeal on the "sir," and his flash of pearly whites and the brackets on either side of his grin stopped Mak's mind, if not the motions of her mouth.

Ah, that soft, luscious mouth all red like bignay berries.

He really shouldn't be thinking of where he wanted those lips to go right here, right now. But, there he was, thinking these licentious thoughts anyway and feeling the tightness of his pants because of it.

"Aren't you off the clock now? Would you like to accompany me for a bite to eat, or a cup of coffee?" His eyes met hers and those incredible lashes of his came down in a slow blink that raised Mak's body temperature to dangerous levels.

The wet bar rag in her hands began to emit smoke, and she threw it hastily into the sink behind her, hoping Ridge wouldn't notice. It was so hard to keep up the illusion of being mortal when she got hot like this.

Mak shut her eyes, sure that the pupils had changed color to the red-hot shades of lava streaming down volcanic slopes, ringed by the gray white of an ash-plume. Her skin had a flush stealing upward from her generous D-cup chest to the roots of her hair.

"All right, let's go to the Maligno Unbound Café just outside our entrance," Mak acceded softly, and squeezed sideways past Ridge's back to exit the space he dominated with his size. "They're open for another hour or so."

Ridge held still, feeling the pulses of attraction between them surging and ebbing all over the skin of his butt and back when her hands brushed his shirt along the space between his shoulders and waist. Smooth black denim rasped against soft charcoal jeans and she was past him, flushed but resolute.

He followed her to the doors marking the Pepe's Pole entrance, and out into the balmy air of Manila's monsoon season. The skies would unleash another dousing of rain by dawn. Ridge could smell the imminent rain on the air, right along with the sweet scent of frangipani and ylang-ylang that trailed in Mak's wake.

She ordered a Café Maligno, the house specialty of extra-strong blended Cordillera coffees served so black it could stop the beam of a Maglite, and the all-day breakfast of crisp-grilled milkfish bellies, garlic rice and a poached egg, with papaya pickles on the side that was the café's signature dish. He chose a café misto, and the beef version of her meal.

They ate and drank in a comfortable silence until they were down to their last sips of coffee. She was restless: Her hands kept fidgeting with her napkin and utensils as she ate. He displayed a calm, certain purpose in every movement of food or cup to his full, sensual mouth, and he was watching her with banked fire in his eyes.

"So, why me?" Mak tried to sound casual as she threw the question down like a gauntlet after she'd finished her coffee. "There were so many women in there to choose a date from and you decided you wanted to go out with the bartender who was still working. What's up with that?"

"My friend needed... someone else," Ridge began, leaning toward Mak and taking one of her hands in both of his. "So did I. When I saw you tending the bar, I felt like I was watching a goddess. Your grace and confidence are very attractive, you know."

Heat shot through Mak like a wild boomerang and the seat cushion beneath her burst into flame. One of the café's waitstaff ran over with a fire extinguisher and sprayed the seat as Mak jumped away, a maneuver that looked well-practiced to Ridge's eye.

"Well, hello,

diwata.

Would 'Mak" be short for 'Makiling'?" Ridge remained seated through it all, calm and completely composed, like he saw women set their seats on fire every day.

"How do you know that?" She was not used to people seeing her flammable nature without losing their shit. It had happened enough times for her to simply decide that detached celibacy was a good idea, and calling up fire elementals to relieve her urges was the best course of action, even if those elementals couldn't feed her need to connect after the physical intimacy.

The quiet amusement Ridge was displaying made her want to show him just how volcanic she could be and the ground beneath the table rumbled in warning.

"I am not human, or mortal, Makiling, any more than you are," Ridge stood up and moved to face Mak. He was still holding her hand in one of his, and he kept a gentle but firm grip, drawing her closer, until her front was flush with his so she could feel his chest against her cheek, and the ridge of his erection against her belly. "It's your turn to guess who I am. And, no, you aren't older than me."

Bright red light leaked through Mak's skin, a shimmering beneath the dermis and broke through steadily, until her deliciously-curved body glowed molten and her clothes vaporized from the heat. Still, he held her, his skin not showing the slightest signs of blistering or burning.

"Who are you?"

Mak's question came out in the multiple layers of voices that characterize a diwata coming into her element—that element being fire—and she was surprised that she wasn't burning Ridge. A mortal human would be dying in flames from her touch by now.

"Come with me, and find out." The hunter's patron god laid his challenge like a sensual trap as he maintained eye contact with her. "Rein in the lava and I will take you to a better place for this conversation, Sacred Lady of Makiling." Mak knew, deep in her soul, that it was, in fact, a trap. But it was baited with the one thing she could never resist: Her own curiosity. She was so curious she completely forgot how bare she was, and totally unconscious of how the glory of her body of lava affected Ridge.

Her bare body was stunning, hot as it literally was, and the guardian god of the mountains had to look away momentarily to get his libido under control. It wouldn't do for him to pounce on her here, where she could turn the wood and fabric of an establishment built for humans into an inferno.

Mak pulled her hand out of his, held it up to indicate she needed a minute to pull her fire in, and walked through an open door marked "staff." Once inside, she brought her body temperature down further, so she could change into a fresh set of clothes. Thank the Old Gods she had another red statement shirt with the same print as the one she'd just burnt off, and black jeans, in the café's staff locker. She'd just have to make do with her black hiking boots this time.

Mak was also glad the waitstaff had pulled down the little café's blackout blinds for the last hour of service so nobody outside saw just how hot she'd gotten.

All right, she'd go with him, she decided with a firm nod to herself. If she didn't burn him when she got all hot and bothered, then he'd be able to take her full strength—temper, passions and all. Maybe she'd finally found someone who would understand her.

"Okay," she said as she exited the staff room. "I'll go with you. But if you do something I don't like, I'm out of there before you can ask why," Mak looked at Ridge intently, caution and excitement warring in her veins.