The Bucket List

14.1 The Bartender

I go to bed early that night, exhausted from a day in the sun, my head buzzing with the aftereffects of tequila.

When I wake, afternoon sunlight is streaming through the windows. I blearily search the bed for my phone. There's a message from Nicholai waiting for me.

Nicholai: Item #8. Tonight.

I frown, trying to recall just what item number eight is. And why the rush? But of course, we only have the summer to complete the list. And it's already nearing the end of June.

It hits me then. Be a bartender for the night. Nicholai wants to come here. To the Dive.

I immediately call TJ. He picks up on the first ring. "Good morning, sleeping beauty," he sings. His cheer sounds forced. Considering how we last left things, I can understand why.

"I need to call in a favor."

"Of course you do."

"It's for my boss." I hesitate. "He, uh...well, there's no simple explanation, but can he work behind the bar tonight?"

There's a long stretch of silence on the other end of the line. Finally, TJ sighs. "Your gazillionaire boss wants to learn how to bartend?"

"He doesn't want to learn, per se." I sit up, dragging a hand through my tangled hair. "Look. It's complicated. Think of this as a...dare."

"A dare. Damn it, Amara. You know Thursdays are busy for us—"

"I know," I say quickly. "Just think of how good he'll be for business. You know how word gets around. People will probably stop by just to see him in action."

"An Ivanov spotted in the wild," TJ mutters, half to himself. "Fine, fine. But you so owe me for this."

"Always and forever." My throat feels uncomfortably tight. "You'll warn Gabby?"

Another long pause. "I guess I have to. Don't I?" I can hear the weariness in his voice. "See you later, Amara."

I drop the phone in my lap, fighting back tears. But I can't cry. Not now. If I do, I'll never stop.

Besides. I have no reason to cry. Not really. I mean, sure. My life is in shambles, I'm in debt to the worst sort of people imaginable, and my friendships are slowly but surely crumbling around me like the ruins of an old house. But crying won't solve this shitstorm.

Later, I promise myself, picking up the phone. You can cry later.

I send Nicholai a quick text, letting him know to be here by five o'clock sharp. That gives me...two hours to prepare. I bury my head beneath the pillows with a groan.

This is going to be a long night.

# # #

Nicholai is sneaking another sip from his flask.

He (wisely) abandoned his usual attire for the night's festivities in favor of a far more practical uniform: navy shorts and a plain white shirt.

Scowling, I take aim at those navy shorts, flicking his hip with one of the ratty old towels I retrieved from the back room. He jumps, cursing—at least, it sounds like a curse. Something Russian. "No drinking on the job," I scold him.

"You drink on the job all the time." A rather pointed accusation. But he caps the flask with a practiced flourish all the same.

"I'm an old pro." I take the flask from him. "You are not." I give him my sweetest smile.

He isn't buying it. "You once told me to come here for a real drink." He leans against the backbar with folded arms. "Or was that just a load of—"

"Five minutes!" TJ calls from across the bar, mop in hand.

I slap a silver bar key in Nicholai's hand. He stares down at it, perplexed. "You can drink after your shift."

"What's this?" He turns the silver key between his fingers.

"You open beers with it."

"Ah." His eyes flash to my face. "So. I work, and then I drink?"

"Yes. A good time will be had by all."

"Hmm." His smile is a slow, sure thing. "Are you offering me a good time, Miss Rossi?"

I brush by him, ignoring the goosebumps that erupt along my arms at the sound of my last name on his tongue. Further down the bar, Gabby is already at her usual post. She doesn't look my way. Not once.

"Survive this shift," I tell him, "and we'll see."

He straightens at the challenge. "Don't make promises you can't keep."

"I'm good for my word." I toss him a relatively clean towel.

He catches it with a grimace. Behind me, TJ snickers. I elbow him out of reflex. He elbows me back. And then we're both swearing up a storm, jabbing our fingers into arms, ribs, eyes—anything we can reach.

"If the children are done," Gabby snaps, putting an end to our poke-war, "I'm going to unlock the front door."

TJ swatts my hand away. "No idea what you're talking about."

Nicholai coughs to hide a laugh. The sound draws Gabby's attention; her eyes slide in his direction, but only for a brief, dark second. I sigh as she turns away, heading for the front door.

"Give her an hour," TJ suggests. "She'll come around."

I worry at the cuticle on my thumbnail. "And if she doesn't?"

"I'll start pouring Jager Bombs."

"You're ruthless."

TJ whistles under his breath, unabashed. It's only once he's out of earshot that Nicholai taps me on the shoulder. "I thought that one liked me," he says, gaze lingering on Gabby's rigid spine.

I purse my lips. "I thought so, too." These thoughts are unwelcome. I wave a hand, willing them away. "Don't worry about it. She can be...difficult."

"I know someone like that," he mutters.

Somehow, I resist the urge to pinch him.