Page 11 of Long Shot

I glare at Beck. “I am.”

“Then what was the heavy tension all about?”

“I don’t know. Christ.” I look around to see what other servers were working today. Tony and Raul. I approach them each and ask them to let me know how customers like the chips and salsa when they serve it.

Then I march to my office.

I like it in my office. It’s quiet and controlled. I sit at my desk a moment before opening the spreadsheet I’m working on. I like numbers and formulae. Okay, sometimes I don’t like the actual numbers. As in, the law that requires us to sell at least fifty percent food and fifty percent alcohol, which means if we don’t sell enough food we could potentially be shut down. Because our drinks aren’t cheap, it makes the ratio of food to alcohol difficult for us. These are more numbers I don’t like.

Our manager, Danny, doesn’t seriously think we’d be shut down for that, but still . . . for three former SEALs, failure is not an option, and we’ve been trying to increase our food sales, without much success. I remember the conversation we had with Danny about it, and Beck’s mention that he and Hayden had recently eaten at a local restaurant called The Sandbar. Beck told us how Hayden raved about the fresh chips and salsas they served.

Fuck. I set my elbows on the desk and rest my head in my hands.

Sid has been trying new things. But the numbers don’t lie. We still aren’t selling enough food.

Fuck this. We wanted to open a tequila bar, not a fucking restaurant. When the three of us made the decision to leave the Navy around the same time and had to figure out what we wanted to do with the rest of our lives, Marco cracked a joke about opening a tequila bar because we drank so much of the stuff. We all laughed, but then somehow it became serious. With the help of Beck’s trust fund (which we didn’t know about until then, damn him) we started our own business.

Running the bar is a challenge for us, dealing with the county and the city on liquor licenses, health inspectors, finding the right people to work for us, firing the ones who aren’t right. But we all overcame bigger problems in our lives, overcame the challenge of making it as SEALs, and we’ll figure this out, too.

We were together for most of the years we were SEALs. The intense, fast-paced training along with practical jokes, trash talk, and horsing around during off time bands platoons together like brothers, but Marco, Beck, and I had a special bond. None of us ever had much support from our real families, so we became one another’s family. We’d do anything for each other, and that includes whatever it takes to make this business work.

We all have our own reasons for wanting to make a success of this. Beck doesn’t need the money, but money is validation that we’re doing a good job. For Marco, success is a way of proving himself worthy. The business is also a constant in his life, like the Navy was, like family wasn’t.

I, too, am driven to succeed, but for different reasons. I grew up in a world that was chaotic and unpredictable. The Navy gave me security and stability and a chance for redemption. And now this business is the power and security I never had as a kid. Control is important to me.

Which is why Reese going into the kitchen and cooking shit pisses me off so much. I can’t control her.

But she works for me, well, for the three of us, and that means I get to tell her what to do.

Am I being a stubborn ass about this? Because, damn, that salsa was really good.

No. This is our business and we don’t need a skinny, gunnerjumped waitress telling us what to do.

I love a challenge and I’m always confident in my ability to find solutions, overcome obstacles, and conquer enemies. We can do this.

Reese

I’m mentally kicking myself for my screwup as I work the afternoon shift. It’s surprisingly busy, probably because it’s such a gorgeous day. It’d not the height of tourist season but even so, the endless beach party vibe of this area keeps visitors coming, renting bikes or in-line skates, fishing off the pier, checking out the shops and bars and restaurants.

The table of four guys who came for lunch are still here at three o’clock, working their way through the tequila menu. They started out pleasant and friendly, but as they got drunker, their flirting has become cruder and louder.

“Hey, Reese,” one of them now says to me, reaching for my hand.

I deftly avoid his touch but give him a polite smile. “What can I do for you?”

“Do you like whales?”

I narrow my eyes at him, not sure where this is going. Then I get it. “No, I don’t want to humpback at your place.”

Unfortunately, that just makes them all guffaw with appreciation.

“Are you single, Reese?” another guy asks.

“No, I’m plural.”

“Ha-ha. What I meant was, are you free tonight?”

“No. I’m very expensive.”

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