Page 13 of Shifting Sands

There’s a rhythm to bartending, not just created by the sound of ice hitting the sides of a cocktail shaker or rattling in a glass—a pulse, a tempo. It’s like a heartbeat that syncs with the crowd—steady, fast, and exciting.

I used to love it long before I owned Whiskey Joe’s, before there were quarterly reports, staffing headaches, and health inspections—back when it was just my part-time gig to make some pocket money.

It’s been years since I last worked a shift.

But here I am, behind the bar. Shaker in one hand, towel tossed over my shoulder like muscle memory.

Audrey called this afternoon just to check in. She was all business, reminding me to come in early to cut the payroll checks. As if the email and nifty neon-pink Post-it Note weren’t reminders enough.

And of course, tonight of all nights, Cody Banks and his band are playing. They’re an Atlanta band turned regional phenomenon, and they always draw a crowd.

We’re at capacity. The place is packed from the edge of the dance floor to the back wall, every table full, the bar lined three deep. Glasses clinking. People singing along. The air hums with music and too many bodies crammed into one place.

I haven’t sweat this much in a long time.

“You sure you remember how to do this, old man?” Leonard teases as he slips past me to grab a bottle out of the cooler.

I shoot him a look and slide two whiskeys, neat, across the bar without missing a beat. “Like riding a bike.”

“Can you pedal a bit faster?” Heather, one of our waitresses, asks as she drops off a tray of empty bottles, laughing as she disappears back into the crowd.

It takes me a few more orders to find my rhythm, but once I do, I handle my end of the bar like a pro.

I catch my breath between orders, just long enough to wipe down the bar and take a quick look at the crowd enjoying themselves before returning my focus to the chaos. A woman is waving a twenty-dollar bill at me, someone is shouting for more limes, and a guy in a cowboy hat is trying to balance six beers in his hands. Cody has the entire room swaying, halfway through a cover of “She’ll Leave You with a Smile,” and, damn, he makes it sound like it was written for him.

A blonde leans in at the end of the bar, hair like spun gold, wearing a dress that doesn’t belong to this season. She taps her manicured nails against her empty glass.

“Whiskey sour,” she calls, smiling.

I make the drink quickly and walk it to her. She watches me the whole time like she’s memorizing something about me.

“You Brewster Cartwright?” she asks when I set the glass down.

“Last time I checked.”

“I heard this was your place.” Her eyes skim over the bar, the bottles, then back to me. “But I’ve never seen you behind the bar before.”

I grin, but it’s the kind that doesn’t reach my eyes. “I guess there’s a first time for everything. Let me know if you need anything else.”

I move on before she can reply.

That’s the third time tonight. No, fourth. I lost count after the girl with the sequinned halter top slipped me her phone number and asked me to call her later.

The rumors about my family float through the tourists—rich, private, probably a part of the mob if you ask the wrong people. I’ve never denied it, but I sure as hell don’t parade my wealth around either.

Another round of orders from Heather hits the POS system. I pour four hard ciders into frosty mugs, crack open three Blue Moons, and pop a new keg on tap five. My shoulders ache in a way they haven’t in forever.

“Brew,” comes from a soft voice to my left.

I turn, already half guessing what I’ll find. And I’m not wrong. She’s pretty—big eyes, bright smile, crop top that’s hanging on for dear life. Young—too young. And she leans in like we’re about to share a secret.

“I just wanted to say this place is awesome. I come here all the time.”

“Glad to hear it,” I say, grabbing a rag to wipe the wet spot near her elbow.

“My friends and I were wondering …” She trails off, then bites her lip. “Are you, like … single?”

Here it comes.

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