Page 49 of Good Vibes Only
“Nothing wrong with that. That’s good advice.”
“Yeah, that’s what everyone says,” he said. “Anyway, so the next question becomes, what kinda business do you want to get into? And my idea was, since hockey’s still so new in Vegas, I wanted to start a hockey bar; a place where hockey fans can have a beer and catch the game.”
“Ah-ha. I like it.”
“Next, we needed to hire a project manager because I can’t do all this myself, obviously. My money guy knew a guy, someone he’d worked with before, and so on his recommendation, I hired that guy to be my project manager. His name is Mike. I got to talking with Mike, and with his input, my idea for a hockey bar was expanded into opening my own brewery.”
I blinked at him. “Oh. Is that not what you wanted?”
“Well, it wasn’t my original idea—and it’d cost a lot more money to start—but I liked the new direction. And Ilovedthe brewer he put me in touch with. His name’s Eric. And Eric’s the shit. From the first time I talked with him, we clicked, and it’s obvious he understands exactly what I want—maybe because he’s a hockey fan, I dunno. But his beer isamazing. It’s exactly what I wanted. I’m just so proud, you know? So I couldn’t be happier with that dude. I really think the beer is excellent and we’ve got a good product that will sell itself.”
I couldn’t help but smile. I loved his enthusiasm. It was infectious and relatable, because that’s how I felt aboutmybusiness—not so muchlately,no, but when times were good, certainly.
I bobbed my head. “I gotta say, the beerisreally, really good.”
“Thanks,” he said, wearing an innocent smile. “So, okay, I’ve got no problem with Eric; I’m really happy with him. But then my project manager, Mike, started pushing real hard on the brewery also having a sit-down restaurant. I was a little worried at first, because I never wanted to get into the restaurant business. I’ve heardwaytoo many horror stories.”
“Same,” I chimed in.
“But Mike does a lot of projects in the restaurant industry, so he promised the whole process would be really easy. He knew a guy, who knew a guy, who knew a guy.” His hand gestured that the chain went on and on for countless iterations. “And that’s how we decided that the menu would be designed by the head chef from 815. It all kinda came together really easily, because hey, that’s what a project manager does, I guess.”
“Wait, are you saying he left you out of the decision-making process?”
“Not exactly left out, because ultimately, I had the final say. I was always pushing back, asking what our other options might be. But I definitely felt like Mike was pushing me in that direction. He kept saying I should have a classy menu, because my name’s attached to the place, that I shouldn’t serve bar food, blah blah blah. And, well … after a certain point, I guess it was easier just to go along with his plan. And hey, I was so happy with Eric, I thought this might turn out okay, too.” He shrugged. “And hell. Maybe itwill.Who knows?”
“But you’ve got a bad feeling about it.”
He sighed. “I do.”
“Because it’s not what you wanted.”
“Ugh … no. No, it’s not.” Brett writhed in his seat, my words having triggered a visceral reaction in him. The poor boy! “If we’re serving food, I don’t want a fancy fuckin’ menu. I want greasy bar food. Burgers. Wings. Fries—you know?”
I found myself nodding along. “Um. That soundsgreat.I love a greasy burger at a sports bar.”
“Fuck yeah! Me too!” he said in a fit of excitement. “But then I doubt myself, because I wonder, what the hell doIknow about starting a business?”
I stroked my chin. “I think you’ve got more business sense than you realize, Brett.”
Brett took the next exit off the highway. We stopped at a red light on the off-ramp, just a few blocks away from 815.
“Business sense? Me? What makes you think that?” he asked.
“Um, how about everything else you’ve told me about BarDown Brewery? From the concept to the name to the beer itself?”
“Wait, I thought it was a terrible name?” he teased.
“Oh, stop!” I bopped him on the shoulder. “Itisa good name, okay? I was just mad because I didn’t like you.”
He got me back with a gentle bop on the thigh. “Ha. Knew it,” he said, and his fist lingered on my leg for a beat.
I liked the feel of his big, warm hand on my leg. I liked it so much that, when he pulled away too soon, I grabbed him by the wrist.
“Keep it there,” I whispered, and guided his hand back to my thigh. “I like it.”
A satisfied breath of air left his lungs and he bit his lip. Oh, he liked hearing that, didn’t he? He clenched my thigh with his hand, holding me tightly while we waited for the light to turn green.
After a sweet moment in silence, the light turned green. Brett drove with one hand on the wheel and the other on my thigh.
