Page 58 of The Last Second Chance
Jax stared down at the plate. “No onions. It’s supposed to have no onions,” Jax yelled over the noise.
Sunny slapped the ticket on the bar. “Your fingers were on the wrong keys in the POS. Says MP PMOMD.”
“Fuck,” Jax muttered. He spun around and dumped the plate in front of Pete McDougall, the flannel-wearing proprietor of Karma Kustard. “Two choices, Pete. You can pick off the onions or I can.”
Pete wisely chose to see to the chore himself.
“You’ve earned yourself a free beer,” Jax told him.
Pete whooped and sank his teeth into his newly onion-less burger.
Jax tossed a dozen glasses in the rotating washer and hustled to the far end of the bar. Of course everyone down there needed another round. At least they were entertaining themselves.
He found a stash of clean glasses behind the bar and started pouring drafts. Jax was thankful that in a brewery, the clientele was more likely to order beers than mixed drinks. He could handle a rum and coke or vodka rocks, but was dreading the day some smart ass asked for a cosmo. His cellphone buzzed next to the register. It was a call from Al. She’d called three times in the last two days. He knew he was making her more nervous by not answering, but it wasn’t really an option now.
He felt a zap of electricity shoot up his spine. An awareness of presence.
Joey.
He turned around and spotted her sliding onto a stool at the corner of the bar. She looked entirely too good. Her hair was loose, framing her delicate oval face in chestnut waves. There was color on her high cheekbones, probably flushed from the winter wind.
Thick lashes framed eyes the color of cognac. She wore a simple ribbed sweater with a v-neck deep enough to be interesting.
But he didn’t have time for interesting. Not with Fred and Phil waving him down for another round and the bar printer spitting out a continuous stream of drink orders from the servers. He was also pretty sure he smelled smoke, which meant someone’s entrée was going to be a while longer. Or the whole place was going up in flames.
“I don’t have time to go a few rounds with you right now,” he snapped at Joey.
He dove for the taps as the printer spat out another order. The tape now reached down to the floor.
“You look a little understaffed,” Joey observed.
“You think?” He didn’t have time to deal with her smart-ass observations from her smart-ass, sexy as hell mouth. “Cause this feels like a walk in the damn park to me.”
“Jax, we got a problem,” Sunny said rushing up to the bar, bringing a stronger waft of smoke with her. His cellphone rang again.
“Oh for fuck’s sake! How do you make a Sex on the Beach?” he muttered staring at the six-foot tape of drink orders.
Joey slid off her stool and slipped behind the bar. Jax caught a whiff of her shampoo as she brushed past him.
“What the hell are you doing?” he snapped.
“Showing you how it’s done. What’s your login for the POS?” she asked, jerking a thumb toward the register’s touch screen.
“Hey, Joey, can we get a round down here?” Bruce Oakleigh called, waving an empty wine glass.
“Who comes to a brewery and orders wine?” Joey muttered to Jax.
“Bruce does.”
“Keep your pants on, Bruce, and I’ll throw in a dish of maraschino cherries,” Joey said good-naturedly. Login?” She arched an expectant eyebrow at Jax.
Fine. The night was destined to be a disaster anyway. What did it matter if the kitchen caught fire and people were walking out on tabs? No one would ever come back to John Pierce Brews after tonight.
He scrawled his login code on a napkin and abandoned the bar and Joey to follow Sunny into the kitchen where his first order of business was putting out a fire on the grill.
“It says well done, Julio, not meteoric.”
The cook flashed a gold tooth at Jax, “I aim to please.”
