“Monroe, I—”
“Julien, it’s fine.”
I follow her to the entryway as she shrugs herself into her coat and pulls on her boots. I want to tell her it’s not fine. It’s not fine at all, but what’s the other option? I don’t even know if there is one.
“I had a really nice night,” she announces before grimacing at her own words. “God, that sounds so lame. I mean it, though. I’m almost, possibly, potentially glad you manipulated me into going on this date.”
“Can I see you again?” I blurt.
I watch her go still.
I shouldn’t have asked. I didn’t mean to, but she’s leaving, and I didn’t know it would be this hard to watch her walk away. I didn’t know it would make me so desperate.
“I thought we agreed on one date.”
“Did we?” I reply, doing my best to mask how hoarse my voice has gotten. “I don’t recall.”
She takes a step toward me instead of the door. It’s still so fucking adorable, the way she has to tilt her head back so far when we’re standing this close. That’s the only adorable thing about her right now. Her eyes are all fire, liquid amber and glinting glass.
“Bon soir, Julien.”
I barely have a chance to register the sweet scent of her hair as stretches to press her lips to my cheek. Then she’s pulling away and walking out my door.
Part of me is glad for the interruption. Part of me is glad we didn’t have a chance to take things further.
The rest of me aches to know what her mouth would feel like on mine.
Ten
Monroe
GUSHER: Refers to a beer that has been overly carbonated and overflows upon being opened
“Give it up for Code Ventura!”Dylan, our head cook, shouts into the microphone. He’s traded his checkered chef’s pants for jeans tonight and is filling the role of MC and hype man at Taverne Toulouse. “What a fucking killer set!”
It’s an accurate assessment. Cole came through on his word and got a gig set up for one of his label’s biggest up and coming bands. I’ve seen Sherbrooke Station live many times over the years, and I didn’t think anything could top their concerts, but Code Ventura just might be able to give Cole’s band a run for their money.
The students of Montreal seem to agree. We timed tonight’s concert with the end of exams at Concordia and McGill and marketed it as an end of term bash. I don’t know if it’s the famous band or the ridiculous drink discounts I approved, but we were packed to capacity before Code Ventura even took the stage. There’sstilla line of hopeful latecomers huddled outside the door.
“We did it!” I shout at DeeDee as she passes by with a tray of shots.
“Fuck yeah we did!” she calls back, swinging her hips like a hula hoop artist and still managing not to spill a drop.
I’m standing behind the bar gate, watching the students in the crowd jostle around on the dance floor and converge at the bar like thirsty vultures, spending the money we desperately need. I was terrified this whole plan was going to flop, but the night has been nothing but a success.
I can’t help thinking it’s almost been a littletoosuccessful. I keep eyeing the line outside the crowd like there’s a dynamite fuse tangled around everyone’s feet. There’s so much energy in this room, and there’s not enough space to diffuse it if things get ugly. Still, we made it through the show, and I do my best to rein my nerves in as the DJ takes over.
Our setup isn’t ideal for Code Ventura; two of our biggest bartenders who are functioning as extra security for tonight have to shepherd them all the way through the rabid crowd to where I’m standing so I can let them into the back.
“That was an incredible show!” I congratulate them once we’re all in the kitchen, which is only slightly less loud than out front. I start passing out the towels and water bottles I’ve got ready.
“Thanks.” The band’s bassist and only female member, Ingrid, gives me a crooked smile as she takes the towel out of my hand and mops her face.
Roxanne and Cole burst into the room behind me, Roxy clearly high on the music and possibly a little tipsy as she pulls me into a hug that nearly spills the drinks she’s carrying down my back. Most of the staff have been around long enough to remember the days she was a bartender herself, so she never gets in trouble for slipping behind the bar. Cole is as stoic as ever, but I recognize the subtle twist of his lips that means he’s having a good time.
“Taverne Toulouse has still got it!” Roxanne exclaims.
“Tonight, at least,” I agree.
