“Actually, I’m here about a job.” Nick forced brightness into his voice, the kind he’d perfected over years of deflecting. “Heard you might be hiring?”
The bartender’s expression shifted, becoming more assessing. He set down the glass he’d been polishing and extended a hand across the bar. “Ash. Owner here.”
His grip was firm but not crushing when Nick shook it. Ash’s eyes were an unusual shade of gray-blue, the color of storm clouds rolling in across the mountains. Something about them felt steady. Grounded.
“Nick,” he managed, pulling his hand back. His palm had gone clammy.
“You got restaurant experience?” Ash asked, already moving to grab a rag and wipe down the already-clean bar.
“Diner for two years. Breakfast, lunch, dinner rushes. I can handle the chaos.” Nick gestured vaguely at the packed tables. A cluster of bikers in leather occupied a corner booth, their jackets creaking as they leaned back with beers sweating on the table in front of them. One of them laughed—a bark of genuine amusement that cut through the ambient noise.
Regular customers occupied the scattered high-tops, nursing beers and appetizers that smelled like garlic and fried things. The air itself seemed thick with it—grease and hops and something wild underneath, like pine needles crushed underfoot.
His nose twitched at the combination.
“Why’d you leave the diner?” Ash didn’t look up from his wiping, but the question carried genuine curiosity rather than suspicion.
Nick’s chest tightened. The episodes. The three-day blackouts where his body just decided to check out and leave his brain behind. The way his hands had started shaking during his last shift at the diner, forcing him to set down an entire tray of eggs Benedict.
“Personal reasons,” Nick said, keeping his tone light. “I’m reliable. Well, mostly reliable. Okay, I can be reliable if given the opportunity to prove it.”
Smooth. Real smooth. He was definitely nailing this interview.
Ash’s mouth curved upward, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes. “That’s the most honest job pitch I’ve heard all month. Most people lie and claim they’ve never called in sick.”
“I prefer to set expectations low,” Nick said. “That way everything else is a pleasant surprise.”
“Philosophy and honesty. I like it.” Ash gestured toward the back. “Come on. Let’s talk in my office.”
He gestured for Nick to follow, moving around the bar with the ease of someone who’d walked this path a thousand times. They passed through the kitchen—a blast of heat and the sizzle of something on the grill—and down a narrow hallway.
The office was exactly what Nick needed and didn’t expect. Soft cream walls absorbed the bass thump from the bar, reducing it to a distant heartbeat. Three potted ferns crowded the windowsill, their fronds stretching toward venetian blinds that filtered the afternoon light into gentle stripes. A jade plant with coin-shaped leaves occupied the corner of a polished oak desk, its surface neat except for the plant and a manila folder.
A pocket of calm. An actual sanctuary inside a bar.
“Sit,” Ash said, settling into the leather chair behind the desk. He pulled the manila folder closer. “I need someone three nights a week minimum. Weekends preferred. Pay’s twelve an hour plus tips, which tend to be generous. We get a good crowd here.”
Nick sank into the chair across from him, his palms still damp. “I can do that.”
“Good.” Ash slid the folder across the desk. “Fill these out. Standard stuff. Tax forms, availability, emergency contact. Nothing invasive.”
The paperwork trembled slightly as Nick took it. A pen appeared, offered silently. He uncapped it and started writing, each letter a small act of concentration.
His name. His address. His phone number.
By the time he reached the emergency contact section, nausea was creeping up his throat. The room tilted slightly, the ferns blurring at the edges of his vision. Nick set the pen down carefully, pressed his palm flat against his stomach.
Breathe. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.
The office tilted again. Sweat pricked his hairline despite the cool temperature.
“You okay?” Ash’s voice came from very far away.
“Fine,” Nick lied, gripping the edge of the desk. “Just skipped breakfast.”
It wasn’t entirely untrue. He had skipped breakfast. He’d also skipped dinner last night and most of yesterday’s meals, his body deciding that food was optional when anxiety was running high. Which was most of the time.
He bent back over the paperwork, focusing on each letter like it was the most important thing in the world. The dizziness gradually retreated, leaving behind a fuzzy exhaustion that made his bones feel like they were made of wet sand.
