Well, fuck me runnin’.
“Um, okay,” I said.
“And I want you to do it with me.”
“A bar.” I gaped. “You wantmeto help you open a bar?”
“A gay bar.”
“There are already gay bars in Tampa. Lots of them. Right down the street.”
“Not like this one.” He was starting to get animated now, hands gesturing as he talked. “Picture this: a neighborhood spot, not a club, somewhere people can have a conversation without screaming over the music. We’d serve good food, good drinks, and play sports on TV. I want it to be a place for the community that’s not just about hooking up or getting wasted.”
Our food arrived, and I stared down at my Cuban sandwich while trying to process everything he’d just thrown my way. My mind wouldn’t stop calculating the cost of the meal before me—fourteen dollars of food I hadn’t budgeted for. Mark said it was his treat, but that didn’t stop the guilt from snuggling up next to the anxiety in my stomach.
“Okay,” I said slowly. “That’s . . . not the worst idea you’ve had.”
“Right?!” Mark was bouncing in his seat. “I’ve been thinking about it for months. Tampa has clubs, sure, but where can you just grab a beer and watch the Lightning game with your friends? Where’s the neighborhood spot?”
“It doesn’t exist,” I admitted. “Not a gay one, anyway.”
“Exactly! I’m going to create it.” He pulled out his phone and started swiping through what looked like notes. “I’ve got the money from selling the company.I found a space—edge of Ybor, perfect location, good foot traffic.”
Mark had sold his construction company six months ago to a larger firm that had been circling for years. He’d made good money—reallygood money, the kind that meant he never had to work again if he didn’t want to.
The problem was that Mark loved to work.
He was the kind of person who couldn’t sit still, who needed a project the way plants needed sunlight. I watched him try retirement for two weeks before he started adopting dogs, decided to learn German for some ungodly reason, and generally drove himself insane with boredom. By month three, he’d switched his language lessons to French, learned to make pasta from scratch (his kitchen still had flour in places flour should never be), and started an ill-fated carpentry phase that was sure to end about as well as the house that fell on the wicked witch.
But the man was incapable of doing nothing, which meant this bar idea wasn’t just about business—it was about Mark’s desperate need to build something before he combusted from lack of purpose.
A thought occurred to me. “Mark. Did you already sign a lease?”
“Last week.”
“Mark Carlito Santa Maria Delgado!”
“Aw, you used my Christian name. In that Irish accent, you make me sound so sexy.”
“MARK!” I sank into my seat as diners around us turned to stare.
“I know, I know, I jumped the gun.” He at least had the decency to look sheepish. “But Finn, I’m losing my mind. I need . . . something. I need to build. And . . . I can’t do it alone.”
Of course he couldn’t. That was for damn sure.
Mark was brilliant with vision but hopeless with details. When he’d owned his construction company, he’d been the guy who could walk onto a site and see the potential, the guy who could talk a client into doubling their budget because his enthusiasm was that infectious.
But actual project management?
Permits? Schedules? Budgets?
He’d had people for that. He’dneededpeople for that.
Now he wantedmeto be his “people.”
“What exactly are you asking me?” I said, even though I already knew.
“I’m not asking anything. I’m offering you a partnership with a salary and twenty-five percent ownership. You’ll be Head Gay in Charge or whatever title makes sense. You’ll run day-to-day operations,hire staff, build the drink menu, and keep me from doing stupid things—”
