Evan Arden: Otherwise Occupied Part 19

"Good service, too," I informed her. "They have the best martinis in the city. You like martinis, right?"

"Sure, I guess."

Her hesitation caused me to stop in front of the elevator and take her by the elbow.

"It's okay?" I asked. I had no idea why I was feeling suddenly hesitant. I hadn't been to 676 for a while, but I was there enough in the past to be considered as much of a regular as anyone was. I'd never actually taken a girl up there with me, though. I'd taken a couple away or at least as far as their hotel rooms upstairs but never brought one in with me.

"Whatever you like," Bridgett responded.

I scowled at her lack of answer, which seemed to make her smile. Her hand reached up and touched the side of my face.

"It's fine," she said.

I leaned over and placed my lips against hers.

"You'll love it," I swore to her.

I took her up the elevator to the fourth floor and held her hand as we walked into the bar area. I recognized almost everyone there immediately and was glad to see familiar faces. Michele was tending bar, and Patrick was managing. They were an interesting duo and just watching the two of them interact was worth the price of the drinks.

The drinks were d.a.m.n good, too.

"What do you want?" Bridgett said. "A beer or something?"

"No," I said, "definitely not. Do you like raspberries?"

"I guess so."

"Hey, Michele!"

The bartender smiled and waltzed over to me. Her dangling silver hoop earrings danced around on her shoulders as she moved, and her mahogany hair swung back and forth in a high ponytail. She had on basic black from head to toe, like pretty much every bartender there, and her smile earned her a lot of big tips.

"Hey there, Evan," she said with that award-winning smile. "What can I get for you?"

"Give me one of those raspberry martinis you make," I said, "and Lagavulin, neat."

"Who's this?" she asked with a sly grin as she started to make the drinks.

"Michele, this is Bridgett," I said. They both smiled at each other. "Bridgett, this is Michele with one L.'"

"Don't forget it!" Michele laughed and nodded her head, which caused her ponytail to bounce around. She reached up on a high shelf to retrieve my scotch and then moved farther down the bar to gather the ingredients for the martini quickly and efficiently.

"You really are going all out here, aren't you?" Bridgett commented as Michele set our drinks in front of us.

"I figured after last week, you kinda deserved it," I said with a shrug. "A night on the town is the least I can do to make up for a night with me sick as a dog."

"Four nights," she reminded me.

"Right."

I sipped my scotch and watched her take in the surroundings. It was a nice place posh, in the heart of the Magnificent Mile, and with a good view of Michigan Avenue. Michele exhibited her usual rockin' service and seemed to be going the extra mile to be nice to Bridgett, even if she did keep glancing at me sideways. The way she raised her eyebrows, I wondered if she suspected Bridgett's occupation. Not that it mattered to me I didn't give a s.h.i.+t what she thought of my date.

Patrick stopped by and placed his hand on my shoulder.

"Good to see you again, Evan!" he said with a big Doogie Howser smile. "Haven't seen you in ages!"

"Been busy," I replied. My eyes bore into his. "I've been working a lot lately."

Patrick removed his hand, cleared his throat, and gave me another managerial smile.

"Make sure you treat this guy well, Michele!"

She gave him a "thumbs up" as she went back to mixing drinks for a couple farther down the bar.

I tried not to watch Michele too much. She was hot no doubt about it but she was also married. Not that I gave a s.h.i.+t; I didn't. I did actually have some scruples, just not in that particular area. However, she had turned me down every time I came on to her over the past year since I first found the place, so I had given up. Still, I liked watching her work, but I had to make sure I wasn't paying too much attention to her shakin' and stirrin'.

I ordered a PB&J waffle, and Bridgett just stared at me like I was nuts.

"I'll give you a bite," I promised her. "You won't regret it."

"I already do," she stated.

Michele brought out another round of drinks and rolled her eyes at me once she got a good look at Bridgett, which confirmed my suspicions. I wasn't sure how she knew, but I could tell by her expression that she understood the situation. I gave her the evil eye back the last thing I needed was someone who served me drinks judging me for the quality of my date.

Thankfully, Bridgett didn't seem to notice, not that I cared what Michele or anyone else thought about me or my date. However, this was supposed to be a nice night for Bridgett, and I didn't want something stupid to ruin it. So far, everything had been perfect.

"These drinks really are fantastic!" Bridgett said as she sipped the fruity martini.

"All of the drinks here are great," I told her. "They have awesome food, too."

We ordered a couple more drinks, and as crowds rolled in, the manager tried to help out at the bar. He scratched his head, stared at the rows of bottles on the shelf, and looked lost.

It was kind of like cabaret.

"You put cranberries in it, right?" he asked.

"It's a raspberry martini," Michele replied, "so you put raspberries in it."

"Got it." Patrick looked around the bar, then under it. "Umm...where are they?"

"You need a gla.s.s," Michele informed him. She pulled four beers and placed them neatly on a tray before walking off.

"Do you know what vodka Michele was using?" Patrick asked me as he held up two bottles.

"The good s.h.i.+t," I replied, which made Bridgett giggle.

He put both bottles back and grabbed a tall bottle of Grey Goose.

"You have no idea what you're doing," Michele mumbled as she came back and took the shaker from him.

The drinks were made, and the banter continued.

"Did you need a gla.s.s, George?"

"You have to pour it in the mouth!"

"This s.h.i.+rt keeps coming un-tucked I look like a total loser."

"You are a total loser."

"You can't talk to me like that!"

"So, where can I go to find a hooker?"

Maybe the patron thought he was being quiet or subtle, but he wasn't. The concierge chuckled and rubbed the spot between his eyes, which made his gla.s.ses bounce up and down on his face. I glanced over at Bridgett, who had obviously heard the guy's question. She wrapped her fingers around the edge of her new drink and stared at the floating fruit.

I reached over and placed the end of my finger under her chin to turn her towards me. For a long moment, we just looked at each other, and then I leaned in to press my lips against hers. My tongue tasted the raspberry drink as it reached into her mouth.

I tilted my head and kissed her again.

And again.

Her fingers gripped my arm through my suit jacket as she pressed harder against me. When we parted, her eyes were gla.s.sy and her chest rose and fell with her breaths. I couldn't help but smile a bit at her expression, which seemed to cause her to blush.

She was a f.u.c.king s.e.xy sight.

One of the other patrons noticed her, too, but one glare from me and he kept his eyes to himself.

"You are beautiful tonight," I whispered.

Before she could respond, the manager walked behind me, grumbling.

"I hate it when people wave their hand at me," Patrick mumbled under his breath. "What does she want me to do, jump over and serve her a drink?"

I glanced at the overweight woman with her hair up in a bun. She was waving frantically from one of the window-side tables. Patrick managed to put his smile back on before facing her, and Bridgett snickered.

"He's an interesting one," she said quietly.

"You haven't seen the half of it," I told her. I leaned in a little closer and pushed her hair off her shoulder. "I was in here once when Michele was on vacation the guy couldn't figure out how to make a rum and c.o.ke."

Michele brought out my PB&J waffle.

"Are you really going to eat that?" Bridgett asked as she looked down at the plate.

"Most definitely," I told her. "This s.h.i.+t is the best soul food in the world, right, Michele?"

"Better than chicken and biscuits," she agreed. "Actually, that's the only thing that could make them any better put a piece of chicken in the middle and cover it all with gravy."

"We should totally try that!" Patrick said. "I'm gonna see if they'll make that in the kitchen."

Patrick disappeared, and Michele laughed. Bridgett shook her head and rolled her eyes at me. I took my fork and cut off a little piece of the waffle, which was oozing jelly. Picking it up with my fingers, I turned towards Bridgett and held it up to her mouth.

"You want to try this," I informed her.

"I really don't think I do!" she cringed and mashed her lips together.

With one finger, I traced up the side of her neck.

"You would regret it for the rest of your life if you didn't try it."

"I'm okay with that."

"Come on," I urged. "If you can swallow guys' c.o.c.ks all night, you can definitely try this."

She glared at me, and I realized what I said was pretty douchebaggish but ended up rolling my eyes back at her.

"Just try it."

With her eyes still slightly narrowed, she opened her mouth and took the little piece inside. As soon as she sunk her teeth into the homemade waffle oozing peanut b.u.t.ter and strawberry jelly, I knew she was hooked, and she had totally forgotten what I had said.

"This is incredible!" she exclaimed.

"It's awesome, right? Food of the f.u.c.king G.o.ds."

"I have never eaten anything quite like this," Bridgett said. "It's amazing."

We shared the remainder with me feeding her chunks of it alternated with my own bites. When it was gone, Bridgett excused herself to wash the sticky jelly off her face where I kept missing her mouth.

"What the h.e.l.l, Evan?" Michele with one "L" stepped up in front of me from the other side of the bar.

She was giving me one of those looks that, despite my other observation skills, I had never understood. It was a look I'd only seen from women, and though it seemed to coincide with something whatever guy she was with did, I never understood what it was actually supposed to mean. It always ended up with the husband or boyfriend in trouble, though. Often, he ended up alone.

"What?" I asked.

Michele leaned over the bar on her elbows and looked up at me.

"That's a hooker," she stated.

"So?"

"So, what the h.e.l.l?"

"I always f.u.c.k hookers."

She rolled her eyes.

"Do you always dress them up like they spend half their lives at Saks for a night on the town?"

I glared at her.