It Takes More

“Lena, Junkie’s tonight, right?” Marla yelled down the hall, referring to a relatively new nightclub we had begun to frequent and my current place of employment. She never was the quiet one, although quiet wasn’t in either of or vocabularies lately. When we both up and moved to California last year, we made a pact that we wouldn’t let anything, or anyone, stand in our way. We were going to live our lives to the fullest, throw caution to the wind, and think about consequences at a later date.

“I get off at ten, so I’ll see you guys there,” I replied from my place in front of my bathroom mirror. My brother was coming to visit later that night and I unfortunately couldn’t call out of work on a Friday night and then show up to party at the same club. Not that I wanted to, I wouldn’t give up Friday night tips, not to mention my regular customers who knew I was working, for anything.

I waved goodbye to Marla, who was sprawled out on our sectional sofa watching her favorite drama, as I exited the apartment we shared. When we first moved to Sunny Haven we didn’t have a place to stay. We pooled our money and resources to pay for a few weeks living out of motels when we couldn’t stand Marla’s cramped ford Focus any longer. We soon found minimum wage jobs, just something to bring in enough money for us to rent out an apartment. Our first apartment was a piece of crap that only lasted a few months.

Luckily I found my current job, which brought in enough money for us to upgrade our place of living as well as our quality of living at the time. Marla and I had decided to go out for a change, to explore the L.A. nightlife. Neither of us had ever been too crazy when it came to partying, probably due to Jack’s presence wherever we were, but hadn’t done much along the lines of our pact, and didn’t see the sense in wasting time. We went to a popular bar that one of our neighbors had recommended. They said it was the place to be on the weekend and offered to take us out. It turned out that the place was pretty small and a bit exclusive, but we lucked out because our neighbor knew one of the bouncers who conveniently didn’t ask to see our ID’s.

Despite Marla and I’s pact I couldn’t bring myself to put myself out there. I took celebratory shots with my best friend and then watched from a stool at the bar as she waltzed onto the dance floor, her focus on a good-looking guy. As I watched the actions taking place around me, I noticed that a lot of the guys in this club were good-looking, as well as many of the guys I had come across in this city, especially the bartender.

There was a man and a woman, the male looking about my age while the female looked a few year my elder, tending the bar I was leaning against. They were both moving around at a fast pace, taking and fulfilling the partygoers’ orders. I couldn’t help but watch as I sipped the green liquid from the glass at my fingertips. I noticed that the female seemed like a pro, like she had been tending bar all her life. The male on the other hand, well, he looked like a beginner, especially compared to his coworker. I watched him nod his head to every order being placed as he fumbled with glass and bottles of liquor, attempting to pour the correct concoction into each slightly frosty glass.

After a few entertaining minutes of sitting back and watching the guy hand out drinks that made the recipients turn their faces either in disgust or surprise, I quickly picked up on each mistake the bartender made; each wrong measurement, each mismatched recipe, and each erroneous liquor being poured. Deciding that the crowd who came here to drink deserved a drink that they not only expected but also enjoyed, I offered my two cents worth of alcoholic beverage knowledge.

I leaned over the counter of the bar, getting closer to hot guy standing on the other side. “I believe that should be one peach schnapps, one grenadine, and one vodka with orange juice,” I whisper-yelled.

His head snapped up as his hands stopped mid-pour. His green eyes dazzled in the dim bar lighting and I was temporarily memorized until he spoke. “Can you repeat that?” he asked with a laugh evident in his voice, a smirk soon reaching his eyes.

I hopped off of the stool I had been occupying, making my way over to the other side of the bar. I wasn’t sure I was allowed behind the bar, actually, I’m pretty sure I wasn’t, but I felt the need to help the struggling bartender. I repeated the recipe for the popular Sex on the Beach as I picked up the correct bottles and poured their contents into the four glasses spread out on the countertop. He just stood there and watched as I took over his job, making the majority of the drinks for the crowd that was slowly dissipating.

As it thinned out and drink orders dulled down, the young bartender turned to me with a smile. “You sure know what you’re doing, huh?” he asked.

“Ehh. Years of watching my brother party; you learn a few things.”

“I’m Asher. Asher Marshall,” he introduced himself as he extended his hand after whipping it on a nearby dishrag.

“Elena,” I answered simply, shaking his hand lightly.

“Well, Elena. You saved my ass back there. So, thank you.”

“No problem. I couldn’t stand by and watch you butcher those drinks much longer,” I said, letting a small smile creep onto my face to show I was just teasing.

“Who are you?” a female voice asked from behind me. I turned slowly to see the female bartender standing with her hands on her hips. “And what are you doing behind my bar?”

“Angie, this is Elena. She was just showing me how to make a drink I was having trouble with,” Asher answered for me, obviously not wanting me to get in trouble for helping him out.

“I could see that. How old are you?” she asked, her eyes trained on me.

“Eighteen,” I answered timidly, hoping she didn’t notice that I had been drinking earlier.

“Okay, I’ll ignore the fact that I served you and your friend earlier and instead ask if you need a job.”

I stared wide-eyed at the woman. Not only did I just admit that I had been drinking illegally in her bar, but I had probably also illegally served alcohol at an establishment that I wasn’t employed at, yet she was asking if I needed a job. She was offering me a job. This was crazy.

“Hello, you still with us? What was her name?” she asked the boy next to me.

“Elena, it’s Elena,” I answered. “And I would love a job.”

That was about seven months ago. I didn’t get paid for that first night, but then again, I was expecting to. Angie, who I soon learned was the head bartender and was responsible for training Asher that night, became my manager and Asher and I became new partners on the weekends. Junkie’s was always packed on the weekends and we needed two bartenders to meet the high demand for beverages. Asher and I were always paired when we worked together and I taught him everything I knew. We became quite a team behind the bar, not to mention outside of it.

I learned that Asher was nineteen and an aspiring actor. He moved from Texas to L.A. the summer after he graduated from High School. He was a Southern boy through and through. From the heavy accent to the sun kissed dirty blonde hair that fell into his eyes, the boy screamed Southern made.

We became fast friends, sharing our love for superhero movies, and ice cream. We started to hang out outside of Junkie’s when he wasn’t auditioning for some role and I wasn’t studying my ass off at Sunny Haven Community College. Asher became my second boyfriend, my only one since High School. Our relationship was simple, easy. We had many things in common, but enough differences to keep things interesting.

As I walked into Junkie’s twenty minutes later Angie greeted me. “Elena! There you are. We need help bringing up stock. This weekend is supposed to be huge! You and Ash better be ready for-”

I cut off her rant that would most likely never end, “Chill, Ang. I’m sure Asher is on his way and the bar will be freshly stocked and ready to go well before doors open.”

As if on cue, Asher strode through the doorway, placing an arm around my waist in a half hug as he kissed my forehead. “Hey Ellie. Angie. Ready for a Friday night?”

“Ugh,” Angie groaned as she walked into the back room. Asher watched her leave, raising his eyebrow at me in question.

“She’s just stressing as usual. Come on, apparently we’re going to be slammed tonight. Let’s put those muscles to work.” I jokingly squeezed his right bicep before walking into the back room towards the liquor cabinets.