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“Yes, he must,” answered Sean and then promptly stuck a celery stick into his mouth.
“At least think about it,” Gabe said. “And if you’re thinking about bunking in the storeroom until your find a place, think again, Tessa. It’s against the law.”
“In what state?”
“In my state. My bar. My state. My rules.”
Tessa shot a lime wedge in his direction, not that it mattered. The writing was pretty much on the wall. With five days left before she had to move, she really didn’t have much choice.
ALL NIGHT GABE POURED drinks, a gazillion cosmopolitans for a gazillion females who were all looking to meet Mr. Right or Mr. Wrong and the gazillion single males who skimmed in their wake. Yeah, it was a rough life. Actually, it was the only life he’d ever dreamed of. Gabe’s great-grandfather had done it right.
In 1929, O’Sullivans had been a speakeasy when his great-grandfather fell dead at the age of fifty-three. Surprisingly enough, his wife had taken over, and ran the place until gin was flowing legally in New York again.
Years had passed and generations of O’Sullivans had worked the old bar. Each generation had taken it over and then spent their lives working to keep the place going. During World War II, Gabe’s grandmother had split the bar into two real estate parcels, keeping one, and selling the other, which had been, up until a few months ago, a bodega. Gabe’s father, Thomas O’Sullivan, had ignored the family business and chose to be a newspaperman until he died of a heart attack at fifty-six.
Gabe had inherited his great-grandfather’s dream, a dream passed down to his grandfather, his uncle and finally Gabe. As a kid, he’d worked behind the bar illegally, which had only made it sweeter. He loved listening to people talk, loved meeting new people and in general loved the bar. Where else could a kid have his picture taken with the New York Yankees and the Teflon Don? Nowhere else but O’Sullivans.
After his uncle had died, Gabe had worked four jobs to pay the back taxes on the place to keep it open, and even then he’d needed his brothers’ financial help. But things had worked out, and voilà, here he was. He’d updated the interior, changed the name from O’Sullivans to Prime and now he was mixing Jell-O shots with seven adoring females eagerly waiting on line to pay him for a drink, tip him another twenty and then scribble their phone numbers on the cocktail napkins. And the next step in the Gabe O’Sullivan hospitality empire? The full restoration of the bar into the space next door.
Considering the medical history of the male O’Sullivan genes, Gabe figured he didn’t have any time to waste.
He winked at a particularly lovely specimen with coal-black hair and honey-colored eyes that dripped with the promise of a good time. Jasmine, he thought, and slid a glass of wine in front of her. “You’re looking lovely tonight. Why aren’t there five guys angling to buy you a drink?” It wasn’t the most creative line in the world, but he wasn’t looking to pick her up, he only wanted her to like his bar.
Tessa walked behind him and slapped him on the butt, and he didn’t even stop as he reached for a clean glass. “Don’t mind her. She’s madly in love, but I keep telling her no.”
Tessa muttered something incomprehensible but most likely insulting and then went back to work on the other side.
Eventually Jasmine moved on, to be replaced by Cosmopolitan Amy, Banana Daiquiri Lauren, Kamikaze Rachel, Cosmopolitan Vicki and, for one short moment, Wild Turkey Todd. The hours flew by, as they always did on a busy night, and Gabe never broke a sweat.
There were a few interventions, just as there always were. Two fake IDs, one male patron who decided that Lindy needed to show more cleavage and a couple of Red Sox fans who didn’t understand that when in Yankees territory you better keep your mouth shut or get doused in beer. Typical but never boring.
Eventually the clock struck midnight and the crowds thinned to something less than chaos. Out of the corner of his eye Gabe noticed Cain handing Seth a twenty at the back bar, which meant only one thing. There was a new bar pool on the bulletin board downstairs.
Gabe took the stairs to the basement, where the kitchen/office/storage/bathrooms were located, as well as the betting board. Sure enough, a white sheet of paper was tacked up with a grid of numbers and letters. Nothing to indicate the bet, though. When would they learn the right way to run a pool? Amateurs.
While he was enjoying the calm, Gabe began breaking down beer cases, and soon Cain was downstairs, adding a new square to the grid. Cain was quiet and bulky, a New York fireman who bartended on the weekend in order to survive. You’d think they’d pay men better to risk their lives by running into burning buildings, but no. Gabe didn’t mind, because he judged every man by how fast he could mix a martini, and Cain was almost as good as Tessa. Almost.
“What’s the bet?” Gabe asked.
“You don’t want to know,” said Cain loading a rack of glasses through the dishwasher.
“Yeah, I do.”
“It was all Sean’s idea.”
Which wasn’t encouraging. “What’s the bet?”
“How long you and Tessa can last.”
“As roommates?”
“Before you have sex.”
Gabe felt a punch in his head not unlike being clocked with a two-by-four. “You’re joking with me, right?”
Cain looked at him blandly. “No. Want to put some money down?”
Gabe swallowed. There were women that Gabe had sex with and women Gabe didn’t have sex with. In his head, Gabe had long ago covered Tessa’s body with a habit and a veil and pushed any sort of sweaty, thrusting thoughts far, far away. She’d come to New York still wearing the scars from her last relationship. In four years you’d think she’d have recovered—but, no, you’d be wrong. Tessa wasn’t like other women. She had her own set of goals, her own strange focus in life, and men weren’t a part of it, which was why she was the only woman he’d ever consider as a roommate, and only because of said habit and veil. When you lived with Mother Teresa, it wasn’t hard to keep things platonic.
However, right now it was past midnight and Gabe had been the recipient of four pairs of panties, seventeen phone numbers and assorted sexual propositions and, okay, he was a little wired.
It always happened as the night wore on. No big deal.
Gabe mentally clothed Tessa back in the habit, ordered his hard-on back in the bag, and pasted an easy smile on his face.
“You guys didn’t say anything to Tessa, did you?”
“You’re kidding, right? She put down a bet.”
Oh, God. The habit and veil were slowly being peeled away, but Gabe kept that damned smile on his face. “Poor kid, I’ll have to let her down easy. How long did she think she’d last?”
“Hell Freezes Over. Last entry, right here.” Cain pointed to the board where HFO was neatly penned in black ink.
“She said that?”
“Her exact words weren’t ambiguous, but you got a fragile ego. So you gonna bet? The pot’s almost three grand.”
Gabe continued to break down boxes with an amazing amount of compressed energy. “I won’t encourage morally bankrupt games of chance in my bar.”
“What about the Super Bowl pool, March Madness, the Subway series and last month’s bet on which patron was most likely to get breast enhancements?”
That one lapse in judgment had cost Gabe a sweet thousand dollars. And who knew that the Yankees would actually choke in the bottom of the ninth? “Shut up, Cain.”
“I have to go upstairs. Lindy can’t cover the bars alone.”
“Tessa’s gone? I wanted to talk to her before she went home.”
Cain shrugged. “Her shift was over. She left. If you run, you could probably catch her before she hits the subway station.”
Gabe bit back a curse and headed out into the long, lonely darkness that was Manhattan at the midnight hour. The outside air was cool and crisp and felt marvelous after being cooped up in the bar for so long. He broke into a run simply because he needed to move.
Around the corner and down two flights of stairs was the station, occupied by the usual patrons. A group of late-night partygoers trying to find their way back to Jersey. A mediocre saxophone player blowing out what was supposed to be the blues. A few kids heading home. A set of foreign tourists taking pictures. And, yes, there was Tessa, standing alone, waiting for the train.
“Why do you always do this? You know that one of us is supposed to walk you down here.”
“I haven’t needed supervision after dark since Giuliani was mayor, Gabe. Besides, I got my mace. They know not to mess with me.”
“Still.”
“What are you really here for?” she asked him quite patiently. That was Tessa. Never out of sorts. His gaze skimmed over her, checking for some sort of weakness, but there wasn’t any, which for some reason always surprised him.
Not that she was hard. Oh, no, Tessa was all cotton and smiles, but she held herself back, one step between her and the rest of the male world. Gabe included.
However, there was something oddly vulnerable about the whacked brown hair that had never seen a decent cut juxtaposed against the model-sharp cheekbones that could cut glass. Like a painting half-done or a bridge half-built.
A work in progress. That was Tessa, too.
Her summer-green eyes look tired, but she was bouncing back and forth on the soles of her running shoes, still full of energy, going home to an apartment that would be gone in five days.
“I wanted to hammer out the details before you went home. I got Danny to cover for me all day on Monday, so I think we’re good to go.” He was actually there to see if the bet had unsettled her, but she didn’t look worried. So if she wasn’t worried, then he wasn’t worried either.
“You know this is only temporary.”
“As long as you need. I don’t use the room much anyway. I can put everything in storage tomorrow.”
“Don’t you dare touch a thing. I won’t take up any space. Besides, this is short-term. Temporary, just like you said. I’m not going to cramp your style. It’s all about education for me, Gabe. I’ve got a few notices posted around the campus, and on craigslist, so hopefully something will pop soon and I’ll be out of your hair. Three weeks tops.”
“It doesn’t matter how long you stay. You know that.”
“Yes, I do know that, and you’re a sweet man, but I need to take care of myself.”
“I’m really not a sweet man, you know.”
“You gonna make me move in all by myself, Mr. Unsweetened Man?”
Gabe stuck his hands in his pockets. “How much furniture do you have?”
“A twin bed, a nightstand and some books,” she answered, with a remarkably sweet smile.
“Oh, yeah, that’ll take seven minutes to load up. I’ll borrow the truck from Cain and be there at ten.”
The lights of the train appeared in the tunnel and she stood on tiptoe, planting a friendly kiss on his cheek, “You really are a sweet man.”
“I’m not a sweet man.”
Tessa pointed up the tracks. “Look, that old lady—she’s getting mugged!”
Gabe took off running, but Tessa’s laughter stopped him in midstride.
“Busted!”
He walked back, whapped her on the arm. “I was going to clean up the place for you, but not anymore.”
The doors on the train slid open, and she waved before slipping inside.
Gabe didn’t bother to wave back. Sweet man, my ass.
2
MOVING DAY WAS A piece of cake. Of course, that’s the way of it when all your worldly possessions fit into three wooden packing crates. Except for the decrepit twin bed, which Gabe glared at, nostrils flaring in disdain—not a usual look for him. She didn’t like his judging her possessions—or lack thereof—and so Tessa protested a few minutes longer than she might have if he had remained glareless.
Janice, her former roommate, had already moved out, and the apartment was depressingly barren. Tessa ignored the equally depressing sensation in her gut. Moving in was always a new adventure. Moving out was another change-of-address form and another adventure squandered.
For once, Tessa wanted to know that when she changed her address it was because of something good, something positive, something that Tessa could be proud of.
Gabe, not sensing Tessa’s emotional turmoil (typical male), hovered over the thin metal frame and then poked a finger at the mattress. “This is your bed?”
It was stupid to get worked up over a mattress that belonged in a Dumpster, but seeing Gabe mentally inventorying her life reminded her of how far she still had to go.
“A featherweight mattress is easier to move.” She slung it over one shoulder to demonstrate. “See?”
He stood firm. “That’s not going into my place.”
“This is my bed. What am I supposed to sleep on?”
Gently Gabe disentangled her fingers from their death grip on the mattress. “I’ll buy you a futon.”
“I hate those,” she began and then stopped, sighed. There was no point in lying—she loved futons. “I don’t want you buying me furniture. I can afford it.” And she could. Her savings account was surprisingly healthy considering her lack of furniture and fashionable attire. Tessa had priorities—namely the perfect one-bedroom apartment in Hudson Towers.
And it was perfect. A prewar building on West End Avenue. With a board that kept out the riffraff, but wasn’t crazy-stringent about it either. Reasonable rents and maintenance fees a full seven percent less than the average. They had redone the shared space four years ago, a great use of morning light and windows. The place had a part-time doorman, Rodney, which was much more sensible than hiring a full-time doorman who would only sit on his heinie all day and earn union wages from overpriced rents.
Ah, someday…
“You sure you can afford a bed?” Gabe asked, pulling her out of her apartment fantasies. She hadn’t planned on buying a new bed, but her old one was on its last legs, literally. At her nod, he tossed the mattress in the corner.
After that, she picked up a crate and headed for the door. “First ground rule—no more making fun of Tessa’s stuff. Observe the boundaries, we’ll be fine.”
He opened the door for her, politely following behind. “Deal. Now let’s get you home.”
GABE’S BUILDING WAS A postwar elevator building on the Upper East Side. The outside was a little too seventies for her own taste, but since he’d owned it for over ten years and it was probably worth close to seven figures, she figured she’d give him a break. That, and the cut-rate—i.e. free—rent. That had been another argument she had lost. However, as a consolation prize he’d let her buy lunch.
In the lobby there was a full-time doorman, Herb, a teapot of a man with a five-o’clock shadow on steroids. And once they got to Gabe’s floor she noticed the nice view, without parking garages to block the sight of the East River.
All in all, the apartment was as she’d imagined. A legitimate two-bedroom, not one of those skimpy conversions from a large one-bedroom. The main living area had all the basic essentials: television, couch and a dining table, mostly covered with newspapers. The kitchen was galley-style and definitely not big enough for two. However, the appliances were a step above what she was used to.
“You can live here?” he asked while she examined it room by room.
Thoughtfully she walked around, keeping her face nonjudgmental, wanting to make him nervous. “Yup,” she answered quietly.
He backed against the wall, far away from her—but not far enough. she was used to him at work, but this felt different. More intimate. If it hadn’t been for that stupid bet, she wouldn’t be nervous at all.
There was a silence, an awkward silence. A silence she normally would’ve filled, except she knew he would’ve seen through that because she wasn’t a social chitchat gal. He folded his hands across his chest, not seemingly affected at all. Of course, he was used to silence. He was used to living alone.
He.
Gabe.
Tessa felt it again. That fast leap in her stomach, like flying downhill on the Cyclone. She shrugged it off. Life was full of ups and downs and screeching corners, and she wasn’t about to let a little chronic stomach anxiety ruin anything.
