The story is now live on Patreon! Oh, man, I am so excited and nervous to share the adventures, misadventures, and trials of Jacob and Skye, two guys who should probably be very familiar to many of you. The original fic is already so much longer than the fanfic, so I hope you enjoy!
https://www.patreon.com/chibinightowl
Teaser below!
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Tuesday nights suck. They’re so goddamned slow Jacob often wonders why he even bothers to open the bar at all. With no major sporting events to drive business, all he has before him is one long stretch of seemingly endless summer nights, broken only by the weekend crowd who storm this place for whatever the fuck he comes up with in his small kitchen.
At least the only time he’s wasting right now is his own. There’s a reason his staff is only around on the weekends at this time of year; everything else he can handle without them.
Which is fine because he can use the downtime to catch up on his reading list after the busy first half of the year. No one ever believes a guy of his height and weight is a closet bookworm, but hey, appearances can be deceiving. He’s more than just muscle and a pretty face.
Jacob turns the page, taking a quick look around at the people present before diving back in. Two men sit over by the pool table watching a baseball game on the big screen. Diehard fans, both of them, and ones that he’s known since he bused tables back when Mike was still alive. The game is in the bottom of the fifth, so they’ll be a while, but as soon as they leave, he’s closing. No point in wasting any more money on his electric bill than he needs to.
The sixth inning has just started when the front door opens, letting in a rush of hot and muggy air that smells faintly of trash that isn’t getting picked up until tomorrow. Jacob looks up from his book and frowns.
So much for closing early.
The guy who wanders in has his attention on his phone, looking down and then up like he isn’t sure this is the best idea. He’s a new face around here, young, probably a bit younger than Jacob, with black hair and blue eyes hidden behind some hipster looking glasses, and wearing a navy suit and tie that are way too nice for this neighborhood.
He also looks kind of familiar, but Jacob can’t quite place him, which mildly annoys him because he’s good with faces. This guy’s features are striking enough to stand out, not blend in with the crowd.
Navy Suit Guy sits down at the bar in front of the TV playing reruns of Adventure Time, looking like the old wood and cracked vinyl are about to bite him. Yeah, he’s definitely not from around here.
Jacob sets down his book and wanders over. “Welcome in,” he says by rote, not particularly meaning it tonight. “What can I get you?”
The question appears to startle the guy. “Uh, just water for the moment. With lemon.”
Seriously? This is a bar, not a restaurant, not unless there’s more of these guys on the way and this one is designated driver.
“Sure,” he replies instead. “One sec.”
Ice and water are easy enough, but the only time Jacob breaks out the citrus is on the weekend when he gets more orders for something other than a glass of beer. For shits and giggles, because he’s feeling especially petty at the moment, he finds a small bottle of lime juice in the small fridge behind the bar and squirts some into it.
“Don’t have lemons during the week,” he announces when he sets the small glass down on one of the worn out cardboard coasters he tries to reuse as much as possible. Already, the glass is sweating in the humidity his air conditioner can’t quite dispel. “Have to come back on Saturday for the real thing.”
This time, Navy Suit Guy does look surprised and he fiddles with his glasses as he takes in the slightly muddled water before him. “Uh, thanks.”
“Lemme know if you want anything else.” Jacob wanders away before the guy can reply. The last thing he wants right now is to deal with unpaying customers, especially ones who look like they can afford it and are just being cheap for the sake of it.
He barely has time to pick up his book when the door opens again, this time revealing a blonde woman in a black suit with legs that go on for fucking miles. Trying not to gape, because it’s not everyday someone as gorgeous as his waitress and best friend Wren appears in his doorway, he heads over to the end of the bar where Blondie has taken a seat closest to the door.
Huh, apparently she’s not with Navy Suit Guy.
“Welcome in,” Jacob repeats, this time a little more polite because she’s giving him some serious cop vibes. “What can I get started for you?”
Blondie has brown eyes, which is strange to see on someone with what he thinks is natural blonde hair. It reminds him of Amber’s, his other waitress, just paler. “I’ll have a Shirley Temple.”
That is the last thing he expects her to order and he blinks in surprise. “Sure, be right back.”
The only time he makes these are when he’s babysitting Lisa, mostly as a bribe to keep her holed up in the booth at the back of the bar with all her ‘colors’ and books while he does his job. Amber always gives him shit for sugaring her up when she comes to get her after evening classes at the community college are over.
Not his problem.
He returns with the drink and another worn coaster. “Anything else?”
“I’m good for now, thanks,” she replies, taking him in before returning her attention to the news headlines on the TV screen above.
Well, at least she’s a paying customer.
Still, it doesn’t escape his attention, even when Jacob returns to his book, that her eyes are constantly moving, darting all over the place with very little movement on her part. He thinks about the mob he’s mostly convinced are using the dry cleaners next door as a money laundering front and wonders if she’s here about them.
If she is, it’ll suck ass to try and find a new tenant for the business space. This area isn’t exactly a booming economy and rather than read, he starts mentally adjusting his budget.
After a few minutes, he gives up. Numbers aren’t his thing, they’re Wren’s and that’s what he pays her extra for, to balance his books each month. He heads over to his regulars to check on them and pours another beer for one of them, then makes his way over to Navy Suit Guy who’s still making sad faces at his barely touched water.
Unlike all the young suits Jacob’s met in his life who are so full of energy, drive and the desire to change the goddamned world, this one gives off a sense of weariness that is much more appropriate to someone twice his age. What brought him here tonight? He’s not from this area, that much is certain.
In his experience, the only people who wander in out of nowhere are foodies searching for what they like to call hidden gems, which always makes him laugh. This place isn’t hidden, it’s just on the wrong side of the tracks. At least once a week, some random foodie hipster wanders in, admitting they're here because of what they read online about the limited menu Jacob has developed over the years. Reviews are usually pretty good, even with that one asshole who gave him a single star because some enterprising soul stole his tires while he was in the bar. How is that his fault? The bar’s address is clear as day online, so he knew where he was going.
Moron.
Navy Suit Guy sticks out even more than those hipsters do, although this bar used to cater to the business type way back in the day, before the neighborhood started going to shit. Or so Mike had said when he started grooming him to take over. Mike was full of stories about what Jacob jokingly referred to as the good old days. Some were complete bullshit while others were so un-freaking-believable that they could only be true.
“Decide on anything else?” Jacob asks, leaning against the counter this time, which catches the guy’s attention. “The kitchen closes at ten.”
“Um,” he starts, then clears his throat before trying again. “I heard there are some really good fried pickles here. If I’m in the right place, that is.”
Jacob smirks. He called it, the guy's a foodie. “Yeah, you’re in the right place. Single or double?”
“Double. I haven’t eaten since lunch.” Navy Suit Guy ducks his head down a bit like he expects to be reprimanded for that admission.
“Sure you don’t want something else besides pickles then? The menu’s lean during the week, but I got chicken tenders that cook up fast.” If he’s turning on the fryer, might as well make it worth it.
The man looks thoughtful for a second and then his stomach rumbles so loudly Jacob can hear it from where he’s leaning against the bar. He can’t help the sharp laugh. “I think that answers that question.”
Navy Suit Guy nods, the tips of his ears turning pink. It’s a good look for him. “Yeah, I think you’re right. Better listen to my stomach tonight.”
Jacob shoots him a wink, which only makes the flush grow. Just how far down does it go? The guy’s attractive enough to make him curious. “Gimme a few minutes.”
The small kitchen at the back of the bar is Jacob’s pride and joy. After Mike died and left him with a surprise inheritance, he decided to put some of the newfound money he got back into the place that meant so much to him and the old man. New TVs, an upgraded cable package that included more than just sports channels - he’s a grown ass adult who doesn’t give a shit that he loves cartoons, okay? - with new lights out front because utter gloom just isn’t his thing. But the real work was done in the back where he converted a storeroom into a small industrial kitchen.
With the space to experiment to his heart’s content, Jacob took what he considered bar food mainstays and kicked them up a notch or six. His best friends, Wren and her fiancé Rory, were more than willing to be his guinea pigs. Still are, in fact.
He’s back in a few minutes with the pickles and the spicy aioli, which his odd visitor tucks into with gusto. The chicken takes longer to cook, so Jacob finds himself flipping through his book again, barely reading the words on the pages as he sneaks glances at him. The sense that he’s seen this guy before is growing stronger by the minute.
The small timer he keeps out front pings, so he returns to the kitchen to finish up the rest of the order. Jacob idly wonders what the guy will think of the doctored ketchup and mustard sauces that come with the chicken.
“Anything to drink?” he asks when he sets the basket on the bar beside the plate of half devoured pickles.
Wiping his fingers on the cocktail napkin that came with the pickles, Navy Suit Guy nods, swallowing a mouthful of pickles first. “Jack and coke.”
The order slides easily off the man’s tongue like he’s asked for this a million times, but Jacob is still a bit uncertain about his actual age. Jacob had easily been able to pass for twenty-one when he was still seventeen, thanks to a massive growth spurt and lifting all kinds of heavy shit for Mike. Regular meals and a safe place to sleep helped.
“Let’s see some ID first,” he says. “Those glasses make you look like you’re sixteen.”
A tired laugh escapes the man as he runs a hand through his disheveled black hair. At some point during the day, it may have been styled, but now it’s just a mess. “I get that all the time,” Navy Suit Guy replies and pulls out a wallet from inside his jacket. He slides out his driver’s license and hands it over.
“Then get a new pair,” Jacob states bluntly as he looks at the ID. It’s a bit worn, which makes it look more legit than the fake ones he’s confiscated over the years. But as he reads the birth date, takes a look at the picture, then the name he’s seeing, it finally dawns on him why the guy looks a bit familiar.
Skyler Duncan Rhoades-Dalton
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