Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 94279 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94279 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
I changed from my work clothes—a pencil skirt and silk blouse—into a pair of jeans and a Carrick’s T-shirt, tied my hair into a messy bun on the top of my head, and ran back out the door. A flight and a half down, I thought I might’ve forgotten the keys to the bar, so I stopped midstep to dig in my purse. While I did, I accidentally eavesdropped on Olivia’s conversation.
“Eww. It was gross,” she said. “You know how boxer dogs sometimes have weird, big tongues? That’s what it felt like was in his mouth. Except his tongue was dry, like his lips. Seriously, there was no spit in there. He might be cute, but I’m never kissing him again.”
Oh shit. Liv is kissing boys? Can’t that wait until she’s at least … I don’t know … thirty?
I located the keys at the bottom of my purse. My niece definitely hadn’t heard me coming, or she wouldn’t have been talking so loud. So I stomped my feet down the rest of the flight to let her know I was on my way. I didn’t have time to address kissing boys with her now, but we would have a discussion about it the next time I watched her.
I passed her the same way I’d entered. In a rush, I stopped at the step she was parked on and kissed the top of her head.
“Have a good night, Liv. Text me the recipe card for what you want for dinner this weekend so I can pick up ingredients for us to cook together.”
“Whatever.” She shrugged. It was a typical teenage answer, but I knew she looked forward to our cooking on the nights her dad worked. Her mom had been a chef at a Michelin-starred restaurant here in the city, and we’d been making our way through her recipes for the last six months.
Outside, a cab was coming down the block. I hailed it, rather than chance waiting for the subway. It was five after six when I walked into Carrick’s—not too bad. I tossed my purse under the bar, grabbed an apron, and tied it around my waist as I walked toward my father.
“Hey, Dad.” I kissed his cheek and looked over at the guy sitting on a stool on the other side of the bar. Frank had been Dad’s partner at the NYPD for thirty years. He spent more hours in this place than my father did. “Hey, Frank. How’s it going?”
“I brought my own cushion to sit on because my hemorrhoids are so bad. You guys should really get these old stools repadded before someone like me files an Americans with Disabilities Act complaint.”
I smiled, shaking my head. “I don’t think your hemorrhoids are covered. But just in case, I’m going to have to start charging you for all the beer you drink to cover the cost of replacing all the cushions.”
He waved me off. “Let’s not go crazy, little miss.”
The bar was a little fuller than usual for a weeknight—even had a few faces I’d never seen before. I generally knew most of the patrons since I’d grown up in this place. Almost all of them were either NYPD or FDNY. Most of the ones that weren’t didn’t last too long with the regular crowd.
I helped a few people, keeping my eye on Dad as he walked over to see what two guys I didn’t know wanted. They ordered, and Dad walked over to the row of taps and pulled the lever for Guinness. As usual, he filled it three quarters of the way, and his hand shook as he set it on the counter. I saw the guy eye the beer and make a face, so I walked over.
“That’s not full,” he grumbled.
I pointed to the sign. “We don’t serve sixteen ounces here. Our price reflects that you’re getting twelve.”
About two years ago, when Dad was no longer able to serve beer without sloshing it all over the counter because of his Parkinson’s, we lowered the prices of the beers and hung up a sign saying our serving size was now twelve ounces. It was less of an issue with cocktails, because people didn’t expect a vodka seven to be filled to the brim like they did a beer.
The guy shook his hands in front of him. “Maybe you should hire someone to work the bar who isn’t an alcoholic with the shakes.”
I grabbed one of the bats we kept behind the bar and lifted it to my shoulder. “He’s got Parkinson’s, asshole. You don’t like it, get the fuck out.”
He held up his hands. “Jesus, lady. I was just joking.”
“I don’t find making fun of someone’s disability very funny.” The bar had gone quiet, everyone paying attention, ready to jump in. I looked around the room. “Do any of you officers find making fun of my dad funny?”