SEPTEMBER

Chapter Two

Luke

The material of my T-shirt sticks to the center of my back as I place the last box of dishes on the floor. Dragging a hand across my face, I wince as my fingernail snags on the cut underneath my left eye. The salt from my sweat stings. 

Leaning my elbows on top of the bar, I hunch forward, my ribs screaming, and take in the disaster around me. The crates of unopened champagne bottles. The boxes full of glasses and plates that need to be washed and stacked away. The pile of placemats, sliding off a dirty table onto the floor. Shit, I need to fix the leg on that table before a customer sits there. 

What the hell was I thinking? 

What kind of masochist would try to revive and run a restaurant/bar in only two weeks? 

Technically, the restaurant is open and running somewhat smoothly, but in two weeks we’re going to take it up a notch. Or twelve. Sighing, I close my eyes to recall the long list of things that still need to be bought, fixed, or sorted. 

 “Hey! You’re still here?” Gray walks in through the kitchen. Dressed in ripped jeans and a V-neck T-shirt, Grayson Harrington is a toss-up between a DC darling and a celebrated playboy. As a poker aficionado, he’s a serious gambler who has a penchant for just managing to slip past any consequences. Usually because of me; always trying to keep him out of trouble, I somehow manage to create more for myself. 

“Yeah man.” I answer him, looking around again at the chaos that surrounds us. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Aw, come on dude, you’ll figure it out.”

“We live in different realities, Gray.”

“I know. I’d never go out in public looking like someone jumped me.” 

Flipping him my middle finger, he chuckles. 

“Where was the fight?” he asks.

“Local.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you still fighting? Dude, I appreciate all the shit you did for me after Uncle Steve died. I know I got into some trouble and if you didn’t take those fights, I’d be getting my ass handed to me. But you can’t fuck around boxing anymore. Uncle Steve left you Barracuda.” Gray gestures to the restaurant literally falling down around us. “He trusted you with his legacy. You need to pull yourself together and be an entrepreneur now.”

I quirk an eyebrow.

“At least, try and be a respectable business owner.”

I tip my head back, pinching the bridge of my nose.

“Tell you what.” He smiles cockily, sauntering behind the bar and pouring us each a shot of tequila. “I’ll help you out.”

“By drinking all the tequila?” 

He raises his shot in my direction before tossing it back, smacking his lips. “By serving it. I’m a natural behind the bar, mixing drinks, charming women, chatting up the political who’s who. You know, all the things you suck at.” 

I take my shot, hissing as the alcohol warms my stomach. 

As much as I hate to admit it, Gray has a point. For all his wild ways and ability to avoid consequences for his actions, Gray does have a lot of qualities necessary in the F and B industry. Qualities I lack. Like the polite small talk with customers, the schmoozing required in the DC circle, the general affability of everyone’s favorite bartender. He pulls people in with his charisma the same way I push them away with my indifference. 

“You’re hired.” 

“Excellent. I’ll start tomorrow.”

* * *

It isn’t until later that night, when I’m back home from a grueling workout at the gym, that I allow myself to relax. Collapse on the couch, flip through the channels, a bottle of Corona in my hand. I move my neck from side to side, enjoying the pop and crack that shuffles down my spine as I twist my back. Not used to such long hours of crunching numbers, sorting through stacks of papers, and tracking down permits, my entire body is wound up, too tight. The gym helped some but sparring only clears my mind momentarily. Now that I’m home, the pressure of the debt I’m crumbling under is suffocating once more.

I take a swig of beer, allowing the tangy taste to coat my throat, and lean my head back into the couch cushions. My phone beeps, alerting me to a message. 

Uncle Preston: I’m stopping by in ten.

Great. I toss the phone on the coffee table and stack my feet on top, toeing off my sneakers and letting them fall onto the table as well.

What the hell could Uncle Preston want to speak with me about now?

I run through our agreement in my mind, mentally assessing any loopholes I may be missing. Coming up blank, I turn off the TV and stand, gathering my sneakers and random articles of clothing and tossing them into the hall closet just as a knock sounds on the door. 

Pulling it open, I come face to face with Uncle Preston. He’s dressed impeccably, looking every bit the Senator. A crisp white shirt even though he’s been at the office since 7:00AM, a perfectly tailored navy suit, red tie. His jacket is folded expertly over his arm and a cell phone is clutched in his hand. Uncle Preston’s blue eyes are cool and assessing. Calculating. For as much as he resembles my father in looks, one glance at his eyes notifies you that he’s nothing like the man Theodore Harrington was. 

“Hey Uncle P. Come on in.” I push the door open wider for him, holding up my beer. “Want one?”

A flash of disgust crosses his face before he masks it. “No thank you, Lucas. Just need to have a few words is all.” He walks into my apartment, scanning the space. There’s not much to see: a sectional from Ikea, a beat-up coffee table I purchased off Craigslist, a modest but clean kitchen, and an open door indicating my bedroom at the back. All my worldly possessions. 

“Well, I can see that you must have really needed the money.” 

I nod once, not trusting my voice to speak. I didn’t need the money because I want to live like some flashy playboy and party in the nation’s capital, and he knows it. After sinking most of my savings into Uncle Steve’s medical care, spending the money I won from a series of fights on Gray’s debts and Uncle Steve’s funeral, I’m pretty much broke. He’s purposely trying to push my buttons. Knowing this, I clamp my mouth shut, clenching my teeth. 

When I drove up to Connecticut to ask Uncle Preston for a loan, he said I should just sell Barracuda, take the money, and get on with my life. Part of me wonders if he’s right. I mean, on some level I’m sure he is. The smart, business, logical level. But I couldn’t do that to Uncle Steve, not after he entrusted me with something so precious. Not after he stepped into the father role I desperately needed when my own passed. And I can’t do that to Mom. She needs this. 

Fighting for the funds crossed my mind, but I didn’t have enough time to pull it all together before losing the loan to the bank. So, I went groveling. All the way to Uncle P’s massive estate in Connecticut. And he agreed to help me out.

With conditions.

Conditions that make my fingers curl into fists.

“Any progress with Grayson?” He raises his eyebrows.

“I don’t know what you expect, Uncle P. Gray’s always done things his own way. He’ll make up his own mind about how to support your campaign announcement and if he wants to be a part of it.”

Uncle P sighs, rubbing the space between his eyebrows. “I need him on board with this. It will help me immensely if he would take his rightful place by my side.” He cuts me a look, eyeing my sweats. “And if you would quit acting like Rocky Balboa and groom yourself into a respectable business owner.” 

I nod even though I couldn’t disagree more. Uncle P trying to push Gray into a political career is absurd. Uncle P is a senator. Elected by the American people. Not some oil tycoon trying to pass his company off onto his offspring. Gray has never shown an active interest in politics, but man, does Uncle P push. Especially now that he wants to make a run for the Republican Presidential nomination. I wonder if he would push so hard if he knew the truth about Gray’s gambling, the mountains of debt he’s hidden over the years, the scrapes I’ve pulled him out of with my fists.

“I need both of you on board with this.”

“What?” Confusion rocks through me. What could Uncle P want with me?

“Lucas, you and my son are practically brothers. What will the media think when they see Grayson supporting me but not you?”

I shrug, waiting for him to explain. I don’t give a fuck about what the media will think. Or anyone else for that matter. 

“You need to be seen supporting me like a father figure.”

My fingers begin to tremble with an inferno that sweeps my bloodstream at Uncle P’s words. A father figure? Is he delusional? He practically cast Mom and me to the wolves after Dad died.  Uncle Steve was my father figure while Uncle P was the devil incarnate. 

Loan, loan, loan.

Grasping onto the word, I temper my anger and bite out, “I’m not interested in politics.” My stomach churns and I feel sick. 

“I don’t know why you make your life harder, Lucas. You and Grayson stand beside me, do the right thing, and forget the loan, the money’s yours. But you always have to fight, always have to prove something. You borrowed a lot of money from me, Lucas, why not take the easier out?”

Because I’m not you. “I’ll pay you back, Uncle P.”

“You’re call,” he sneers, clapping me on the shoulder. “But I’m announcing my bid in March, so I at least need Grayson on board by January. Four months from now. Otherwise, I’ll need that loan back. With interest.” 

“Thanks for stopping by.” 

“Goodnight, Lucas. Get some sleep, you look ragged,” he says in farewell, his polished shoes clapping against the floor as he exits my apartment, closing the door behind him. 

I stand still for several moments, waiting until I hear the ding from the elevator before I collapse back onto the couch and take another swig of my Corona. 

Somehow, it tastes less tangy, and more like rust.