Her Dirty Bartenders (Men at Work #5) - Mika Lane Page 0,13

hand, glared at me, and walked over to the fruit.

She probably wouldn’t be back tomorrow, if she even finished out the night. Nobody liked being a barback, unless they really needed the money.

Or their car had just been smashed by an asshole like me.

9

Stell

Oh my fucking god. Had I done that much wrong in my life to deserve the plateful of bullshit I’d been served starting the very moment I’d driven into Denver, Colorado?

Did every new person in this town wander around with a black cloud hanging over their head? Or was I the only one?

And when was it going to freaking end?

I’d been in a car wreck.

I’d been offered a job as a prostitute.

I’d been fired by my best friend.

And now I was a bar bitch.

Where, incidentally, I worked with the very asshole who’d wrecked my car. And who was trying to weasel out of paying for the damage he’d caused.

I knew it. I should have stayed in Philly. Even married Vaughn, despite the fact that he was a self-centered, cheating-ass douchebag.

All my visualizations of Los Angeles, with its swaying palm trees, white sand beaches, celebrity sightings, and endless fresh sushi had done nothing except get me stranded halfway across the country.

Granted, I was with my best friend. There was that.

But I was never going to get to LA. I’d have to go back home, stay at my parents’ until I got some money saved, and return to teaching kindergarten.

“Hey,” the Car Wrecker, said. “Do you know how to change a keg?”

I straightened up from where I’d crawled under the bar to pick up the box of straws I’d dropped all over the place.

Why’d he have to be so damn good-looking with his man bun, nerd glasses, and perfectly sculpted jawline? Why couldn't he be short, fat, bald, and have warts on his face?

The universe was so fucking unfair.

I put my hands on my hips.

I didn't say anything. I didn’t need to.

Do I look like I fucking know how to change a keg?

Without a word, he got the message loud and clear.

“All right. Take the hand truck into the cooler, grab a new keg of Sierra Nevada, and bring it here. I’ll show you how to hook it up.”

Goody.

I had no idea how I’d identify a keg of Sierra Nevada, nor put it on a hand truck. Such was my new job.

I limped, because I’d made the mistake of wearing my cute boots, through a set of double doors, where I found the cooler Robbie had shown me earlier. I entered the giant refrigerator, propping the door open with a chair so I didn’t get trapped, and immediately found a keg with a big Sierra Nevada sticker on it.

Victory.

But not so fast.

Turns out kegs are heavy. Like really heavy. And I wasn’t able to budge the one I wanted. So, being the problem solver that I am, I tipped the bad boy over on its side with a loud bam! and rolled it onto the hand truck. I backed both out of the cooler, where they banged down the cooler step-up and onto the floor, and I wheeled the whole mess back to the bar.

“Good job. Look at you,” Robbie said as I maneuvered my awkward charge to the small refrigerator behind the bar where he’d pulled out what I assumed was an empty.

“Whew,” I said, wiping my brow. “I think I shook it up a bit.”

That was an understatement.

“No worries. It always happens. Okay, pay close attention.” He wedged the new keg into the fridge, something I was pretty sure I’d never be able to do, and then started attaching various hoses.

“Okay. Carbon dioxide flows into the keg here, and pushes the beer out of this valve here and up and into the tap.”

Wow. I had no idea that’s how they worked.

“This piece of equipment, that does both these things, is called a coupler.”

“Where does the carbon dioxide come from?” I asked.

He raised his eyebrows. “Good question. There are tanks on the other side of this,” he said, pointing to the wall holding shelves of liquor bottles.

“So complicated,” I muttered.

“It’s not so bad. Pretty soon you’ll be able to do this on your own. In a minute we’ll pour a glass to make sure the beer’s not too foamy.”

God. He was being nice. Maybe making up for trying to rip me off?

“Thanks,” I said, looking at the crowd queuing to order drinks. “Guess you better get back to it. The wolves are at the door.”

He looked around. “No