All of my brothers were cool and good-looking and successful, and I was a fucking bartender.
Not that I was bitter, or anything. I mean shit, I was the best-looking of the lot, after all.
And, don’t get me wrong, I loved the bar. It was home. It was my entire life. The hard part was that I’d never gotten a chance to do anything else. When Mom died it had been left up to me, as the oldest, to help Dad. I’d managed to get my high school diploma, but only barely. I’d been too busy cooking, bussing tables, and washing dishes to care about tests or homework. I worked so my brothers didn’t have to—during the week at least.
Dad always gave me Saturdays off and made whoever was around help out. Usually that meant Zane, Baxter, and the twins, since Brock always had practice and Lucian and Xavier were too young to be of any help. Saturdays meant dates for me. I’d take my earnings from the week and cruise the town on my bike—a chopped Harley Dad and I worked on every Sunday—and go scouting for chicks. Didn’t usually take long to find someone to kick it with for the evening, since I had Dad’s size and looks and Mom’s chill confidence and calm demeanor.
Well, most of Mom’s calm demeanor; I had Dad’s temper in there somewhere, and these days it wasn’t hard to bring it out of me. I guess I was mad because I had to run this place on my own. Back then I’d been bored and full of anger over Mom’s death and had been as ready to fight as I had been to fuck, and I’ve always been damn good at both.
Nowadays, the only fighting I did was to kick out the odd drunk. The fucking was a constant, since even though business hadn’t been great, Badd’s Bar and Grill still had a reputation for having a good-looking bartender who poured strong drinks and was always DTF if you were half-decent looking and had a nice rack—the good-looking bartender being me, obviously.
Ketchikan, being a popular destination for Alaskan cruises, almost always had a constant stream of tourists looking for a “local spot” to drink—which meant fine-looking honeys only in for a day or two. These easy hook-ups had a built-in escape clause: they knew they were leaving, I knew they were leaving, so there was no mess, no hurt feelings, no awkward morning-after chit-chat.
It was a good gig.
But it was the only gig I’d ever had. I had no idea what else I could do, what else I might be good at, what else I might want to do. I tended bar and fucked hot tourists, it’s what I did.
It was all I did.
Today, I’d spent almost an hour daydreaming and being pissed at my brothers, and still no one had come in.
“Fuck it,” I said, and poured myself a stiff scotch.
Stiff, meaning a rocks glass full to the brim with Johnny Walker Black Label.
I circled around the bar, sat down by the TV, and turned on ESPN, leaning the high-top chair back with my feet flat against the bar-front and sipped my scotch watching last night’s replays and highlights.
Maybe two hours later, I was on my second glass, and still hadn’t seen a soul.
Then the bell over the door chimed.
I hoped it was a pretty tourist, maybe a redhead with a nice set of tits, or a blonde with a fat, juicy ass.
What I got was Richard Ames Burroughs, the attorney in charge of executing Dad’s will: three-piece suit, slim leather briefcase, oxford shoes, slicked, parted hair, glasses that could appropriately and not ironically be called “spectacles”, and a tendency to literally look down his nose at me. He also had a tendency to act like the stools and bar top were infected surfaces, as if he might catch fuckin’ crabs or something.
Trust me, bub, I wash that bar down enough that there ain’t a single germ on the damn thing.
Richard Ames Burroughs stepped carefully across the floor—which was still clean from when I’d swept it before opening—and shuffled beside me. “Mr. Badd.”
“Name’s Sebastian,” I growled.
“Sebastian, then.” He pulled out the stool beside me, brushed it off with a napkin, and then set his briefcase on it. “I have your father’s will.”
I slugged my scotch. “He’s been dead three months, Dick. Why are you bringing this to me now?”
“You can call me Richard, or Mr. Burroughs, if you please. And it was part of his will that it not be read for twelve weeks after his death. I do not know why, as he didn’t choose to offer a reason.” He paused, opened his briefcase. “I’ve sent copies to each of your brothers, or, at least, those for whom I could locate a physical address. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Your father was very specific that he wanted me to wait three months before reading the will, and that you were to be the last one to whom I read it.”
I pushed the sleeves of my thermal Henley up past my elbows, baring forearms covered in the ends of my full-sleeve tattoos. “Okay, well, that’s fuckin’ weird. What’s the damn thing say, then? Let me guess: I’m broke, he was broke, the bar is forfeit, and I owe a bunch of money I didn’t know Dad owed.”
“Lord knows that’s exactly what one would expect, a filthy place like this,” Richard said, plucking a folder from his briefcase. “But I think you’ll be rather surprised.”
I lowered my stool onto all fours, set my scotch down, and stood up to tower over the slimy pencil-dick lawyer. “Listen to me, pissant: you come in here talkin’ shit about my fuckin’ bar, I’ll crush you like a goddamn cockroach.” I crossed my arms and flexed to prove a point: my arms were thicker than his legs. “So how about you say what you came here to say and I won’t knock your fuckin’ Ivy League white teeth down your skinny little chicken neck.”
I was coming across a little…aggressive, maybe, but he creeped me out and made me feel like he thought he was better than me, and that pissed me off.
He paled, stumbled backward a few steps. “No need for threats, Mr. Badd, I simply—this isn’t—ahem. As you say, I’ll get to the particulars of the will.” He opened the folder, shuffled papers, adjusted his spectacles, read in silence for a few minutes, then replaced the papers in the folder but didn’t close the folder. “Your father managed to save quite a large sum of money, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
I blinked at him. “He…what?”
“Your father owned this building outright and lived above it, so he had very little by way of bills except the overhead of the bar, which he kept to a minimum and, for many years, it seems this bar was quite successful. He was parsimonious, and used only small amounts of the profits. He spent remarkably little, as a matter of fact.”
I nodded. “That makes sense. So how much did he leave, and who to?”
“To whom, you mean,” Richard said.
“Don’t correct my fuckin’ grammar, you fuckin’ dork,” I snarled. “How much, and to whom?”
Richard blinked at me for a moment, and then he cleared his throat again. “Ahem. Um…he left a sum total of two hundred and ninety thousand dollars to be split even between the eight of you Badd brothers. Not a fortune, but a sizable sum. Plus the deed to the bar, but that’s not part of the two-ninety being distributed per the will. As for the distribution itself, well, that’s where it gets a little more complicated.”
I growled. “Complicated? What’s that mean? What’s complicated about who Dad left his money to?”
“Well, usually in circumstances such as these, the monies are distributed equally amongst all parties, or in favor of one or another of the deceased’s issue, which usually leads to arguments and lawsuits, but that’s neither here nor there, in this case.”
I twirled my hand in a circle. “Get on with it, Dick. What’s the short version for us poor uneducated folks?”
He sighed. “It means your father left specific instructions which must be completed before any of the funds can be released.”
“Instructions?”
Richard nodded. “Caveats is the legal term applicable here. It means neither you nor any of your brothers get any money from your father’s estate until the terms are fulfilled.”
“So? What are the terms?”
He quoted from the will: “‘B
efore anyone gets a cent of my money, all seven of my wayward sons must return to Ketchikan, Alaska for a minimum of one calendar year, and spend that year living within reasonable proximity to Badd’s Bar and Grill, and they must contribute a minimum of two thousand working hours in Badd’s Bar and Grill during that time.’”
I had to sit down, then. “The fuck?”
“It means your brothers have to come back to Ketchikan to live and work here for one year. The two thousand hours figure is based on a forty-hour work week in a calendar year of fifty-two weeks.”
I tried to get my brain going. “So…what else does it say?”
“It names each of your brothers and their likely locations of residence. It awards you sole ownership of the bar, upon signature of the deed, and awards you—and only you—ten thousand dollars. The rest of the money will be split evenly between the eight of you, which comes to…thirty-six thousand two hundred and fifty dollars each.”
“So the ten grand to me…”
Richard consulted the will. “‘To my oldest son Sebastian, I leave ten thousand dollars outside the parameters of the execution of the will’s preceding terms, as a minor reward for his faithfulness over the years to me and to Badd’s Bar and Grill.’”
I choked up. “Minor reward…shit.” I blinked hard, went around behind the bar and poured more Johnny, slugged it down facing the grimy mirror behind the rows of bottles on the back wall. “Minor reward for my faithfulness. A fucking lifetime I’ve spent back here, and I get ten fuckin’ grand.” I had to laugh. “Jesus, Dad.”
I leaned against the back counter, took another long hit of scotch, and cackled. To be honest, I felt a little unhinged. Ten thousand bucks?
I mean, thanks Dad, that’s awesome. It’d keep the bar afloat for a while longer. But…shit. I kinda felt like maybe I deserved a little more by way of thanks. I was pissed, now. At Dad, for dying, and then for giving me a measly ten grand after all the hours I’d put into this place. Ten grand? Fuck. Felt like an insult. I’d have rathered it just go back into the pot to split up.
My brothers were going to flip the fuck out, though, that was a given—though whether they’d be more pissed that I got extra money or that they were being forced back here was anyone’s guess. Zane hadn’t been back in years, and I wasn’t honestly sure he was even still alive. The twins were in Germany or something, last I heard, on that crazy world tour opening for some big name act.
I glanced at Richard. “Did the will say where Lucian is?”
He flipped through the papers. “Um…no. It says Lucian’s last verified location was…Udon Thani, Thailand. That was as of six months ago, when your father created his will.”
“Thailand? What’s the little shit doing in Thailand?” I rubbed the back of my neck, feeling a tension headache coming on.
“I’m sure I have no idea, Sebastian. That wasn’t my business to ask.”
“Any idea how you’re going to get hold of the rest of my brothers, then?” I asked. “Good luck with Lucian, by the way.”
Richard closed the file, looking prim and satisfied. “Actually, I hired a private investigator to find your mysterious brother and, as of last month, my investigator was able to make contact with Lucian and inform him of the will. I don’t know where he is or what he’s doing, but he’s been contacted and informed of the situation. I’ve already been in contact with the rest of your brothers. I’ve spoken on the phone with Xavier, Baxter, and Brock, and I exchanged emails with Zane and the twins, Canaan and Corin, all of this within the last month or so, and they all save Lucian have indicated that they will be returning as soon as their respective situations allow. Most of them should be arriving in Ketchikan within the next few days, I do believe.”
I frowned. “You have Zane’s email address?”
Richard seemed perplexed. “Well, yes, of course. It was included with your father’s will.”
“Didn’t even know the bastard had email. Woulda been nice to know.” I took a long sip of my drink. “’Course, it wouldn’t do any good even if I did since I don’t have one.”
Richard coughed, which I suspected was meant to cover a laugh. “You were, honestly, the hardest to contact of all your brothers, with the exception of Lucian. There is no phone for the bar, you yourself do not have a cell phone, and this isn’t the kind of scenario I could arrange via mail, thus necessitating my trip here from Anchorage.”
“Yeah, I’m a caveman like that. I like to beat my prey over the head with a club before I eat it. Women too, as a matter of fact.” I could tell Richard wasn’t sure I was joking. “So. My asshole brothers are all coming back, then?”
“Zane is, I can say that for certain. He’s making his way here from his most recent duty station, although I’m not sure where that is. The others said they would return as their respective schedules allowed. The twins are committed to the duration of their overseas tour last I heard, but they said they’ll be back when it’s over, or sooner if they could work it out. And, as I said, I was only recently able to locate Lucian, so his intentions are anyone’s guess.”
I rubbed my face with both hands. “My brothers all hate this place.” I looked up at the lawyer. “Why would Dad do this, Dick? I don’t get it.”
“I would only be speculating, of course, since he didn’t explain his reasoning to me. But if I were to venture a guess, I would say it was his final attempt to force you to reconcile with your brothers.”
“There’s nothing to reconcile. We’ve never had any beef between any of us…they just hate it here. All this bullshit does is saddle with me seven pissed off brothers who hate this bar and this city.”
Richard shrugged. “I’m sorry, Sebastian. I’m only doing my job. There’s nothing I can do to change this. You could challenge it, of course, but that would be a costly and lengthy legal endeavor, and I honestly do not believe any judge would be inclined to change or reverse your father’s will for no good reason. The conditions are eminently reasonable, so it would stand, I’m certain.”
“Awesome.” I finished my scotch. “Well, that’s that, unless there’re more fun surprises in that will of Dad’s.”
“No, that’s everything.” Richard set a stapled stack of papers on the bar. “This is a copy of the will, which you may keep. I’ve covered all the important factors. If you have any questions after reading it through, call me. I’ve attached my business card.”
“Want a drink, Dick?” I asked.
He hesitated. “A glass of wine wouldn’t go amiss.”
I laughed. “Wine. You’re funny, Dick. This ain’t a wine bar, bub.” I poured him a measure of scotch in a clean glass and slid it over to him. “We serve liquor and beer and scabies.”
“Scabies…very funny.” Clearly unwilling to come across as rude, Richard took a tentative sip of the scotch, swallowed, and coughed. “Well, that will certainly put hair on one’s chest, won’t it?”
I laughed. “You’re a grown man, Dick, don’t you already have hair on your chest?”
“It’s…it’s a matter of phrasing, Sebastian. I am not a hirsute person by nature, however, if you must know.”
“Hirsute?” I ain’t stupid, but I’m not the most well-read person ever. My vocabulary doesn’t really extend to Ivy League sorts of words.
He took another sip and then indicated his chest, his voice hoarse from the whisky burn. “Hairy. Covered in fur.”
I struggled not to laugh as he tried gamely to finish the scotch without coughing, but it clearly wasn’t his cup of tea. Or, cup of whisky, I should say. He finished it, though, I’ll give him that.
I came around from behind the bar and slapped him on the back. “That’s a man’s drink, Dick. Want another? It’s on the house.”
Richard winced. “No, thank you. If you don’t mind, I must be going. My flight back to Anchorage leaves shortly.”
“Suit yourself.” I shook his hand, and just because I was that kind of asshole, I put a little extra crush into my grip. “Thanks for coming,
Dick.”
“Yes, I…well, I can’t truthfully say it was my pleasure, as my job is created via bereavement, but…I’m glad to have been of service. Call me if you have any further questions.”
“Sure will, Dick, sure will.”
He left shaking his hand and flexing his fingers. I may possibly have left handprints on his skin.
I spent the rest of the evening wondering which of my brothers would show up first, and how I’d react.
I was about to turn off the ‘OPEN’ sign and close up when the door opened, letting in late night rain and cold.
Instead of one of my brothers, though, an angel walked in.
A wet, bedraggled, hung over, pissed off angel in a sopping wet wedding dress.
But sweet mother of goddamn, she was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen.
Five-eight, hourglass figure. Hair that would probably be somewhere between full-out Irish red and auburn, when it was dry. Creamy, flawless skin. Fuckin’ curves, man. Like, Jesus. Whoever this fine-as-wine honey ditched at the altar was a sorry son of a bitch, or a complete jackass.
Those eyes though, bright blue, the kind of blue eyes you don’t see on redheads that often. I don’t know all the fancy words for different shades of blue, but if you’ve ever seen pictures of the ocean over by Greece, the kind of blue that’s just so damn blue it seems impossible…that was the color of this girl’s eyes. Did I mention curves? My cock went hard in my jeans just watching her stomp across the bar, watching the way the tight dress molded to her bell-curve hips and the way her silky, milky cleavage jiggled with each step.
That dress…Jesus goddamn. Skin-tight, obviously custom cut to fit her body, all drawn up into bunched wrinkles around her hips and waist, sleeveless top with heart-shaped bra cup things pushing up tits I’d love to drown myself in for hours on end.