Asylum

Chapter 9: A Private Show

I laughed. "Really? Well, I don't know if you'll have all the ingredients ..."

"Check," he suggested, and turned around to open a pair of cabinets that in a normal kitchen would have contained boxes of cereal and pasta, cans of beans and tomatoes, and maybe a loose bouillon cube or two. But Ivan's cupboards contained a few dozen liquor bottles and a sampling of glassware that would have made any bar proud, providing that bar only ever meant to serve two customers at a time.

I walked around the island to stand next to him and stare at the collection in amazement. "I had no idea all this was here," I said.

"Well, until this afternoon, it wasn't," he clarified. "But since I own several nightclubs and will soon own more, and now that I'm ... dating ... someone who might teach me a thing or two about what happens behind the bar, I figured I'd stock up."

Dating. I my heart tripped on that word as his voice had. Was that what we were doing? I bounced my eyeballs off the multicolored, variably shaped bottles in a quick visual inventory. It was like my Asylum backbar had birthed a baby in Ivan's kitchen – my quick perusal suggested that everything I needed was here.

I took out the two margarita glasses, a couple of pounders, the shaker, and the bar salt first. I was prepared to improvise if he didn't have any simple syrup, but I found a small bottle next to some Angostura bitters – wow, this collection was comprehensive – at the back of the bottom shelf.

Ivan pulled an unopened bag of stainless steel speed-pourers from higher up. "Do you need these?" He held them out for my inspection.

I shook my head. "No, not really. I'm only making the two drinks, so I'll put the caps back on the bottles when I'm done." I pulled down the Grey Goose and found some brown crème de cacao.

"But without the spouts, how are you going to do all your flips and tricks?"

I stared at him.

"What?" he asked.

"You want me to do flair in your kitchen?" I asked incredulously.

"Of course." He handed me the bag of pourers and walked over to the stool I had just vacated. "Why wouldn't you?"

My brain scrambled madly. "Well, the pourers and centrifugal force keep most of the alcohol in the bottle, but inevitably, a little flies out, so the flips and spins are a bit messy for home mixing."

Ivan shrugged. "It'll wipe up, and the cleaner comes tomorrow, in case we miss anything."

Okay. I felt the blush start to creep into my face. Damn it. "I guess I'm ... a little uncomfortable doing it ... here. In the club, I'm ... an actor, and I'm putting on a show. Doing it here would just feel like ... I don't know, showing off."

"So you're okay performing in front of a club full of people, but uncomfortable with a crowd of one?"

"It's not the size of the crowd," I protested, absently breaking the seals on the new liquor bottles. "I guess it's ... the anonymity. None of those people know me; you, obviously, do – biblically, even," I joked lamely.

"And you're afraid I'll think less of you if your performance is executed with something less than pinpoint precision?"

Maybe, I thought, images of shattered glassware and sticky liqueur dripping off faces and clothing and countertops filling my head, but I remained silent, my blush deepening under his gentle scrutiny.

He leaned against the back of the stool and interlocked his fingers over his shredded stomach. Even through the thick drape of his nubby blue sweater, I could see the smooth muscles of his chest and shoulders. My mind began to wander away from mixing drinks.