Beer, Spaghetti, and Pharmaceuticals ||COMPLETED||

Fourteen Part 1

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Isaac leaned forward in his chair; his blonde hair flopped in his eyes and Alice smelled the liquor emanating through his teeth. One elbow rested on the back of his wooden chair while the other was perched in a puddle of sticky Jägermeister from the shots they ordered after Blaise and Emily gallivanted out the door.

    His eyes shifted behind his shoulder before tilting his mouth towards her ear. In a hushed voice, he said, "Hey, have I ever told you about the bartender?"

    She snapped her neck to face him. Her brows knitted, but a curious glimmer sparkled in her eyes as she met his.

    "No," she said. "Tell me."

    "Well," he craned his neck behind him to glance at the burly bartender. The man's scarred hands clutched onto a tattered rag as he polished a pint glass; his dark beady eyes scanned the room, keeping a watchful eye on the remaining drunk patrons scattered throughout the pub. Isaac turned his face to hers and covered the side of his mouth. "They say that he used to be the leader of this gang that was basically the equivalent of the mafia. Apparently, a few years ago a bunch of ex-members stormed into the bar, like ten of them at least, and tried to attack him for something."

    "Oh?"

    "Yep. But all by himself, with only his hands, he tied up them to a bunch of chairs and..." he looked behind his shoulder and lowered his voice before slowly raising a finger, "chopped off all their pinkies. Apparently he kept them, too."

    She pulled her head away and tilted her neck. "That's bullshit."

    "No it isn't."

    "He would be in jail."

    "I don't think gang members turn to the police for justice."

    "Well, if that's true," she said with her straw between her teeth, "then why do you keep bringing me to this dangerous establishment?"

    "What can I say?" he said, leaning back in his chair, swirling the beer the around in his glass. "I live for the danger."

    She immediately cracked up at his exaggerated, suave demeanor to give a snappy retort. To try to stifle her laughter, she stared at his brown leather oxford shoes. In the corner of her eye, she watched him rest both his elbows on the table and gaze at the bartender with a distant look in his eye. He gave a long, wistful sigh.

    "I want his life."

    She snapped her neck towards him.

"You want to be in a gang?"

    "Wha - ? No!" he said with his eyebrows nearly hitting his hairline. "I meant that I want his job."

    "Oh...you wanna be a bartender?"

    "I wanna own my own bar," he said and stared dreamily at the ceiling. "That's the dream."

    "Oh my god, why does every guy in existence want to own their own bar?"

    "Well, I can't speak for every other man in the world," he said. "But do you have any idea how fuckin' nice it would be to not worry about a lawsuit just because someone ordered the wrong amount of fries?"

    "I can't say I've ever thought about it."

    "Fuck, it would be great," he said. "I would sell the best spaghetti..."

    "Oh, god," she scoffed as she flipped her red hair over her shoulder, "you would totally open a spaghetti themed bar or something, wouldn't you?"