Sweet Surrender [18+]

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"Porn show by the box!"

Lauren Clarkson stopped washing drinking glasses and focused on a corner in the bar, where two drunk college kids were dry humping each other.

The girl in a very short and very tight red dress sloppily kissed a guy in jeans and a T-shirt by the digital jukebox. The girl wrapped her arms tightly around the guy's neck and one slender leg rested on his thigh as the guy's hand cupped the back of her upper thigh, slowly inching higher..

Eyes closed. Tongues out. Oblivious to the world – or other bar patrons – watching and waiting for a glimpse of something explicit.

Lauren wiped her wet hands on a dish cloth and joined two other bartenders – Everett and Tristan – at the ice machine behind the bar.

"I love my job," Lauren said, grabbing a handful of ice chips.

Everett and Tristan smirked at her and turned to pelt the couple in the corner with the small ice cubes breaking up the free peep show. Ignoring the groans and boos from some of the other customers, Lauren aimed her cold ammunition on the girl's thigh – not everyone needed to see her barely-there black thong.

"Take it outside," Everett yelled at the guy who dropped the girl's leg and glared at the bartenders.

Or behind the Dumpster in the alley like normal people, Lauren thought, recalling her own adventures there.

The girl gave Lauren the finger before grabbing the guy's hand and pulling him out of the bar. Lauren rolled her eyes and returned to washing glasses.

"Holy shit! What a fucking crowd tonight," Tristan muttered, shoving some dollar bills into a clear glass beer pitcher holding their tips.

College students and unpaid interns shouting drink orders to the bartenders for four to five hours at The Bitter Night was a typical Saturday night. Lauren thrived on the loud and chaotic environment; it kept her mind occupied and made the time fly to 2 a.m. closing time.

About a dozen small round high-top tables with well-worn wooden stools dotted the floor and a few framed scenic photos were firmly installed on the walls of the well-light dive bar. Two well-used coin-operated dartboards and one touch screen digital jukebox provided the only source of entertainment besides conversations.

Despite its sparse simplicity, the bar attracted ginormous crowds on the weekends with its cheap beer and convenient location near the university and maintained a high reputation courtesy of the regulars during the week.

"One hour left," Tristan announced, refilling a beer pitcher for a group of guys playing darts toward the end of the bar.

"Which fly is waiting for you?" Lauren asked, scanning the remaining customers. Fly was a simple code among the three meaning which customer was waiting for sex at the end of the night.

At one of the tables a group of four girls in push-up bras, crop tops, and low-riding jeans giggled and glanced at the guys throwing darts. A few regulars sat at the bar and talked to Everett while he cleaned. A dozen different cliques occupied the other tables littered with empty glasses and pitchers.

"Best friends at ten o'clock," Tristan replied, referring to the location of two blondes sitting at a table near the door.

"They know the rules?" Lauren knew he was always down for a good time, but he had no desire for a relationship.

Women gravitated toward Tristan like poor flies to a spider's web. Exotic looks, heavily tattooed arms, and thick hair dyed a different color once a month made him a bad boy that needed to be tamed to almost anyone that entered the bar. Except Tristan loved his life too much to settle down, a concept most women didn't understand but never stopped them from trying to conquer the sex god.