He stalks in wearing a wine-colored t-shirt, which, if I didn’t dislike him so much, would look fantastic as hell on him. It goes well with his dark hair, goatee, and darker complexion. He has on dark blue jeans and black motorcycle boots. The jackass rides a Harley, which—again— if I didn’t dislike him so much, would be sexy as hell. When he makes it to the bar, I am pouring a round of shots for table twelve. Table twelve has been here for two hours and they are a drinking bunch. “Hey, boss,” he greets, pulling on an apron. I eye his shirt and tilt my head at him. Extending my hand to him, I point my finger, running it in a sweeping motion. “What are you wearing, Murphy?” He looks down at his shirt and gives me a shit eating grin. No answer. He thought he was just going to come in late, not dressed in uniform, and continue on like none of that matters.
