The Bar Next Door Page 11

  The night is milder than I expected, and we walk several blocks without any real plan in mind, heading up Saint-Catherine Street as the neon lights of late night businesses and the shadows of closed up storefronts play across our skin. The sidewalks are busy, packed with people who’ve spent too many winter months stuck indoors.

  “Where are we going?” I finally ask when the glow of the Berri-UQUAM metro stop comes into view up ahead. We’ve almost walked the length of downtown, keeping our easy chat from the bar going all the way.

  “I thought you were leading the way.”

  “This evening is clearly in your hands.”

  “Well...” She tugs at the sleeves of her coat, and her hesitation sparks a flare of anticipation in me as I wait for what she’ll say next. “I really should be getting back home because who knows what’s going to happen with work tomorrow, but...we’re not that far from the Old Port now. I made you drink beer. I’m sure you could find us a fancy place to make me drink wine. Then again, you are dressed like a frat boy.”

  Truth be told, we passed my self-imposed curfew an hour ago, but I’m not in any mind to say no to a night cap with the most fascinating woman I’ve met in longer than I can remember.

  “Sadly, the best wine collection in Old Montreal seems to be my own. There is one decent wine bar, but you’re right; they won’t let me anywhere near most places in the Old Port looking like this. My building’s not far. I could stop in and put some real pants on.”

  She twists her hair around her finger, and I can’t tell if she’s actually nervous about what she’s going to say or just playing coy. “Or we could just...sample some of the best wine collection in Old Montreal?”

  The image of her lounging on my couch with a glass of cabernet fills my head in an instant—only she’s wearing considerably less clothing in that image than she is now. As the Québécois would say: câlice de criss.

  “I wouldn’t say no to that.”

  I try to play cool as I start leading us to my building, but my chest is thumping like a teenage boy about to pull the old stretch-and-put-your-arm-back-down-on-her-shoulders move for the very first time. I’m going to have to take it slow on the wine if I don’t actually want to be idiotic enough to pull that move tonight.

  If Monroe has any comments about the opulence of the lobby, she keeps them to herself as we cross to the elevators, only speaking once I push the button for my floor.

  “At least it’s not the penthouse.”

  “What do you think I am? The son of a European heiress?” I joke.

  We exit on the eighth floor, and I lead the way to the unit at the very end of the hall, unlocking the door and turning the entryway light on before ushering her inside. I don’t even have time to give a word of warning before Madame Bovary comes bolting from within the dark depths of the condo, skidding to a cartoonish halt when she notices the new human in the doorway.

  “Are you okay with dogs?” I ask pointlessly as Monroe bends down and starts fussing over her.

  “She is so cute,” Monroe gushes, my question landing on deaf ears as she gets engrossed in playing with Madame’s silky strands of hair. “I never would have guessed you have a dog.”

  The dog is loving it; her tail is going a mile a minute, and it only takes her a second before she’s clamouring to jump up and claim a spot on Monroe’s bent knee.

  “She doesn’t actually liked to be picked u—” I start to warn as Monroe gathers Madame in her arms and stands. I stop myself and just stare in amazement as my dog settles in like a miniature Queen of Sheba, lapping up a stranger’s attention and submitting to the utter inconvenience of being carried around like royalty in a way she never has with me.

  “What’s her name?” Monroe asks innocently, finally returning her focus to me.

  I cough. “Um, Madame...Bovary.”

  She throws her head back and laughs before calling me a Francophile nerd. I watch in bemusement as she kicks her boots off and pads out into the main room, leaving her coat on so as not to disturb Her Majesty by removing it.

  “It’s more...normal than I was expecting,” Monroe comments, surveying the walls around her.

  The condo’s design is sleek and modern, emphasized by the fact that I have almost nothing in it. It’s a two-bedroom unit, and while the place is spacious, it’s modest as far as luxury condos go.

  “It kind of looks like a show home,” she continues, “except for this.”

  She pauses in front of my floor-to-ceiling bookcase, one of the only things in the condo that’s filled to capacity. She has her back to me, her dark hair falling just below her shoulder blades. The city lights outside are bright enough that her shape is illuminated even in the dimness of the room. There’s something strikingly intimate about seeing her there in her polka dot socks, so at odds with the clean cut outfit and yet so her.

  She shifts Madame Bovary in her arms and runs a finger over the book spines like they’re old friends, like she’s sweeping a stray hair off the forehead of a face she hasn’t seen in a long time.

  I don’t want to move. I don’t want her to move. I want to study this moment like a painting in a museum until I know every shadow by heart.

  “Hugo, Balzac, Flaubert of course,” she murmurs slyly, trailing her fingertips over my copy of Madame Bovary. “You certainly like your Frenchies, but this little fluff ball I’m holding is proof of that. Oh, and here’s Machiavelli. Of course. I bet you’re his home boy. And what do we have here?”

  Madame finally starts getting antsy, and Monroe gently sets her down on the floor before stretching up on her tiptoes and pulling a book down from the top shelf. I have to fight not to make a sound of appreciation at the view that gives me.

  She glances at me over her shoulder like she knows exactly what she’s just done. “The collected works of Shakespeare in a vintage leather-bound set. How indulgent of you.”

  She strokes the cover so sensuously she has to be fucking with me.

  “They were a high school graduation gift,” I reply. I need to focus on concrete facts right now.

  “So you started early.”

  Sacrament, is she ever good at making things sound dirty.

  “Stop fondling Othello,” I order, forcing myself to snap out of the trance and turn some lights on.

  “Oh, Othello.” She sighs as she slides the book back into place. “I am one that loved not wisely, but too well.”

  I let out a snort of derision as I cross over to the kitchen. “He says that after he murders his wife in a jealous rage. Hardly the definition of romantic.”

  “Out of context it is.”

  “Very out of context.” I lay my palms down on the counter. “White or red?”

  She taps her chin for a moment. “Hmm. I’ll be contentious and ask for rosé.”

  I have to laugh. “How summery of you.”

  “It’s spring. I’m being optimistic.”

  I happen to have a rosé in the kitchen’s built-in wine fridge and bend down to pull it out. “Zinfandel okay?”

  “I honestly know nothing about rosé. I was just trying to put you on the spot.”

  I pour us each a glass, and she follows me to the couch. It’s L-shaped, and we each take a seat on either side of the corner. Monroe tucks her legs up under her, and the intimacy of the moment strikes me again—not in a sexual sense, but with the realization that I’m seeing a side of her reserved for private spaces, and she’s seeing the same in me.

  “To staying up past our bedtimes,” she proposes, holding her wine up for a toast.

  “To unorthodox interpretations of Shakespeare and to your delightful polka dot socks.”

  Her laughter is as pure as the clinking of our glasses.

  I can’t remember the last time I drank rosé. It’s usually far from my favourite, but tonight, the sweetness hits me just right.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve had another person in my living room like this. Despite being here for six years, I don’t have many friends
in Montreal. Most of my evenings out are purely strategic business opportunities; I don’t have much time for leisurely chats over a bottle, and as far as dating goes, I’ve been sticking to one night stands and the occasional weekend fling since Fleur.

  I’ve learned not to promise more than I can give.

  The fact that I’ve cleared my entire evening’s schedule for Monroe, that I’m sitting here with her long after I promised myself I’d be in bed—I didn’t even think to consider the possibility of her coming home with me—catches up with me all of a sudden. It’s enough to raise a cold sweat on the back of my neck.

  This isn’t what I have to offer. This isn’t what ‘normal’ looks like for me. I’m leading her on. If the way she’s stretching her body towards mine and grinning at me over the rim of her glass is anything to go by, I’m letting her fall for a fantasy that doesn’t exist.

  She makes me feel like someone else. She makes me feel like someone I’m not sure I know how to be.

  My phone starts to buzz in my pocket.

  “Merde. I’m sorry.” I sit up enough to pull the phone out. “I have it set to only ring if it’s work. I have to take it. I’m so sorry.”

  “I understand,” she says lightly.

  I get up and answer the call in the kitchen. It only takes a few sentences from Cavellia’s manager before I’m on full alert.

  “What are you talking about?” I demand once he finishes. “Urinals don’t just fall off walls!”

  I get a few more details on the situation before I hang up and toss the phone down on the counter with a sigh.

  “What was that about?” Monroe calls out.

  I rest my face in my hands. “Apparently my night club is flooding.”

  “You have to go in, don’t you?” I can’t tell if she sounds disappointed, concerned, or amused. It might be a mix of all three.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  She sets her wine glass down on the coffee table and stands. “I understand—really, I do. You can’t really ignore a flood, can you?”

  You can’t, or you won’t?

  “I can see myself out,” she continues. “I assume you’ll want to change before you head out.”

  Right. I’m not exactly dressed to take command.

  “At least let me call you an Uber.”

  “I can handle it.”

  She’s already halfway to the door.

  “Monroe, I—”

  “Julien, it’s fine.”

  I follow her to the entryway as she shrugs herself into her coat and pulls on her boots. I want to tell her it’s not fine. It’s not fine at all, but what’s the other option? I don’t even know if there is one.

  “I had a really nice night,” she announces before grimacing at her own words. “God, that sounds so lame. I mean it, though. I’m almost, possibly, potentially glad you manipulated me into going on this date.”

  “Can I see you again?” I blurt.

  I watch her go still.

  I shouldn’t have asked. I didn’t mean to, but she’s leaving, and I didn’t know it would be this hard to watch her walk away. I didn’t know it would make me so desperate.

  “I thought we agreed on one date.”

  “Did we?” I reply, doing my best to mask how hoarse my voice has gotten. “I don’t recall.”

  She takes a step toward me instead of the door. It’s still so fucking adorable, the way she has to tilt her head back so far when we’re standing this close. That’s the only adorable thing about her right now. Her eyes are all fire, liquid amber and glinting glass.

  “Bon soir, Julien.”

  I barely have a chance to register the sweet scent of her hair as stretches to press her lips to my cheek. Then she’s pulling away and walking out my door.

  Part of me is glad for the interruption. Part of me is glad we didn’t have a chance to take things further.

  The rest of me aches to know what her mouth would feel like on mine.

  Ten

  Monroe

  GUSHER: Refers to a beer that has been overly carbonated and overflows upon being opened

  “Give it up for Code Ventura!” Dylan, our head cook, shouts into the microphone. He’s traded his checkered chef’s pants for jeans tonight and is filling the role of MC and hype man at Taverne Toulouse. “What a fucking killer set!”

  It’s an accurate assessment. Cole came through on his word and got a gig set up for one of his label’s biggest up and coming bands. I’ve seen Sherbrooke Station live many times over the years, and I didn’t think anything could top their concerts, but Code Ventura just might be able to give Cole’s band a run for their money.

  The students of Montreal seem to agree. We timed tonight’s concert with the end of exams at Concordia and McGill and marketed it as an end of term bash. I don’t know if it’s the famous band or the ridiculous drink discounts I approved, but we were packed to capacity before Code Ventura even took the stage. There’s still a line of hopeful latecomers huddled outside the door.

  “We did it!” I shout at DeeDee as she passes by with a tray of shots.

  “Fuck yeah we did!” she calls back, swinging her hips like a hula hoop artist and still managing not to spill a drop.

  I’m standing behind the bar gate, watching the students in the crowd jostle around on the dance floor and converge at the bar like thirsty vultures, spending the money we desperately need. I was terrified this whole plan was going to flop, but the night has been nothing but a success.

  I can’t help thinking it’s almost been a little too successful. I keep eyeing the line outside the crowd like there’s a dynamite fuse tangled around everyone’s feet. There’s so much energy in this room, and there’s not enough space to diffuse it if things get ugly. Still, we made it through the show, and I do my best to rein my nerves in as the DJ takes over.

  Our setup isn’t ideal for Code Ventura; two of our biggest bartenders who are functioning as extra security for tonight have to shepherd them all the way through the rabid crowd to where I’m standing so I can let them into the back.

  “That was an incredible show!” I congratulate them once we’re all in the kitchen, which is only slightly less loud than out front. I start passing out the towels and water bottles I’ve got ready.

  “Thanks.” The band’s bassist and only female member, Ingrid, gives me a crooked smile as she takes the towel out of my hand and mops her face.

  Roxanne and Cole burst into the room behind me, Roxy clearly high on the music and possibly a little tipsy as she pulls me into a hug that nearly spills the drinks she’s carrying down my back. Most of the staff have been around long enough to remember the days she was a bartender herself, so she never gets in trouble for slipping behind the bar. Cole is as stoic as ever, but I recognize the subtle twist of his lips that means he’s having a good time.

  “Taverne Toulouse has still got it!” Roxanne exclaims.

  “Tonight, at least,” I agree.

  “Stop being such a downer. I brought you a beer. Thought you might need a breather.”

  “I think they need one more than me.” I gesture at the band, who all look pleased with themselves but thoroughly exhausted as they sag against the various kitchen implements.

  “Cole brought whiskey.”

  He holds the bottle aloft, and Code Ventura’s frontman cheers.

  “It’s hot in here.” I pluck at my sweaty shirt as Cole starts serving up whiskeys. “Anyone want to stand in the alley for a bit?”

  They’re all too concerned with the distribution of alcohol to wander away just yet, but Roxanne follows me outside.

  “Is it just me, or would that Ingrid girl be enough to make even a right wing conservative question their sexuality?” I comment.

  “Oh, it’s not just you. I’ve met her at label events a few times, and she has that effect on everyone. She’s like Montreal’s answer to Ruby Rose. I’m pretty sure half the people who showed up here tonight are just looking to get a shot at Ingrid.”

  “Wh
atever gets them buying shots at my bar.”

  She nudges me with her shoulder. “I can’t believe you pulled this all together so fast. I mean, I can believe it, but I’m just so happy it worked this well.”

  “Let’s hope Fucking Félix Fournier feels the same. Speaking of which, he was supposed to call me earlier tonight.”

  I pull my phone out to check for messages. I haven’t got any, but there is a new text.

  “What?” Roxanne questions as I stare at the screen. “Fucking Félix Fournier doesn’t put that kind of sly grin on your face. It’s the Wine Guy, isn’t it?”

  That’s her chosen sobriquet for Julien, and she asks about him much more often than I’d like to discuss the subject.

  “I thought you said you were going to stop texting him,” she sing-songs.

  “I was. I did. I just—I don’t want to be rude,” I stammer. “He keeps texting me.”

  “Have you told him to stop texting you?”

  I’ve meant to. I really have. After how close we got on our date over a week ago, I’ve realized just how important it is that I cut the cord. I might have blamed the beer at the time, but the truth is all the reasons to stay away from him dissolved like snow in sunshine before I’d even taken my first sip. I knew I wanted to go home with him the second I saw him standing outside Frango Tango in that stupid hat.

  Quite simply, I wanted him. I still want him.

  And I have to stop.

  Tonight’s success is just more proof of the fact. Everything I’m doing right now is in the hopes of stopping him from reaching his goals, and everything he’s trying to accomplish is about taking the things I love away from me.

  Not exactly the basis for a healthy and fulfilling relationship.

  “I will. He still doesn’t know I work at Taverne Toulouse, and there’s no way he won’t find out someday. I have to tell him myself or I’ll seem like a total insane person. I just haven’t figured out how to do that yet.”

  “I still can’t believe he doesn’t know where you work,” Roxanne chides. “You’re already going to seem sort of insane.”