Chapter Four The Man Behind The Bar
1505 Words
~ Lily ~
The staircase feels longer than it should, maybe because every single step takes me farther away from the disaster I left behind, or maybe simply because my feet are killing me.
Honestly, both can be entirely true.
The music grows louder as I descend, though it isn’t loud enough to overwhelm conversation.
It is just enough to beautifully fill the air. I also hear a smoky trumpet drifting through the room, somewhere below, before being followed by the soft, grounding notes of a piano.
By the time I finally reach the bottom of the landing, Manhattan feels incredibly far away.
The bustling city is still above me, and I know that less than a hundred feet overhead, millions of people are rushing through the wet streets, checking stock prices, cheating on their unsuspecting spouses, and arguing with random strangers online.
Yet somehow, this underground space feels completely disconnected from all of that chaos.
As warm light spills beautifully across the dark wooden floors, low conversations drift lazily between crowded tables and glasses clink softly together.
I realise nobody is shouting, nobody is networking, and absolutely nobody appears to be calculating what everyone else in the room is worth.
The realisation catches me completely off guard because I honestly can’t remember the last time I entered a room where people weren’t desperately trying to impress somebody.
Intruding on my thoughts was a waitress carrying a tray of drinks as she brushed past me without a second glance I also noticed a couple near the small stage deep in private conversation, and several men laughing loudly at something near the bar.
I realise in this moment nobody recognises me and nobody cares about who I am, and the feeling is strangely, deeply addictive.
I continue standing at the entrance for a moment, letting it soak in, before I notice how ridiculous I must look with my soaked hair, designer dress and diamonds on my neck.
Because I look like an actress who accidentally wandered onto the wrong set and hasn’t realised it yet.
While inner monologuing a waitress approached me with an easy, welcoming smile.
“Need a table?” she asks.
The question makes me want to laugh because I am not being addressed as Mrs Ryder the formidable CEO.
To her, I am just another customer looking for a place to sit.
“Maybe,” I answer honestly.
The waitress glances toward the crowded room and winces slightly.
“You might be waiting a while,” she says.
I follow her gaze across the floor.
Every single table appears to be occupied.
The place isn’t particularly large.
Studio apartment size would be a polite description of the place.
Then my eyes land on the bar.
And on the man standing directly behind it.
He doesn’t notice me immediately because he’s focused on pouring whiskey into a glass while listening to an older customer complain about something.
He is tall with broad shoulders, wearing a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms to reveal tattoos disappearing beneath the fabric.
They aren’t flashy or attention-seeking tattoos, but rather they are the kind that look less like decoration and more like something that has simply always been part of his skin.
He says something funny to the customer, making the older man laugh then shakes his head with a slight grin before moving down the counter toward another waiting guest.
There’s something oddly calming about watching him move through his own space like that.
And it isn’t just because he’s attractive, although he is, very annoyingly so.
It’s because he looks completely comfortable in his own skin and in his own space.
I’ve spent years surrounded by powerful men who desperately need everyone in the room to know how important they are while this man looks like he couldn’t care less.
Unknown to me the waitress from earlier notices exactly where I’m looking.
“That’s Hector,” she chimes in, bringing me back to reality.
“Hector?” I repeat.
She nods.
“The owner,” she adds
The revelation is interesting because the owner is actually working his own bar which shouldn't be remarkable except that, half the men I know get tired just signing their own Christmas cards.
Before I can ask her anything else, someone calls the waitress away and quickly disappears, leaving me standing with that small piece of information sitting quietly in my chest.
My phone vibrates in my purse, and the harsh sound instantly ruins the peace of the moment.
I pull it out to find thirty-seven missed calls.
Most of them from Dylan.
Several from Ginger.
And a few from numbers I don’t recognise, which are probably news outlets trying to get a quote they can run before morning.
I lock the screen without checking further and drop the phone back into my purse because tonight the entire world wants something from me, and I am so exhausted by the wanting that I can barely hold myself upright.
A few minutes later, a single seat finally opens up at the far end of the bar.
I slip into it before somebody else can claim it.
The bartender eventually makes his way over to my side.
Up close, he is somehow even larger.
The kind of man who would probably make an elevator feel incredibly small.
His eyes flick briefly toward me.
Then toward the soaked ends of my hair, then toward the ridiculous diamonds gleaming around my neck.
and no recognition crosses his face, no surprise, no flicker of curiosity, nothing but a steady and entirely unhurried look that is almost insulting given how publicly I tend to exist.
Then again, it’s also incredibly refreshing.
“What are you drinking?” he asks.
His voice sounds much deeper than I expected.
I glance at the countless bottles lined up behind him.
“I have no idea,” I admit.
One corner of his mouth twitches upward.
“That’s not helpful,” he says
The tiny, amused reaction makes me smile despite myself.
“Surprise me,” I reply.
He studies me intently for a second before reaching for a bottle.
“No umbrella?” he asks
I glance back toward the rainy entrance.
“I had one.”
“What happened to it?” he asks.
I consider the question for a second before answering.
“I lost it due to my choices.”
That response earns a slightly bigger smile from him.
It’s barely there, but it counts.
A moment later, my drink arrives.
Amber liquid in a plain glass with no garnish, no tiny flowers, I take a slow sip and feel the warmth move through my chest before I’ve even finished swallowing.
“It’s good,” I murmur.
“That’s whiskey,” he says
“I don’t usually drink whiskey,” I reply.
“You do now.”
I laugh out loud.
The sudden, natural sound surprises both of us.
But mostly me.
Because I haven’t laughed like that in a very long time.
The moment fades into silence as Hector begins wiping down part of the wooden counter and I wrap both hands around my glass.
Neither of us speaks for several seconds.
But the silence isn’t awkward the way silences usually are with strangers
Which feels entirely unusual because most people completely panic when conversations pause and rush to fill the space but Hector seems perfectly content to let the silence exist, and somehow, without meaning to, I am too.
Eventually, he looks up again.
This time his eyes stay on mine slightly longer.
He isn’t flirting or staring.
He is just quietly observing me.
“You looked exhausted when you walked in here,” he whispers.
The words hit me significantly harder than they should.
He didn’t say I looked beautiful, or successful, or rich, or familiar, or any of the words people reach for when they want something from me.
He just said I looked exhausted.
Which nobody has said to me in a while because nobody ever bothers looking closely enough to notice.
For a second I almost reach for the script...I’m fine, everything’s wonderful, things are great.…the polished public answer I could deliver in my sleep with a smile already in place.
But something about this underground place feels entirely disconnected from the rest of my life.
As if lies don’t quite belong down here.
I stare into my amber glass, then release a slow, heavy breath.
“That’s because I am.”
The raw confession hangs between us.
Hector nods once.
Looking neither surprised nor uncomfortable.
Simply accepting my answer for what it is.
And somehow, that lack of pity feels even worse.
Or maybe much better.
I’m not entirely sure yet.
Above us, the heavy rain continues falling over Manhattan.
But inside, the jazz music keeps playing and for the first time all night, nobody is asking me to be anything at all.
And for reasons I don’t fully understand, I decide to stay.
- Writer
