The Bartender Novels & Stories

The warm glow of the overhead lights illuminated the polished surface of the bar, where patrons leaned in, sharing stories and secrets over their drinks. The bartender, a tall man with a rugged charm, stood behind the counter, effortlessly mixing cocktails with a fluidity that spoke of years spent in this bustling environment. His short, tousled dark hair framed a face that bore the marks of experience—laugh lines etched around his bright blue eyes, which sparkled with friendly warmth. A well-groomed beard added a touch of sophistication to his otherwise casual appearance, and the black apron he wore was adorned with a few colorful stains from his craft.

The bartender finally tapped him on the shoulder. Garrison was temporarily out of it but he eased up a bit when he finallhy got his bearings. "Oh, sorry, what can I do for ye?" "Did you call for a cab?" The bartender was a middle aged man with salt adn pepper, shoulder length hair. He kind of reminded him of a biker.

I contemplated leaving the club but David’s spy might be just outside waiting for me to do so in order to report to his psychotic boss. Instead, I strolled down to the bar. The bartender stood behind the bar like it was his stage. His hip cocked, one eyebrow halfway to heaven. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, chest smooth and glinting under the low lights, like he didn’t believe in modesty and didn’t need to.

He looked at us then let out a light hearted laugh, "alright, I know exactly what to give you both." I had an awkward smile plastered on my lips while the bartender did his magic. “So,” the bartender said, voice smooth, unhurried, eyes flicking deliberately to Addison, “you wanted something special.” I tilted her head with a flirty look, “something strong.” Lovina sighed quietly, “in short, irresponsible.” The bartender’s mouth curved. “I was already planning on it.” He reached for a low crystal mixing glass and set it down between them, as though placing it on a stage. Ice followed, each cube del

My eyes lands on the bartender to see him dressed in just a luxury suits pants, with no shirt and just a bow tie around his next. Oh. "I bet a hundred, he used to be a stripper" Ginny shakes her head. "Exactly!" I scoff as we get closer. We get comfortable behind the counter, and the bartender greets us with a wink. "Fuck…" Hannah mumbles under her breath, throwing Ginny and I a small weird look. "Eww, stop, and stop saying fuck" Ginny rolls her eyes. The bartender finally decides to give us his attention after getting to answer two couples. "So…? On what occasion, my ladies?" He asks with a wink,

“I’m waiting for someone.” He took an absent-minded gulp from his drink, a rum and coke, and then placed the glass down a little too hard on the surface of the bar. He jumped, looked down to adjust his glass and said something vicious under his breath. He turned back to look at the door. “Traffic,” was all the bartender said in response. She was not in the mood to deal with whatever toxic or aggressive behavior this creep was going to bring. She made a mental note to stop serving him if he seemed to be heading on a bender. Cleaning up after a belligerent drunk was totally above her pay grade.

"What can I get you, miss?" The bartender has a presence about him that makes me feel instantly comfortable. Perhaps, it is his disarming smile, or the warmth that brightens his eyes as he awaits my order. His hair is slicked back against his head, and he is wearing a vibrant t-shirt with a distinct apron hung over it. "Margarita," I say. "On the rocks." Grey eyes crinkle softly as he smiles. "Coming right up, miss." "Gin. My name's Gin," I say hastily, eyes sizing his muscular tanned arms and broad shoulders. Could he take me if I wanted him to?

My eyes flashed a dangerous shade of gold, and the bartender's already pale face turned ashen. “I don’t know who you’re talking about,” the bartender responded. “Is that your final answer?” I chuckled darkly. "Like I said, I don’t know who you’re talking about. You should…” My patience ran thin, and my hand shot out, grasping his wrist and crushing his wrist in my grip. Bones snapped, and the bartender howled in pain. “Let’s try this again. Tell me about Mr. B,” I snarled. “I told you I don’t know who you’re talking about,” the bartender cried out. I broke his thumb

He was sitting at the bar, talking animatedly to a slim, big-breasted bartender. He sat down on the stool next to him. “A Tom Collins, please,” he said to the bartender who batted her eyelashes at him. “Coming right up, handsome.” Dexter ignored her and looked around at the people. It was too rowdy for his taste, but he was here on a mission.