I was stuck cleaning up all of this mess.
Don't get me wrong - the regular bartenders at the Irish pub did a decent amount of work. We were slammed that night. Jon Stewart came in after a stand-up show at the university across the street and it felt like the entire audience came with him. We had a line out the door and had to call in almost everyone who had the night off.
It was also, as fate would have it, my first closing shift. My manager finally let me become a bartender after being a bar back for the past two months. So naturally Alana and Kasey felt like it was okay to leave me with mountains of glasses to wash. I would suck it up.
And they were right. I would.
I sighed and washed the glasses with a steady rhythm, my mind wandering. Jon Stewart was here. In the flesh.
I had always had a celebrity crush on him - to the point where I watched every single show. Maybe it was his attitude. His sense of humor. His overarching sense of justice and integrity, using poignant and biting humor to make us listen.
Honestly, as much as I respected the man, most of it was purely physical. I couldn't tell you why. Grey hair usually isn't a turn-on for me, but on
him
...fuck.
And then the rest of my attraction to Jon Stewart - who I would never meet in a million years, not like it mattered - was his confidence. His voice.
I have touched myself to orgasm over and over watching his show. (Shh.)
So when he came in tonight (security and all) and ordered a beer from me, I totally lost my cool. I was breathless, palms sweaty, stomach in knots, and panties were drenched.
I was so nervous I tripped and almost spilled his beer (a smoked vanilla porter) all over him. Luckily he caught my arm right at that moment. Our eyes met. He smiled at me.
"Whoa - careful." He said. "You'll ruin my Armani suit."
I looked at his cotton t-shirt and jeans and giggled. God damn it, I actually giggled.
"Can't have that." I set the beer down slowly and carefully on the table. I was so nervous, but I had to say something to the man. "If you complex, dark beer, by the way, you should try this breakfast stout we just got in. It's intense, with coffee notes to it." I flashed him my best smile.
"I would love to try it," he said, and I nodded and left, even though I got the impression he wanted to talk to me more, and I felt his eyes on me as I left. I was nervous, and I would be back in a minute, I just needed to collect my thoughts. Unfortunately, that never happened. The students were surging through the doors and the orders were piling in. My manager barked at me to get behind the bar and that was the last I saw him that night.
The place was packed. And I mean - PACKED. The printer kept spitting out drink orders all night. We were so far in the weeds that I didn't even get a chance to breathe until first cuts - which happened at 2 am. The owner was kicking everyone out because some drunken assholes kicked through the door to the men's room. After I went in the beer cooler to hide and recoup for a minute, I realized with a jolt that I forgot to get Jon Stewart his beer.
I furiously scrubbed the glasses now, angry with myself for forgetting, and chiding myself that it would never happen anyway.
"Excuse me?"
I whipped around in surprise and immediately dropped the glass I was washing. It shattered into a million pieces. And there was Jon Stewart, standing in my empty bar, with a bemused expression on his face.
"Shit, sorry for scaring you," he came up to the bar. "Here, let me help." There was a broom leaning on the edge of the bar and just like that Jon fucking Stewart was cleaning up the glass for me.
"Thanks," I said, "I got it, thank you, you don't have to do that,"
He cut me off. "Whatever, I scared the shit out of you. I should have been louder coming in." He dumped the glass in the trash can, then straightened himself and looked at me.
My breath caught in my throat.
He smiled a little - the kind of half-smile a guy does when he knows a girl digs him - and stepped forward.
"I had to come back when I heard the damage that the guests from my show caused," he said.
"Damages?" I asked, drawing a blank. "Oh, the door?"
"Yeah," he said. "I'm really sorry about that."
"It's not your fault." I smiled at him. "I have no idea what to tell you though - it's just me here, and I have no idea what that would cost to fix." I fidgeted. "I mean, I could get your phone number, and my manager could call you in the morning?"
He bit his lip a little and gave me that half-smile again. "You want my phone number?" He stepped a little closer, breaking polite distance between us.
I flushed a deep red. "I mean-um-"
He grabbed my hand, grabbed a pan, and wrote his fucking cell phone number on my hand, his thumb stroking my palm ever-so-slightly.
My heart started beating a thousand times a second. "Thanks." I looked him in the eyes - steely grey, with a hint of blue. He was so fucking sexy. I cleared my throat. "Did you still want to try that breakfast stout?"
He grinned widely. "Absolutely."
I turned around to get a clean glass, and I could feel his eyes on my body. I was so self-conscious of every movement I made and my heart was still pounding. I managed to pour him a beer with a perfect head though, and I cheered myself inwardly.
He leaned back against the bar counter and sipped it, the froth sticking on his lips a little. His eyes narrowed in surprise. "You were right," he said, taking another sip, "this is a fantastic fucking beer." He grinned at me roguishly. "Where's yours?"
I flushed.
"Come on, no one's here. Have a beer with me."
How could I possibly resist? "Okay, okay." I poured myself a ginger IPA.
"Tell me your name." His eyes were lingering at my waist, but I could tell he was trying not to stare. He met my eyes again.
"Rachael."
"Rachael," he said. "Where did you learn to be a beer sommelier?"
I laughed out loud. "I'm not," I said, "I just really like beer. I've got a batch brewing at home actually."
"No shit?"
"Yeah," I said, embarrassed that I was telling him this. "I grew the hops myself."