It was Super Bowl Sunday and although the game didn't start for two more hours, the bar was already starting to fill up. Shaun, my manager, and Mac, the owner, had worked hard to make Super Bowl a big annual bash and Mac's the most popular place in town to watch the game. It was undoubtedly the busiest day of the year for us; even New Year's Eve couldn't compete.
Shaun and I were in the office he shared with Mac, sitting on the couch where we first had sex two weeks earlier, sorting through cartons of free promotional merchandise the beer companies give to bars for the occasion. Most of the prizes would make their way into customer's hands by night's end, but we always liberated a few t-shirts for the staff to wear. It was the one day of the year Mac allowed us to be out of uniform.
Holding up one of the tiny baby doll t-shirts the waitresses had elected to wear, Shaun wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. "Come on, what do you say?"
I shook my head, throwing a plush, child-size football at him. It bounced harmlessly off his broad chest and wobbled under his desk. "No way. It'll never fit." I playfully stroked my D-cup breasts, smiling at Shaun's frank admiration. "Remember these? They won't squeeze into one of those."
Shaun pulled at the cheap, skimpy t-shirt, stretching it lewdly. "Sure they will." He leaned towards me, planting a softly seductive kiss on my tender lips. We'd done more kissing in the past two weeks than I think I've ever done in my life. "For me?" He batted the thick fringe of lashes which framed his gorgeous hazel eyes.
"You're insane." I laughed, ripping the t-shirt from his hands. "Do you really want all those drunken men out there ogling my tits all night long?"
"Actually," Shaun's grin was cocky. "Since you're going home with me, I won't mind. I'm proud of those curves of yours, you should be too."
I tried to hold back my snort of derision. I'd been working as a bartender at Mac's for four years and during that time had seen a host of Skinny Bitch waitresses come and go; girls Mac hired more for their looks than their ability to actually do their job. And the entire time I'd prided myself on not being one of them, not succumbing to the all too prevalent practice of women in this industry showcasing their bodies to get more tips. I was damn good at my job and both Mac and Shaun knew it. I didn't need to stoop to that level for the customers to like my service and tip me well. Besides, despite Shaun's opinion of my body, I was still at least three inches shorter and twenty pounds heavier than every other woman who worked at Mac's.
"Fine," Shaun acquiesced, recognizing the stubborn glint in my eyes. "But if I bring one home will you put it on for me later tonight?"
He looked pleadingly at me, with eyes like a gorgeous puppy dog. Laughing, I agreed. I scooped up a case of Super Bowl pint glasses, crossing the room to open the door. The din from the bar area was already pretty considerable. It was time to get to work.
"Anything else, boss?" I asked teasingly, throwing what I hoped was a sexy smile over my shoulder.
"Yeah," Shaun stood up from the couch, the flex of his broad shoulders and thick arms as he bent to pick up a pile of boxes left me feeling hot and bothered; apparently, it didn't take much. "When you wear that t-shirt for me later tonight, you're not allowed to wear a bra." Brushing past me while juggling three heavy boxes effortlessly, Shaun shot me a wicked grin.
Speechless, I followed him into the fray.
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When you work bar, an occasion like the Super Bowl is the ultimate test. In a busy establishment like Mac's it often feels like the only people who work harder and are under more stress that day, are the teams playing the big game. Every television was tuned into the game, every seat taken; customers stood six deep at the bar. Behind the taps Shaun and I stood alone against the crowd. It was loud, hot, and absolutely insane. I loved it.
Shaun and I had developed a rhythm behind the bar long ago, honed by four years of working together in a pretty small space; but since our personal relationship had changed our working relationship had too. Every accidental brush was electric; every bumped elbow elicited a cheeky grin, every hand on of the small of the back as we passed each other burned through to the skin. We were better, faster, and happier; a good night behind the bar is like the ultimate rush of adrenaline; we were flying high and the tips were piling up. Later I wouldn't remember a single play of the game or a solitary call; the night rushed by in a constant stream of drink orders and the endless clink of beer bottles and pint glasses.
Calling out the orders as he went, Shaun worked the taps while I mixed drinks; he could pour a pint so perfectly it would make a grown man cry. I loved to watch him work; loved the deft flick of the wrist which turned the glass upright, the sudden jerk on the tap to stop the draft, beer perfectly perched at the rim of the glass, glistening and cold, with just the right amount of creamy head. Just remembering the other things Shaun could do with his talented hands made me blush.
Glancing over, Shaun noticed my temporary distraction. Shooting me the devastatingly cocky grin of his, he slapped my ass playfully in passing, drawing approving hoots from the few patrons not absorbed in the game. "Pay attention," Shaun growled in my ear. I resisted the urge to pout like a chastised child.
It wasn't just Shaun's sexy way of working which was getting to me. It was hot in the bar, really hot. If the crush of people wasn't bad enough, the steam rolling off the bar dishwasher we used to wash the glassware was. I was glad once again that I didn't need to wear makeup: it would have melted off long ago.
I tugged at the giant, beer-swilling-man-sized Super Bowl t-shirt I'd thrown on for the occasion. On Shaun the same t-shirt looked amazing; clinging to the broad planes of his shoulders, accenting the toned musculature of his arms; on me it was slightly ridiculous. Even tucked into my favourite pair of jeans it hung down past my ass. The short sleeves grazed my elbows and resisted all efforts to be rolled up.
"Ah, fuck it." I muttered, pulling the cheap t-shirt off in one swift motion. Underneath I wore one of my standard cotton tanks, this one black. The rush of cool air on my arms and neck felt wonderful. I sighed contentedly.
It had grown a little quieter, and glancing around I noticed Shaun, several of the waitresses, and almost every customer seated at the bar staring. "What?" I laughed good-naturedly, liking the appreciative glint in a few of the men's eyes. It was far from being a skimpy tank top, and not even close to the scandalous t-shirts the waitresses were wearing, but it was significantly more skin than I usually showed at work. "It's fuckin' hot in here!" I joked. "Screw off!"
There was a burst of friendly hoots and hollers, and even a few cat calls before the football game drew their attention again. Blushing, I got back to work.
"Hey," I snapped, passing Shaun who stood motionless by the taps, staring at me like he wanted to pick me up and carry me off over his shoulder for a good ravishing. I slapped his ass. "Pay attention."
"I love those tank tops of yours," Shaun admitted gruffly.
Grinning, I fixed several Bloody Caesars. "Thanks. Do you think Mac will care?" I could see the owner's thinning pate of red hair midway through the crowd.
"I think Mac might try to take you back to the office and have his way with you on the couch."
I threw back my head and laughed. For a brief moment our eyes met and it felt like we were the only two people in the room. And then half-time hit.
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"Hey, Buddy." The guy who beckoned Shaun over was at least 6'5"; young, buff, and good looking in a vain, strutting peacock sort of way. I was half way down the bar, mixing a tray of assorted shooters for the college kids crowded around table 12.
"She got a boyfriend?" The hulking hunk nodded in my direction. I tried to keep the disbelieving smile off my face. I wasn't sure if Shaun knew I was listening.
"Yeah," Shaun plunked the guy's drink down on the bar with a little more force than usual. "Yeah, she does." He tried to keep his voice lightly nonchalant, but underneath I could detect a note of possessiveness. I couldn't help but grin. Men.
"Lucky bastard," the customer griped, dropping a handful of change on the bar. Taking his drink he melted back into the crowd.
