IT'S GONNA START SUCKING LIKE A HOOVER IN HERE SOON.
Sam stood outside the back door of the restaurant with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. It was crazy-hot in the kitchen, easily one hundred and twenty on the line, and Sam was sweating buckets. “Sara!” he called out. “I’m gonna need to shower at your place, if we’re going out tonight.”
The blonde ponytail bounced as its owner nodded agreement, drawing on her own cigarette as she lit up. She held the smoke for a moment and spoke on the exhale. “What else is new, Sam?”
Sam chuckled and wiped his forehead. “Fucking hot in there,” he said. “Can’t go out like this.”
“Could, if you weren’t getting ready to re-enact another episode of whatever soap opera you’re watching this week,” said a new voice. “Dude, you snaked my beer again, you fucker.”
Sam winced. “It’s going into the soup, man, I swear it on my grandmother’s grave!”
“Fuck you,” Pat retorted. “The forty was for the soup. The sixer was supposed to be the garnish, not your personal cocktail hour.”
“Shit, man, you know Chef Joe doesn’t give a rat’s ass,” Sam tossed out. “It’s been a hell of a night.”
Pat shook his head. “And *you* know that Jim’s the owner, and *he’s* gonna give it to me up the ass over this,” he grumbled.
Sam pursed his lips and blew a kiss. “Heard you liked it like that,” he yelled as the bartender turned around and stomped back into the restaurant, letting the door slam shut behind him. Through the screen, he could see Pat’s parting rejoinder, a raised middle finger. “Bitch,” Sam muttered.
Sara chuckled and wandered closer. “Who pissed in *his* cornflakes?” she asked, and leaned against Sam’s shoulder. He slung one arm around her, even as he shrugged. “Mark’s been stepping out on him again,” he said by way of explanation. “I don’t see why he doesn’t just find someone new.”
She twisted around and tapped Sam on the nose with her free hand. “He loves Mark,” Sara said. “Dumbass.”
Sam snorted. “Love’s for people who don’t know how to enjoy sex,” he told her. “Mark’s just yanking his chain. Pat could find a ton of guys that he’d have a great time with-Mark should go fuck himself.”
“You know, someday I’d like to meet a guy who can actually do that,” Sara said thoughtfully. She carefully stubbed out her half-smoked cigarette on the brick wall and tucked the remainder into her nearly-empty pack. “I gotta get back inside. Some fucking cunt was complaining that my breaks are running too long again.”
Sam laughed and dropped his arm as Sara stepped away. “Who, Kathy?” he asked. “Bitch is so doped up on Valium, you could give her a stopwatch and she wouldn’t be able to figure out how to use it.”
Sara shrugged and grimaced. “She’s still the manager,” she tossed over her shoulder. “You’d better hurry up, Sam-Liz won’t want to hang out forever waiting for your giant lazy ass if we’re going out.”
“Tell her I just have to break down the broiler and clean out the grease trap!” Sam shouted. “Betcha I can be out in fifteen minutes!”
“Oh, you’re on,” Sara shot back. “All we have left is sidework-loser buys the first round of drinks!”
She darted back into the kitchen, the screen door banging wildly behind her, trailing smoke and laughter, as Sam chugged the rest of his beer and pitched the butt of his cigarette, taking his time. He knew he could be done in ten minutes, easy.
And he would have been finished in plenty of time, except for the new kid, who had tried to pull the grease trap before he shut down the broiler and spilled the whole goddamn thing, sending flames leaping up throughout the oven and shooting out the mouth of the broiler. Then Sam had to stop Dave from panicking and grabbing the fire extinguisher, which would have made a huge mess and required a whole fucking lot of paperwork.
Instead, he seized a huge metal mixing bowl, dumped in a box of baking soda and ran enough water over it so that the soda started to dissolve. Swirling the mixture in the bowl so that the ingredients didn’t separate, Sam threw the whole mess into the flaming opening of the broiler oven.
Water hissed as it steamed, and tongues of fire shot higher for a brief moment before the baking soda did its job and smothered the burning grease. Sam waited briefly as everything subsided, and then turned to Dave. “Now *that*,” he said with a good deal of scorn, “is how you put out a broiler fire, bitch.”
The guy looked hangdog and gestured vaguely. “I’m betting I get to clean this up.”
“Got it in one,” Sam answered, glaring for emphasis. “Wow, look at that. You’re not entirely fucking useless after all.”
Dave turned red and retreated to find the heavy-duty gloves and metal racks used to handle the hot broiler parts.
Sam cursed in his general direction on principle, and then got started breaking down the steam table. Dammit, he was going to have stop at an ATM now, since he’d be stuck buying the first round.
But telling the story over shots at the bar later on that night made it all worth while, listening to the laughter of his friends and catching the eye of a really hot guy across the dance floor.
Sam slid off his stool and clapped one hand on Pat’s back and one on Liz’s shoulder, knocking them both off balance and snickering about it. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies of both sexes,” Sam growled playfully, “I believe I’ve spotted this evening’s target.”
The groans of disbelief were enough to drown out the music. Liz was giggling and snorting into her drink, while Pat just rolled his eyes. “And stay tuned for another episode of ‘Sam Johnson’s Johnson’,” he intoned sarcastically.
Sam smacked him on the back of the head. “Just because you’re willing to let that hot bod go to waste doesn’t mean the rest of us have to suffer,” he answered. Pat kind of shrugged and shut up, sulking into his beer.
Liz was still laughing, and Sam paused for a moment. “What’s so funny?” he demanded.
Sara swung her head back and forth between the two of them like a spectator at a tennis match. “You *know* something!” she crowed. “Give it up!”
Liz shook her head, trying to hide her smile behind her hand. She’d already had several drinks, and that probably explained why she was laughing so hard. “Nothing,” she choked out between snickers. “Just that . . . oh, Sam, I’m sorry, but that guy? He’s straight!”
Sam grinned. “They all are until I get hold of them, honey,” he told her, and took off.
“Bet he can’t do it,” Liz said as the three of them watched Sam slink across the room. Sara forcefully mashed the lime in her glass with a straw and snorted disdainfully, “That’s a sucker bet. Twenty says he’s got it in the bag.”
Pat perked up a bit. “We got a bet?” he asked. “I’m in. Twenty bucks says he gets shot down.”
Sara was watching Sam’s continuing progress across the room. “No way, dude. You know Sam-he *looks* all sweet and innocent, but then he does that *leaning* thing that he does-“
“Ooh, there!” Liz interrupted excitedly, bouncing on her stool and splashing them both with whiskey. “Look, there, he’s doing that leaning-on-the-wall thing!”
Pat groaned. “Shit, I might as well hand over the money right now,” he muttered. “Because, that, right there? With the hand in the pocket? That is a sweet, *sweet* move.” He wiped his wet arm on the tail of his shirt and handed Sara a couple of dry beverage napkins. Liz, well on her way to thoroughly inebriated, hadn’t even noticed the spill.
“That and the eyes, dude,” Sara agreed. “Gets the boys every damn time.”
The three of them watched silently for a few moments. It didn’t take long before Sam had one long arm slung around the stranger’s shoulders, body pressed up tight alongside his and lips mouthing at his throat. Sara turned to the others and made grabbing motions with her hands. “Pony up!” she ordered.
Pat sighed and reached for his wallet. “One of these days, Sam’s gonna meet someone even *he* can’t seduce,” he complained. “And I sure as shit hope I’m there to see it!”
Sara laughed. “Sam could turn *the President* gay,” she boasted as she collected her money. “I don’t think there’s a man in the world who could resist him.”
Liz looked up suddenly, with the abrupt and intent focus of the very drunk. “I bet I know someone who Sam couldn’t get to fuck him.”
Pat snorted. “Yeah, right. How much more money do you expect me to hand over tonight?”
A cunning smile twisted Liz’s sweet features and she crunched down on the ice from her drink. “Not tonight. This would be a more . . . long-term project.”
Sara leaned in, propping her elbows on the table. “Starting to sound good, girl,” she encouraged. “Go on.”
“A priest.”
Pat guffawed. “Are you fucking *kidding* me? I remember one of the parish priests when I was a kid . . . Father Beebe, that was his name, and he looked like Mister Potato-Head. Half those guys are into little boys and the other half have probably cut off their own dicks so that they’re not tempted. That’s no challenge at all!”
Liz was shaking her head in denial. “There’s these two guys, moved in across the hall from us a week ago, right?” she explained. “Fresh out of priest school, or whatever they call it-I’m not Catholic, what the fuck do I know? So the one, he’s okay I guess, in a really geeky kind of way, not really anything to write home about, but the other? Let me tell you, he is fucking *hot*. Kinda blond, green eyes, shoulders like you would *not* fucking believe.”
Sara whistled and said, “Hot damn! Fuck it, Sam’s got plenty of choices. Let me hit that!”
“You haven’t even *met* the guy,” Pat pointed out.
“So what? I’m not gonna fucking *marry* him-I just wanna fuck him.”
Pat sighed and rested his chin on his hands. “That attitude, right there? May have something to do with why you can’t keep a boyfriend!”
Sara laughed and said, “Yeah, but we’re not betting on how long I can stay faithful; we’re betting on Sam and his magical seduction skills!”
Liz grinned and put in, “Fifty bucks says he can’t do it.”
Sara scoffed. “I’ve seen Sam take home married guys, straight guys, closeted guys, you name it. A priest shouldn’t be too much of a challenge for him. A *hundred* bucks says he’s got that guy in his bed inside of a month.”
“Whoa, now we’re talking some serious money here!” Pat said, brightening. “This is my kind of bet! Okay, a hundred dollars and a case of Jim Cook’s finest brew says Sam can’t do it.”
“Sam can’t do *what*?” asked the object of their discussion. Sara pointedly swiveled her head from side to side and raised her eyebrows. “Where’s your latest victim?” she asked.
Sam shrugged, skillfully liberating someone’s drink and downing it. “Men’s room. I think he drank too much-not that it matters, there’s plenty more where he came from.”
Liz poked Sam in the chest and announced, “A hundred bucks *and* I bus your tables for a week, Sara. He can’t do it. No way.”
“Okay, obviously I missed something,” Sam drawled, glancing around the table. “Fill me in?”
Pat leaned forward, hunching protectively over his drink as Sam’s hand edged closer. The fingers changed direction and Sara swatted him, hard. “Back off, bitch,” she warned. “I’ve got serious money riding on you . . . do *not* think you can fuck with me.”
Sam threw his hands in the air, laughing. “Okay, another bet? What are we betting on this time?”
Pat’s fine, freckled face creased into an especially evil smile. “Just how good in bed *are* you, anyway?”
Sam took a step closer and dropped his voice an octave. “Wanna find out?” he asked seductively. Pat rolled his eyes. “Oh, please,” he sighed. “I’ll tell you what-you win this bet and yeah, I’ll fuck you, okay?”
“Whoa,” Sam commented, hooking one foot through a stool and dropping onto it. “You guys must really be serious. What’s got all of you so hot?”
The three conspirators looked at each other for a moment, and then Sara blurted out, “The priests that moved in across the hall from you? We’re betting on whether or not you can get one of them into bed with you.”
“Ha,” Sam said decisively. “Nothing to it. Just one, or both of them?”
“The really hot one,” Liz said craftily. “And we need proof.”
Sam burst out laughing. “Proof?” he parroted. “What the fuck-you want me to get a DNA sample or something? Photos? What? Come on, what do you need?”
Glances were exchanged around the table, and then Pat said firmly, “A confession. The guy’s gotta admit to one of us, preferably me or Liz, since we’re betting against you.”
Sara snorted derisively. “Like *that’s* going to happen. No, we’re just going to have to take Sam’s word on it.”
Sam grinned and held up two fingers. “Scout’s honor!” he said brightly. “What?”
“Like you were ever a fucking Boy Scout,” Pat groaned.
“Heh,” Sam said with a wink, “where do you think I learned all my best tricks? Speaking of which, I see my buddy from earlier has survived his men’s room experience, and I have a few other experiences I’d like to give him.” He slid off his stool and left with a jaunty wave as the three of them gazed after him, wearing expressions of mingled disgust and fondness.
Sara rubbed her hands together. “This bet,” she pronounced, “is going to be *something*.”
Pat waved at a waitress, signaling for another round. “Oh, it’s something, all right,” he agreed. “A *whole* lotta something.” He bought a round of shots for the table and raised his glass before toasting, “To Sam’s magic dick!”
The girls giggled and clinked their glasses with him.
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