Page 52 of The Bartender Special

“It’s a deal.”

* * *

Jack lived in a two-bedroom apartment on the west side of town, a far cry from the Robertson Estate, but a nice middle ground where cozy met Jack's favorite, affordable. It had one claim to fame, though, that not even the richest of Arbor Bay had, and that was the view from the closet-sized balcony. A sliver of the bay from across the street winked dark blue back at anyone looking. The trees that surrounded the complex were kind enough to allow it, branches spread just so that Jack could stand in his boxers and enjoy his water view with a beer whenever he felt the need. The absence of a boat ramp in his sight was an added bonus. Instead, the only noise that came from the small park between the water and his building were from locals who, if they had felt so inclined, might catch a glimpse of Jack in his boxers with a beer.

No one ever looked though.

Why would they?

Two older men with fishing poles could be seen set up at the water’s edge when Benny was introduced to the view through the balcony’s sliding glass door. Since they'd parked, the man had gone silent again. Even after being told to make himself at home while Jack slipped into the bathroom, Benny only nodded to him.

Jack was fine with it.

Then he was irked.

That irk must have been irk-ier than he’d originally realized.

It wasn't until he was stepping out of the shower, no longer covered in sweat, lawn clippings, and the smell of a nosy older woman, that he realized he'd glazed over a few steps by being so quick to rinse off.

“Hey, Benny?”

There was no answer on the other side of the closed door.

He grumbled to the steamed-up mirror and palmed the shelf in the closet where clean towels were supposed to be. They weren’t. His mother would raise Cain if she knew he'd yet to fold and put away all the clothes in the dryer and linens in the basket.

Jack gave the bathroom another once over.

His only option was the clothes he’d just mowed in.

He could smell them from where he stood.

No way was he putting them back on.

“Hey, Benny?” he tried again.

Silence.

Jack grabbed the hand towel—a glorified washcloth if he was being honest—and placed it over the part he was sure would make his friendly little guy atomic cherry red if he’d left it uncovered.

“Let it be known, I tried to warn you,” he yelled out.

The bathroom opened into the living room, splitting the two bedrooms, but Benny wasn't on the couch where he'd left him. Jack peeked into Dixon's empty bedroom before swinging around to his.

What he saw was an equally confusing yet intriguing sight.

Benny, ass up, on the floor, his upper body beneath the bed and his lower wiggling around.

“Uh…” Jack walked across the carpet, eyes narrowing to try and find whatever context he was missing. Nothing appeared. He stopped next to Benny’s feet. “You know, when I said make yourself at home, I don't know if this is what I meant.”

It was like the guy had been electrocuted.

Some kind of noise between a yip and a holler came out muffled beneath the bed. Benny went from wiggling to winding backwards like a snake on the sand. The second his body was free, he sat up with a face ready to light the way for Santa’s sleigh.

Along with the bright shade of embarrassed was the instantly recognizable face of guilt.

“I didn't hear you get out of the shower,” he said.

Jack snorted.