"Here you go, sir."
Not even a thank-you in response. Rolling her eyes as she tucked the meager tip into her apron, Johanna Tucker refrained from offering the impeccably dressed man her middle finger before turning to fill a waitress' orders. Her foot tapped to the beat of the dance song booming from the speakers as she mixed a daiquiri, adding a sliced strawberry to the top for garnish before turning to retrieve the ingredients for an Irish coffee. It occurred to her that she no longer had to refer to her cheat sheet anymore. Had she really been working in the club that long? It seemed only yesterday she had taken the job.
"After you finish that, take a break. You've been working nonstop since you walked in the door."
Glancing up at the manager, Johanna nodded. With the birthday party going on in the VIP lounge, she had barely had time to expel a sigh of relief. Her amber eyes glanced around, cringing at the crowd of young women cluttered at the staircase leading to the lounge. She had heard snippets of conversation while serving drinks; apparently there were many celebrities upstairs. Well, whoopee, she thought as she handed the tray to the waitress.
Making her way through the throng, she received a thumbs-up from the bouncer at the stairs, much to the chagrin of the women who began to whine that they had been there all night. One of the perks of working at the club was unlimited access, unless there was a private party in the lounge. Not that she was about to crash a birthday party. She only looked forward to having her fifteen minutes of downtime. Turning at the top of the stairs, she slipped into the DJ's corner, sinking into the extra chair with a grateful sigh.
"Rough night," Danny commented without glancing up.
"Whose party?" Johanna questioned, kicking off her shoes before pulling her feet beneath her.
"Some singer. They keep coming over with requests for songs, which is a pain in my ass."
Danny always hated requests. No matter who they came from, he preferred to spin the tracks he had planned on already. Occasionally, if the artist themselves came in he would gladly play whatever they wanted, as long as they were polite about it. Johanna was about to soothe his ruffled feathers when she realized someone else was approaching the corner.
"Danny!"
At the call of his name, Danny's bald head popped up, and Johanna was surprised when he jerked the headphones off to greet the newcomers with a grin. Peering around him, she recognized them immediately, suddenly wishing she had stepped into the office for her break. N… Something. In the Sink? No, that was wrong. God, how she wished she had paid attention to her roommate's constant nattering about the many talents of boybands.
She needn't have worried. Neither of them seemed to notice her as they talked with Danny about the reason they were at the club. Feeling drab and dull compared to their perfectly styled attire and hairstyles, she consciously smoothed the front of her black t-shirt, reaching impulsively to straighten the jaw-clip that secured her long auburn tresses.
When the taller of the two turned to glance at her, she realized she had been staring at them. Hand in midair, she waved meekly, feeling the burn of a thousand blushes on her cheeks when he offered her a gentle smile. His hand raised briefly to wave, and when he turned his attention back to Danny and his friend she hurriedly reached to pull her shoes on. It was obvious from their stances that they planned on staying with the DJ for a while. She would slip away, get a bottled water and rest her feet in Troy's office for the remainder of her break.
"Johanna, this is—" Danny's voice cut off when he saw she was pulling on her shoes. He seemed about to speak again when he hurriedly turned his attention back to the music, pressing several buttons on his station before looking back at his friend. "Where you goin'?"
Johanna faltered after finally tugging her left shoe on, unaware that the taller of the two men was looking at her with sudden interest. Turning to Danny as though he were crazy, she said, slowly, "Back to work at the bar—"
"They let cows like that work here?"
Joanna stilled as the words sunk in, the soft, calming voice belying the malice in the tone. The blonde next to her immediately stiffened, whether in her defense or thinking she would launch an attack, she wasn't sure. The usual shame in her appearance kicked in, and before she could draw in a calming breath she was bolting from the corner.
"JC—"
"Just a question, J. You have to admit she's not what you picture when you think of a bartender."
Justin turned to offer the woman a word of apology for JC's rudeness, only to find her seat empty. Turning again, he caught sight of her auburn hair as she slipped through the crowd and down the stairs. There had been something so vaguely familiar about her, and he was certain they'd met somewhere before. Whether it had been in a club or at a concert or a hotel, he just knew. "Christ, Jayce, do you always have to be such an asshole?"
/*/
Justin had somehow managed to slip away from the party, spouting off a lame excuse that he was sure the guys saw through. Luckily, they gave him no grief, merely nodding slowly. Ducking down the back stairs in hopes of avoiding the throng of fans that had posted sentry at the main staircase, he glanced about to gather his bearings.
There were four bars in the club, according to the manager who had ushered them into the lounge. One in the VIP lounge, two in the smaller, less-exclusive lounges that overlooked the main dance floor, and the main bar, which ran the length of the club on one side. Groaning when he realized he had no clue which one she was stationed at, he pushed off the bottom step and headed for the closest one.
Thankful for the crowd that allowed him to slip through without being identified, he arrived, near breathless, at the edge of the bar. Squinting in the dim light to see the people who worked behind it, he spied her at the opposite end. Making his way down there proved harder than he thought; the crowd at the bar was three-deep, and people didn't think too highly of him when he tried to just walk past. Wincing when he was shoved aside by a short, sturdy looking guy, he muttered several curses before taking the long route. There weren't as many people at this end of the bar. Patting his pockets to locate some cash, he returned the smile of the blonde that turned to leave the bar. Then, quickly sidling up to the battered wood surface, he slapped down a large bill.
"Coke, please?"
Johanna glanced at the long fingers that still covered most of the cash, she quirked one eyebrow as she looked up. Feeling her eyes widen in surprise, she quickly composed herself, hating her lack of control when an embarrassed flush rose on her cheeks. "Just a coke?"
"Well, I guess I can take a lime in it, too…" he trailed with a quick grin. "Unless you suggest somethin' else?"
Shaking her head, she reached for a glass tumbler, dropping a scoop of crushed ice inside before turning to fill it with Coke. Pushing it into the mini freezer to her left, she plucked a ripe lime from the bowl, rolling it between her hands before picking up a sharp knife. "You know," she said, turning to the bar once more, "I'm pretty sure that when someone spies you there's going to be a riot." Placing the lime on the bar, she rolled it over the hard surface several times before slicing off the end. "And if some two-bit little bimbo ends up crashing into my bar and breaks anything, I reserve the right to charge you to replace it." Making several thin slices of the lime, she reached for a bamboo skewer, creating a shish-ka-bob or sorts, twisting the lime slices onto the skewer so they created a spiral. Then, retrieving the glass from the freezer, she placed a small napkin on the bar and set the glass on it, dropping the like skewer inside with a flick of her wrist.
"I can afford it," he promised. Reaching for his drink, his hand paused in midair when he saw she stirred the skewer inside the Coke. Watching the ice swirl, he smiled slightly, admiring her talent. "Will this cover it?" he asked, pushing the bill towards her.
"Hang on, you've got change--"
"Keep it," he interrupted, lifting his drink for a taste. Nodding appreciatively at the slight kick of the lime, he licked his lips before taking another sip. And, leaning against the bar, he motioned for her not to go away. "Look, I'm sorry about what he said."
"Forget about it. I know I'm not every guy's image of the perfect bartender. I'm short, I'm fat, I have frizzy hair, and I don't have a pair of knockers that make men praise God." Discarding the rest of the lime, she reached into her pocket with her other hand. Handing over his change as she wiped off the counter, she finally looked at him. He held his drink with both hands, ignoring the cash she held out. "Look, Jerry--"
"What?" He choked on an ice cube at her blundering of his name. Thumping his chest several times until the ice was dislodged, he stared at her. "What did you just call me?"
"…Jerry? No? Okay, then… John? Jim? Look, what the fuck is your name, anyway?"
"Justin," he ground out. Slightly perturbed that she didn't know his name. Yet, he was also amused. And a bit relieved. And, perhaps, somewhat turned on by the way her teeth bit into her bottom lip when she said fuck.
"Okay, Justin. I get those kinds of comments every day. I'm used to them. The day I don't hear them is the day I'll be upset. Now, can you take your change and move? I have other customers waiting."
"Let'em wait," he decided. "Just 'cause some guys are assholes doesn't mean all of us are--"
"I have yet to meet the one who isn't. I really appreciate you coming all the way down here and making a show of being polite. And I appreciate your offer of such a high tip, but I know it's just your way of making yourself feel better about the situation, so I can't accept it. Now, please, get your money and go." Pushing the bills into his hand, she motioned for the next person in line to step forward.
Justin fumbled slightly to keep his drink from spilling. Refusing to move, he felt himself jostled from side to side as people on either side of him surged towards the bar, got their drinks, and left. A waitress slipped up with an empty tray, and he watched the redheaded bartender in awe as she bounced between making drinks for the waitress and customers at the bar. Grunting in frustration when he was shoved towards the bar, he unwittingly crashed against the waitress.
For a moment, time slowed down. He saw the tray shake in her hands, dropped his drink so he could help steady her. Then a hand shot out to catch his drink from behind the bar, sending him further into the waitress. Her tray sailed from her hands, drinks toppling to the bar top, where they shattered, sending a large splash of beer, soda and mixed drinks towards the bartender.
There was a stretched-out silence emanating from those closest to the incident. Justin watched in horror as flecks of blood appeared on the pale, creamy skin of her bare arms, jerking in surprise when the waitress whirled around.
"Who the fuck did that?!"
"We need a broom and a mop back here!"
"What's going on?"
"You! What the fuck's your problem? Ever fucking heard of waiting your turn?"
Justin opened his mouth to retort angrily, closing it quickly when he realized the waitress' wrath was aimed at the person behind him. Slipping past, he hoped to get to the bartender, to make sure she was okay. Diving between two women who eyed him strangely, he lurched for the swinging door behind the bar. It was obviously a storage room, crates of beer and liquor stacked against the walls. A large door led into what he assumed was either a freezer or a cooler, and a small door to the left was open. Hearing the rattling sounds of someone going through a cabinet, he moved in that direction.
She was on her tiptoes, pawing through the contents of a cabinet over the sink in the small bathroom. A solitary tear trickled down her cheek, and he saw the blood smeared on her drenched top. Looking into the cabinet, he reached past her, retrieving the first-aid kit that was on the top shelf. Setting it on the sink, he popped it open, not surprised when she snatched it from his reach and began to paw through the contents. Sighing, he knelt in front of her when she sat on the closed toilet seat lid. "Let me," he murmured softly, taking the kit from her shaking hands. "Is there any glass stuck in you?"
"No-I don't think so. It just hurts. I don't know," she finally sighed. When he turned the cold water on in the sink, she tensed slightly, knowing how it would sting. Biting down hard on her bottom lip when he gently brought her arms under the water, she growled low in her throat. Then, feeling the soft sweep of his fingers along the nicks in her arm, she was surprised at the tenderness of his touch. Reminding herself that it was, undoubtedly, still his way of feeling better about her earlier mortification, she braced herself. Not expecting a sudden jolt of pain, she lurched against him. "Ow!"
"Sorry! I'm sorry! I think there's some glass right there," he explained. Tearing some paper towels off the roll, he wrapped several around her other arm, which had shown no signs of glass. Ushering her back until she once more sat on the toilet, he squatted next to her, laying her arm across his knee. Breathing a sigh of relief when he found a pair of sterile tweezers within the first-aid kid, he tore open the package, worried at the continual flow of blood from the small wound. "Shit, we gotta sterilize it…" Gently returning her arm to her lap, he stood, tearing through the contents of the solitary cabinet. Finding no rubbing alcohol or peroxide, he cursed. Then, remembering the crates in the next room, he slipped through the door, returning momentarily with the first thing he'd grabbed.
She eyed the bottle of tequila warily, chewing on her bottom lip as he removed the cap. "Sorry, but I'm not in the mood to do shots right now--"
"It's to sterilize the cut," he explained, hoping that the old movie he'd watched at three that morning had been correct. Of course, it had been a western, and back then they hadn't had Emergency Rooms--
"What are you waiting for?" she asked through clenched teeth.
Snatching up a paper cup from the stack by the sink, he filled it halfway, handing it over. "Drink that first, it'll help take away the sting."
"Somehow I doubt that," she muttered. And, seeing his look if irritation, she smiled before downing the tequila in one shot.
He waited for the gasping, choky sound that everyone else he'd seen down tequila made. Waited for the watering eyes, the look of disgust. Instead, she licked her lips, cleared her throat softly, and continued to hold onto the cup.
"Well?" she asked softly.
"Sorry," he mumbled. "Can you hold it over the sink without getting up?"
Nodding, she did so, keeping her head turned away as he leaned close to pluck the glass from her arm. He expected her to flinch, to whimper or cry out, but she remained still. Silent. Leaning his face close to make sure there was no more slivers left in the wound, he breathed a soft sigh of relief when he saw he'd gotten them all. Then, taking the bottle, he refilled her cup, making sure she drank it before pouring a small amount over her arm.
"Christ," she hissed in pain, curling her arm away from his grasp as he reached for more paper towels. Silently, he dried around the wound, assuring himself that it was still before reaching for the tube of Neosporin. Applying it as gently as possible with his index finger, he kept his eyes on her face as he began to wind gauze bandaging around her arm.
"How's it feel?" he asked, breaking the silence that had stretched between them. Holding the gauze in place with one hand, he reached into the kit once more, rummaging around for tape.
"Better," she whispered, her voice shaky. He realized she was trembling, saw for the first time the goosebumps raised on her skin. After taping the bandage down, he surveyed the rest of the damage, placing a band-aid coated with Neosporin over one that continued to bleed. Then, suddenly feeling the chill in the room, he shrugged his leather jacket off.
"You need to get out of that wet shirt," he murmured. Turning away to offer her some privacy, he was surprised when her crumpled, stained shirt sailed over his head and out of the room. Admiring the perfect arc the bundle made before landing, he removed the button-down red shirt he wore over a black tank top, turning to offer it to her.
She eyed him thoughtfully. "Thanks, but that wouldn't stretch over my--"
"I always wear clothes that are a couple sizes too big," he told her. Never breaking their eye contact, he helped her into the shirt. About to start on the buttons, he pulled his hands away with a quick grin. "Sorry…"
"Something tells me you're more accustomed to helping a woman remove her shirt, not putting one on," she commented. Sighing once the shirt was fully buttoned, she reached to remove her jaw-clip, quickly smoothing her auburn hair back into a twist before replacing the clip. "Thank you, Justin. Not for falling onto the waitress and sending glass and daiquiris at me, but for cleaning up my cuts and all."
"No problem." She stood up, and he quickly reached to help her, not liking the way her face paled. "By the way, what's--"
"Johanna! You back here or what?" a male voice suddenly boomed from the next room.
"Cleaning up the blood, Troy!" she shouted back, holding onto Justin's hand tightly.
"You okay? Or do I have to take you to the-Oh." Troy stopped short when he saw Justin with her. "Sorry-I just wanted to make sure she's--"
"I'm okay, Troy," Johanna said, and Justin saw her cheeks turning pink beneath the sickly pallor. "Mr. Timberland--"
"Timberlake," Justin corrected quickly.
"--Timberlake," she amended, lightly pinching the hand that held hers, "bandaged me up. I'll be back to work in a minute."
"You've only got another hour, go on home," Troy told her, leaning to survey the damage to her arms. "We've got it under control."
"Troy--"
"Come on, Johanna. Just go home and rest, okay? Think of it as an early birthday present."
"My birthday is months away--"
"A late Christmas present, then. Shit, I try to be a decent boss and you fight me? Go on, go home, take care of yourself, and I'll see you Monday."
"Alright," she relented. "There's the big party that night, right?"
"Yep. And I want you in the VIP lounge, 'kay? So make sure you're in good shape." Without another word, Troy turned and left, barking orders as he went through the swinging door.
"You gonna make it home okay?" Justin asked as she pulled away from him. Seeing the smears of blood on his fingers, he moved to the sink to wash his hands.
"I'll be fine. I always take a cab home, and I'll call my roommate so she'll know to expect me early. Last time I came home early she bolted out of her bedroom with a loaded pistol, certain I was a burglar."
"Fuck that," Justin decided.
A hint of a smile flickered on her lips. "She's FBI, she's allowed to be antsy like that."
"You live with a fuckin' Fed?" he asked incredulously, stumbling when he inadvertently splashed hot water on his crotch. Sending up a prayer of thanks for the fact he'd worn black jeans, he turned off the water.
"She's not a 'fuckin' Fed', she's my best friend. We've known each other since Kindergarten, and--" she cut off abruptly as she recapped the tequila. "Why am I boring you with all this? Don't you have friends upstairs and a plethora of adoring women waiting to kiss your feet?"
"Shit, when you put it like that, I'd rather stay in here," he muttered. She began to scoff, but when he turned to offer a wry grin she rolled her eyes.
"How much for the shirt?" she asked.
"Huh? The-Oh! Don't worry about that, okay?"
"Listen, Jerry Timberland, I saw that Armani tag when I was putting it on, I know it cost--"
"Don't worry about it," he repeated emphatically, somehow knowing by the look in her eyes that she intentionally called him the wrong name. "It's just a shirt. …If I wanted to call and check up on you, what number would I dial?" As soon as he asked, he wondered why. They both knew it was just a series of freak circumstances that had them in the small bathroom, her wearing his shirt and smelling of tequila. It wasn't as though they would ever meet again. But it seemed the right thing to do, despite the fact he was certain he'd never call her.
"The number on the back of the book of matches that you can get from the VIP lounge," she informed. "I'm sure Troy would be proud to publicize an account of you helping a battered bartender then calling to check up on her. Thanks again… Justin."
With that, and a gentle pat of her hand against his bare arm, she slipped from the room. He stood frozen in place, awed at the soft way she'd said his name, wondering why his arm tingled from her touch.
"Get a fuckin' grip, Timberlake," he muttered to himself, tossing the used paper towels into the trash. Turning to look in the small mirror over the sink, he smoothed a hand through his hair. Johanna was right. His friends were waiting. And, yes, there were many beautiful women upstairs who'd shown obvious interest in him. The night was still young. So, picking up his jacket and slinging it on, he strolled out.
Author's Chapter Notes:
Story Tags: love celebrityj jc justin
