Two Men Walk Into a Bar (At Christmastime) by Katy Regnery Read Free Book Online

Two Men Walk into a Bar (at Christmastime)
     
     
    Sitting down on the only available bar stool at the Rolling Stone bar in Terminal 7 of the Los Angeles International Airport, Asher Lee groaned inwardly as he stared at the Weather.com app on his phone. Blizzards were rare in Maryland, but Bethesda was getting hammered with snow right this minute. At first they’d delayed his flight by an hour. Then two. Now he wasn’t scheduled to leave sunny California until midnight, which meant he’d be on a red-eye at best and miss Christmas at worst. And maybe that wouldn’t matter to another man, but for Asher, who was desperate to get home to his new bride and spend their first Christmas together, it felt pretty damned awful.
    “This fucking sucks,” muttered the person to his left.
    Asher looked over to find a man about his age wearing a black Metallica T-shirt, his dark hair in gelled disarray. His arm, resting on the copper bar beside Asher, was heavily tattooed, and the amber-colored drink in front of him was almost finished.
    “Amen.”
    “You stuck here?” asked the man.
    Asher nodded, turning slightly toward the man. Although he was far more comfortable in public than he used to be, he still braced himself for strangers’ reactions to his heavily scarred face. But the tattooed man didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he didn’t care, because his face registered nothing but resigned annoyance.
    “Yeah. Headed to D.C. Supposed to get home tonight, but now . . .” He looked over the man’s head at the departure board, the words DELAYED taunting him. “Who knows?”
    “Headed back to New York myself. Sounds like we’re in the same boat.”
    “Whole East Coast is gettin’ slammed,” said Asher, holding up his phone, which showed a long band of white from Boston to Richmond.
    But the man’s attention was stolen by the hand holding up the phone. It was the newest-generation i-Hand prosthesis, and while some people—Asher’s wife, most notably—thought it was cool, others were shocked to see something so robotlike sticking out of the cuff of Asher’s pressed dress shirt.
    The man’s gaze held on Asher’s hand for a moment before meeting his eyes.
    “What’s your poison?” asked the man, rapping his knuckles rhythmically on the counter. “I’ll get you a drink.”
    “No need,” said Asher, a hint of defensiveness creeping into his tone. He didn’t need a stranger’s sympathy. He lowered his phone to the counter and gestured to the bartender, who held up a finger telling Asher it would take a minute for her to get to him. He nodded, and out of habit, his thumb found the gold band on his finger and twisted the warm metal. Though he was a world away from her, it made him feel connected, somehow, to Savannah.
    “You sure?” asked the man beside him, flicking his lowball glass with his fingernail. It made a musical sound, as clear as a bell, and the man’s lips tilted up a touch as he flicked the glass again, nodding when it made the same melodic sound. “D-flat major.”
    “Huh?”
    The man looked up from the glass, as though distracted from a good memory. “You, uh, you sure you don’t want one? It’s an aged Scotch they keep under the bar for Keith Richards. An 18-year Glenlivet. Smooth as velvet.”
    “Keith Richards, huh? From the Rolling Stones ?”
    The man nodded. “For when he passes through.”
    “And you know this how ?”
    “He told me to ask after it if I ever found myself stuck in Terminal 7.”
    “I’m guessin’ you’re a musician.”
    The man nodded. “Guitarist. Songwriter. Name’s Zach.”
    “Asher,” he said. “But I’m more of a bourbon man myself.”
    Zach grinned. “No accounting for taste. My girl drinks Scotch. Me too.”
    Suddenly Asher realized that Zach was also toying with the ring on the fourth finger of his left hand. “Your girl?”
    “My wife. Violet. Going on two years now.” Suddenly he grinned at Asher, his angular face brightening as though