Ryden Oneshots

Don't You Know I Love You (When You're Down And Dirty)

“You got Corona?” the Messy Hair Guy asks. “And while you’re at it, a shot of tequila would be nice. Whatever kind you got.”

Ah. The just-get-me-drunk kind. Ryan can work with that. It’s why he’s here, after all.

He pops the cap off the beer and slides it across the bar. The guy reaches for the beer so eagerly that their fingers brush when he grasps the bottle, and lifts the beer to his mouth. Ryan watches the line of his throat as he swallows. He doesn’t even realize he’s staring until the guy sets the beer down and holds out his hand.

“Brendon,” he says. “I’m Brendon.”

“That’s nice,” Ryan says.

Brendon pulls his hand back, face falling.  Why do you got to go kicking the puppies?  Spencer always asks. Ryan feels a pang of remorse.

But it’s not his job to feel bad for strangers. He pours a shot of Cuervo, filling it to the brim, and places it carefully on the bar.

“Enjoy,” he says flatly, and flips a towel over his shoulder, turning to put some glasses in the dishwasher.

*

Things pick up for a few hours, and Ryan’s busy making drinks and polite conversation. People know Ryan’s not much of a talker. His regulars don’t usually try to engage with him, but every so often a new girl will walk in and start babbling on about how isn’t it just so  homey  in here, so nice, really, and isn’t he a doll to keep this place up so well? She’ll bat her eyelashes at him and Ryan’ll give her the most genuine half-smile he can muster, then retreat to the supply room until she finds something (someone) else to occupy herself with.

Around one in the morning the place starts emptying out. This isn’t much of a late-night town, and Ryan’s bar isn’t close enough to any college to catch much of a university crowd. He’s grateful for this – the last thing he needs is to get stuck serving a bunch of douchebags his own age.

Jon and Spencer are holding court in one corner of the room, playing a rowdy game of draw poker. Ryan looks over and sees Cash is gone and Brendon’s taken his place. Brendon seems to be enjoying himself, drinking the beers that Spencer puts in front of him and laughing at Jon’s dumb jokes.

He must be a terrible poker player , Ryan thinks, eyes flickering over Brendon’s expressive face.

At two Ryan decides he’s going to close up and approaches their table. Brendon’s nowhere to be seen, but Spencer and Jon look about ready to move in, surrounded by empty bottles and glasses and half-eaten baskets of onion rings and fries. There’s hardly space on the table for them to lay out their cards.

“You assholes got any place to go home to?” Ryan asks as he clears glasses from their table.

“I got a wife,” Jon says, staring at his cards like he’s trying to burn a hole through them with his eyes.

“That a yes or a no?” Ryan deadpans.

“Such a cynic,” Jon says, shaking his head at Ryan. “Why don’t you believe in love, Ryan?”

Ryan’s got so many answers to that question; they’d be here all night.

“Well, you’re definitely cut off, buddy,” he says.

“We’ll be out of your hair soon,” Spencer says. “We were just gonna—”

“—play one more hand,” a voice comes from behind him.

Ryan turns to see Brendon standing there, thumbs tucked into his belt loops. His lip curls slightly as his eyes skim up and down Ryan’s body.

“You want to play?” Brendon asks.