Murphy, the head bartender here, glanced up from the law brief he’d brought with him. He was proofing it for his day job clerking at his cousin’s firm of Doyle, Flynn and Sullivan—not that it did much good in this racket.
“You lookin’ over here, Murph?” the waiter with the winning hand asked, his black hair ruffled and his gray-blue eyes wide and teasing. Murphy’s cousin, Kyle. “I just leveled these kids. How about you come on over here to get some of that?”
Grinning, Murphy leaned back in his chair, in no hurry to move, letting his laconic attitude speak for itself.
“Aw, come on.” Kyle gathered the cards while another waiter stood behind him, marking down how much Kyle had won. “You’re the only one around here who gives me a run for my money.”
“I’m working.”
“Forget about that. You didn’t pass the bar last time, so why do you think the results are gonna be any different this time and, furthermore, that it’ll get you ahead at the firm?”
Some of the staff oohed, as if there was about to be a big street brawl. Murphy merely shook his head, seemingly amused.
Truthfully, Kyle’s words cut into him, made him anxious. He couldn’t say why. Murphy had a law degree and valuable experience at the firm under his belt; he wasn’t so much afraid he wouldn’t pass the bar this time than…what?
Damn, he didn’t want to think about what came afterward: hiring on with his cousin Ian’s law firm just as he’d always been expected to do. Going to the stifling parties, like the masquerade he’d have to attend this Sunday to network. Having the rest of his life planned out because he couldn’t let down his family by doing otherwise.
He sniffed as an enticing aroma—Chef Miike’s scallops with mushrooms over rice noodles—wafted past. Murphy closed his eyes, savoring more than just the scent. He held on to a fantasy that had no place on the path he was following—the dream of a restaurant where he could make magic in the kitchen.
As the smell disappeared, he opened his eyes again, seeing the words on the legal brief scattered before him.
Nerves rustled just under his skin, and his heart started to pound. There it was again—pressure building in him, around him, threatening from all sides. He felt as if there was a slab of rock pressing on his chest, pinning him down, stealing his freedom. He’d give his left arm to get out from under it.
But, true to form, Murphy told himself to let it go. Then he put on that carefree attitude like a cloak by resting his hands on the back of his neck, reclining farther in the chair and smiling at Kyle in a who-gives-a-crap way.
He knew it would drive his cousin nuts.
“Look at him,” Kyle said lightly, shuffling the cards and grinning at his friends. “The great hope of the Sullivans. The big brain who almost broke the bank to go to law school at fancy-pants Tulane.”
Hey, Murphy thought, he and his parents had worked long and hard to get him to the Louisiana college where he’d stayed with relatives, relied on scholarships and worked part-time to make ends meet. Murphy had even delayed enrollment a couple of years after high school graduation just to help earn his way through the school where all the Sullivan lawyers had gone. No wonder he felt so much pressure now. All the cash and hope that had been invested in him made passing the bar and succeeding that much more important.
Going to Tulane held symbolic significance in the family. The first Sullivan brothers had settled in New Orleans during the late 1800s and, gradually, after working their way up the lace-curtain ranks, two descendents had realized their dreams of opening a law practice in 1938. Having been educated at Tulane, they established a family scholarship fund for future Sullivan lawyers, thereby creating a precedent for each generation to aspire to. Sullivans who’d branched out to different areas of the country vied with each other to win the honor of attending the school, and when Murphy had made his parents proud by earning the award, the last thing he’d thought to do was refuse it or question whether it was actually the best school for him.
And while in New Orleans, he’d discovered cooking. Discovered that maybe being a lawyer wasn’t his first wish, after all.
Not that it mattered now. Murphy’s life was set, and he knew how lucky he was to have fate give him such an opportunity. After graduation, he’d moved back to San Fran to be near his close-knit family and work at his cousin Ian’s side, and all was well. For the most part.
Simmering with a low-burning frustration that seemed to get hotter each day, Murphy still didn’t let on that Kyle was getting to him. He just leaned back a little farther in that chair.
Kyle glanced over, gauging his cousin’s reaction. Not getting much of one, he shook his head and started dealing. When the maître d’, Gordon, cruised by the poker table, the waiter keeping track of the bets and winnings casually put the notepad behind his back.
“I’ve told you,” Gordon said, pointing at the cards, “no gambling here.”
Eyes wide, Kyle grinned, holding up his hands with the undealt cards still in them. “Who sees any money or poker chips, Gordie? We’re playing for fun.”
Gordon bristled, mostly because the nickname “Gordie” was beneath him. He stiffly walked away, his lips pursed.
Kyle and his comrades laughed as he finished dealing and the waiter took the scratch pad out again. One of the players, the only waitress on staff, verbally anted up while the amounts were recorded.
“Murphy,” she said in a deep smoker’s voice, “you’ve got to tell your cousin to kiss up more to Gordon.”
“Ah, Murphy doesn’t know the meaning of ‘kiss’ these days,” Kyle said, arranging his cards. “The poor boy hasn’t had any tail in—what is it now, Murphy? A millennium?”
At the keen reminder, pent-up steam whistled through Murphy’s veins. It’d been a few months, all right—ones that he’d tried to help pass with long days at the firm and the consolation prize of ambition.
Frustrated, Murphy finally stood and sauntered to the card table, glancing over another player’s shoulder. The waiter motioned for Murphy to keep his spot while he ran to the john. It was understood that he was trusting levelheaded Murphy to play out his hand without going overboard.
“Kyle’s going to grow up one day,” Murphy said, assuming the seat, “and leave the playground mentality behind.”
His cousin held up a finger. “Youth is wasted on those who don’t realize they’re gonna get old real quick.”
As Murphy got rid of two cards, he looked at Kyle. Looked at him closely.
They could’ve come out of the same womb, he and his cousin. People often commented on how much they resembled each other, even down to their athletic builds and their low voices. But they were so different it spun Murphy’s head around. Only two years separated them—Kyle was twenty-seven and he was twenty-nine—but it felt like a lifetime.
Oddly enough, Murphy kind of envied Kyle his outlook—his carpe diem nature and big dreams. Trouble was, Kyle never did anything to reach his potential, and that’s where Murphy stopped wishing he could be just a little more like his cousin.
“So, tell me, genius,” Kyle said, dealing the rest of the cards out, “you coming out with us after work tonight or what?”
Murphy kept a smile to himself when he saw that he’d gotten a straight flush. “Got things to do.”
“Right, researching some case or another for the underdogs of justice.” Cocky as ever, Kyle laid down three jacks. He addressed the other waiters. “I think Murphy just needs to be shanghaied outside his brain long enough for the girls to fall at his feet.”
Unbidden heat growled deep inside Murphy. The agony of needing to be inside a wet, warm woman clawed and burned.
He