New York Nights: Shaken and Stirred. Kathleen O'Reilly

      Sean’s expression sharpened, transforming into full Law & Order mode. “So you come home and Gabe here is getting busy with some fine young thing on the sofa. What do you do?”

      “What time is it?” asked Tessa, pouring a Jack neat for a Wall Street type with kind eyes.

      “What does that matter?” asked Gabe.

      “It’s important. If it’s still daylight, and under civilized society’s strictures for productivity—i.e. time for Tessa to hit the books—then I don’t care who’s doing it in my living area. I’m going to study or else I’ll never get my degree.”

      “That’s cold.”

      “You haven’t lived with the number of roommates that I have. You have to have rules and order or you’ll go crazy. You both are on your own. Someday soon I’m going to be on my own.”

      Tessa ended with a sigh, picturing herself walking up the mighty stone steps of her most prized apartment building, waving at Rodney the doorman before trudging into the old, quaint gated elevator that shuddered when it passed the third floor. After she made it safely upstairs, she’d open her door to solitary paradise, where she could crank up her Cher CD—the one she hid from the world—and then she’d fall into a neatly covered periwinkle-blue chintz chair. A huge tabby cat would jump into her lap and curl up in the afternoon sun, purring like a vibrator—the one that she’d buy if she lived alone.

      There were a lot of advantages to living life alone. Most people took it for granted. Tessa, who had always had someone breathing down her neck—and finishing off the last of the milk, craved it the way some women craved pricey shoes. And at Hudson Towers, not only would she have the apartment she wanted but she could afford the rent on a one-bedroom all on her own. Well, not right at this exact moment but very, very soon. Her savings were piling up nicely, and once she finished her associate’s degree in finance—approximately forty-six more credit hours—she’d be good to go.

      Gabe pulled out a bottle of Grey Goose and poured a shot. “Well, right now you need a roommate, and I think you should bunk with me until you find someone who isn’t going to desert you again.”

      She shook her head. “Must you try and rescue every female you meet?”

      “Yes, he must,” answered Sean and then promptly stuck a celery stick into his mouth.

      “At least think about it,” Gabe said. “And if you’re thinking about bunking in the storeroom until your find a place, think again, Tessa. It’s against the law.”

      “In what state?”

      “In my state. My bar. My state. My rules.”

      Tessa shot a lime wedge in his direction, not that it mattered. The writing was pretty much on the wall. With five days left before she had to move, she really didn’t have much choice.

      ALL NIGHT GABE POURED drinks, a gazillion cosmopolitans for a gazillion females who were all looking to meet Mr. Right or Mr. Wrong and the gazillion single males who skimmed in their wake. Yeah, it was a rough life. Actually, it was the only life he’d ever dreamed of. Gabe’s great-grandfather had done it right.

      In 1929, O’Sullivans had been a speakeasy when his great-grandfather fell dead at the age of fifty-three. Surprisingly enough, his wife had taken over, and ran the place until gin was flowing legally in New York again.

      Years had passed and generations of O’Sullivans had worked the old bar. Each generation had taken it over and then spent their lives working to keep the place going. During World War II, Gabe’s grandmother had split the bar into two real estate parcels, keeping one, and selling the other, which had been, up until a few months ago, a bodega. Gabe’s father, Thomas O’Sullivan, had ignored the family business and chose to be a newspaperman until he died of a heart attack at fifty-six.

      Gabe had inherited his great-grandfather’s dream, a dream passed down to his grandfather, his uncle and finally Gabe. As a kid, he’d worked behind the bar illegally, which had only made it sweeter. He loved listening to people talk, loved meeting new people and in general loved the bar. Where else could a kid have his picture taken with the New York Yankees and the Teflon Don? Nowhere else but O’Sullivans.

      After his uncle had died, Gabe had worked four jobs to pay the back taxes on the place to keep it open, and even then he’d needed his brothers’ financial help. But things had worked out, and voilà, here he was. He’d updated the interior, changed the name from O’Sullivans to Prime and now he was mixing Jell-O shots with seven adoring females eagerly waiting on line to pay him for a drink, tip him another twenty and then scribble their phone numbers on the cocktail napkins. And the next step in the Gabe O’Sullivan hospitality empire? The full restoration of the bar into the space next door.

      Considering the medical history of the male O’Sullivan genes, Gabe figured he didn’t have any time to waste.

      He winked at a particularly lovely specimen with coal-black hair and honey-colored eyes that dripped with the promise of a good time. Jasmine, he thought, and slid a glass of wine in front of her. “You’re looking lovely tonight. Why aren’t there five guys angling to buy you a drink?” It wasn’t the most creative line in the world, but he wasn’t looking to pick her up, he only wanted her to like his bar.

      Tessa walked behind him and slapped him on the butt, and he didn’t even stop as he reached for a clean glass. “Don’t mind her. She’s madly in love, but I keep telling her no.”

      Tessa muttered something incomprehensible but most likely insulting and then went back to work on the other side.

      Eventually Jasmine moved on, to be replaced by Cosmopolitan Amy, Banana Daiquiri Lauren, Kamikaze Rachel, Cosmopolitan Vicki and, for one short moment, Wild Turkey Todd. The hours flew by, as they always did on a busy night, and Gabe never broke a sweat.

      There were a few interventions, just as there always were. Two fake IDs, one male patron who decided that Lindy needed to show more cleavage and a couple of Red Sox fans who didn’t understand that when in Yankees territory you better keep your mouth shut or get doused in beer. Typical but never boring.

      Eventually the clock struck midnight and the crowds thinned to something less than chaos. Out of the corner of his eye Gabe noticed Cain handing Seth a twenty at the back bar, which meant only one thing. There was a new bar pool on the bulletin board downstairs.

      Gabe took the stairs to the basement, where the kitchen/office/storage/bathrooms were located, as well as the betting board. Sure enough, a white sheet of paper was tacked up with a grid of numbers and letters. Nothing to indicate the bet, though. When would they learn the right way to run a pool? Amateurs.

      While he was enjoying the calm, Gabe began breaking down beer cases, and soon Cain was downstairs, adding a new square to the grid. Cain was quiet and bulky, a New York fireman who bartended on the weekend in order to survive. You’d think they’d pay men better to risk their lives by running into burning buildings, but no. Gabe didn’t mind, because he judged every man by how fast he could mix a martini, and Cain was almost as good as Tessa. Almost.

      “What’s the bet?” Gabe asked.

      “You don’t want to know,” said Cain loading a rack of glasses through the dishwasher.

      “Yeah, I do.”

      “It was all Sean’s idea.”

      Which wasn’t encouraging. “What’s the bet?”

      “How long you and Tessa can last.”

      “As roommates?”

      “Before you have sex.”

      Gabe felt a punch in his head not unlike being clocked with a two-by-four. “You’re joking with me, right?”

      Cain looked at him blandly. “No. Want to put some money down?”

      Gabe swallowed. There were women that Gabe had sex with and women Gabe didn’t have sex with. In his head, Gabe