"One scotch, on the rocks - the finest you have," my next customer said.
I slid the glass over to him, mentally exhaling in relief when he caught it between two fingers.
"Thanks," he said, looking at me - or more specifically, at my eyes. I savored the moment. Few people were courteous enough to thank me properly.
"No problem," I said. "Tough day at the office?" He was wearing a suit, but his eyes were hangdog and he looked as though he wanted to get drunk properly: falling-into-oblivion drunk. I couldn't blame him.
He snorted. "Not tough, more like ridiculous. Jesus, I just hired an associate eight months ago. Now I have to hire a goddamn intern too. As if I don't have enough on my plate. And get this" - here he leaned forward conspiratorially - "it has to be a high-schooler. A high-schooler! I say to Jessica, you gotta be crazy. High-schoolers are imbeciles with enough fluff in their head to make a freakin' cloud."
"Not all high-schoolers," I replied, feeling somewhat offended, but at the same time sort of intrigued. The suit was kind of cool.
"Oh yeah? Try me. How old are you anyway?"
"Eighteen," I told him, sitting down on the other side of the counter. He was the only customer.
He did a double take. "No shit, for real? You look like a college kid."
"No, I'm in high school," I said, preening with the compliment. "Who's Jessica?"
"My boss," he replied, making a face. "She's persistent when she wants something, which means I actually have to hire a high schooler." He sighed, dramatically resting his forehead against the table and winking at me. I grinned back. "She's cool though - paid my way through Harvard, been a mentor to me ever since."
"Nice," I said, feeling a twinge of envy flare inside. Harvard. Sitting across from me was a man who wore suits to get drunk and probably made millions of dollars a week, while I, a dropout of high school, had to bartender my way through life to pay the hospital bills for my sick father.
There was a pause in our conversation after that. It was a nice pause, though, not one of those awkward silences that made you laugh nervously and look for an escape route.
After a while, the suit drank some more scotch and said, "My name's Harvey Specter."
I lashed out of my seat. "Are you really Harvey Specter?" I asked. At least, I like to think so. In reality, I probably toppled over my chair and said, "Omigod what the hell are you really Harvey Specter as in the Harvey Specter omigod omigod OH MY GOD!"
"Yes," Harvey replied, looking at me with a mixture of amusement and consideration.
"Oh my god," I said again, heart pounding like I'd just been caught for cheating. I sat down again, slowly, in case I got a heart attack or something.
"I'm Raena Hawthorne," I said, as an afterthought.
So he was the Harvey Specter? I'd heard so many things about Harvey Specter; bar gossip, you know. The man was a legend. A legend in a Tom Ford suit.
There were many rumors about him. He was the best closer in New York; he was a ruthless shark who only cared about himself, money, and winning; he was a womanizer who was very good in bed; he could throw half a million away like it was spare change; he had a beautiful redhead named Donna Paulsen as his secretary who knew everything and was terrifying; he had an associate named Mike Ross who knew nothing but had a brilliant memory; what he wanted, he always got; and when he spoke, the whole world plus God listened.
And he was in my bar.