Barbacks & Backrooms
MM Contemporary Romance
by Jace Wilder
Free with Kindle Unlimited
Pairing: MM
Heat: 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ Inferno
Tropes: Workplace Romance, Coworkers to Lovers, Praise Kink, Grumpy/Sunshine, Forced Proximity, Found Family, Bi Awakening, Competence Kink, He Falls First
Whoever pulls the most tips calls the shots in the dark.
Eli Navarro is the cocky, tattooed bartender everyone loves — the face of The Rail, the guy who makes strangers feel like the most important person in the room. He’s charming, protective, impossible to pin down, and absolutely certain that mixing real feelings with coworkers is a terrible idea. One ex already told him he’d never be more than a good time behind a bar. He believed it.
Nolan Chase is a laid-off marketing exec who took a barback job because rent is real and pride doesn’t pay for groceries. He’s quiet, observant, and terrible at flirting — but he notices everything. Including the way Eli’s hands move when he pours, the way Eli covers for his mistakes without making him feel small, and the way Eli looks at him when he thinks nobody’s watching.
To kill time on slow nights, Eli proposes a bet: separate tip jars, bartender versus barback. Whoever earns more gets a favor from the loser. In the backroom. After close.
The favors start innocent — real compliments, shirtless shifts, a kiss for courage. Then they’re not innocent at all. And the line between the game and the truth — between “those are the rules” and “I can’t stop thinking about you” — disappears somewhere between the Jameson cases and the barroom floor at two AM.
You’ll love this book if you enjoy:
✅ Tip jar bets that escalate into backroom favors (🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️)
✅ Cocky bartender who melts for the shy new hire
✅ Praise kink that starts as “good pour” and ends as “you’re so good for me”
✅ Found family bar staff who see through everyone’s bullshit
✅ First-time MM with a bi awakening that rewires everything
✅ No breakup, no cheating, no villain — just two men figuring it out
✅ HEA guaranteed
⚠️ Content Warning: This novel contains explicit sexual content (graphic MM scenes), strong language, alcohol use in a bar setting, unwanted physical contact from a stranger (resolved quickly), and themes of self-worth and emotional vulnerability. Intended for readers 18+.
📖 Read Chapter One Free
Not sure yet? Read the full first chapter right here.
Chapter One: Last Call for Help Wanted
I iron a button-down for a bar job.
That’s where I’m at in life. Standing in my boxers in a bedroom that isn’t mine—because it’s technically Marcus’s guest room and I’m technically a twenty-five-year-old man sleeping on a futon with a fitted sheet that doesn’t fit—pressing creases into a navy oxford like I’m heading to a client presentation instead of a job that pays twelve an hour plus tips.
Six months ago I had a desk. A salary. A 401(k) with a match I didn’t appreciate until it was gone. Then the layoffs came, swift and bloodless, a Slack message and a thirty-minute call with HR and a box I didn’t even need because everything was digital. We appreciate your contributions, Nolan. Sure. So much that you’re contributing me right out the door.
The bar job came through a friend of a friend who knew the owner was desperate for a barback. I said yes before I knew what a barback was. Looked it up after. A barback stocks, cleans, and supports the bartender during service. Basically a glorified busboy. Basically the opposite of everything my family planned for me.
But rent is real and savings are finite and pride doesn’t pay for groceries.
The door is unlocked. I push through into a room that looks nothing like it did at midnight. Lights up, chairs on tables, someone running a vacuum in the back corner. It’s smaller than I remember. Dingier. The floor is sticky in a way I pretend not to notice.
A man built like a retired linebacker emerges from the back hallway. He’s got a dish towel over one shoulder, forearms like Christmas hams, and a face that says he’s heard every excuse in the English language and isn’t interested in yours.
“You’re early.” He extends a hand. “Tony.”
His handshake could crush walnuts. “Don’t need the shirt, by the way. You’ll ruin it.” He looks me over. “Eli trains you. He’s—” Tony turns toward the bar and points. “There.”
I follow the point, and my stomach does something I refuse to name.
He’s behind the bar with his back to us, restocking the well from a case of bottles on the floor. Moving fast, efficient, like his body knows exactly where everything goes without his brain getting involved. Black t-shirt with the sleeves pushed up past his elbows, exposing a full sleeve tattoo on his left arm. Dark hair, short on the sides, longer on top. He’s humming along to whatever’s coming through the house speakers.
Tony whistles, two fingers. “Eli. New guy.”
The bartender turns around, and I get the full effect.
Late twenties. Maybe five-eleven. Lean, not bulky, the kind of muscle that comes from lifting cases and moving fast. Brown skin, sharp jaw, easy smile that starts in his eyes before it reaches his mouth.
He looks at me. The smile arrives.
“Tony said you were corporate.” His gaze moves from my ironed collar to my clean shoes. “You look corporate.”
“I’m—not corporate. Anymore.”
“Anymore.” He sets the vodka down, wipes his hand on a bar rag, and extends it. “Eli.”
His grip is warm. Callused. He holds it a half-second longer than necessary—or maybe that’s just how he shakes hands—and I feel the heat of his palm against mine like a brand.
“Nolan,” I say, and my voice comes out steadier than I expected.
“Nolan.” He says it like he’s testing the shape of it. “Cool. You ever barback before?”
“No.”
“Work in any establishment that serves alcohol in any capacity?”
“I went to college.”
That gets a real laugh—head tilted back, throat exposed, warm and full and unreasonably attractive. “Good enough. Come on. I’ll show you where we keep the bodies.”
He teaches me how to pour. Not cocktails—just pouring water from a speed-pour bottle into shot glasses, learning to count the seconds. My first attempt is a disaster. Eli catches a glass before it rolls off the bar without looking.
“Slower,” he says, and steps behind me.
My brain short-circuits.
His chest is against my back. Not pressed—just there, close enough that I feel the warmth of him through two layers of cotton. His hand comes around to cover mine on the bottle, adjusting my grip. His other hand lands on my wrist, light, guiding.
“You’re death-gripping it. Relax your fingers. Let the bottle do the work.” His mouth is near my ear. Close enough that I can feel his breath and smell him: bar soap, citrus from the garnishes, something underneath that’s just warm skin. “Count with me. One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand—”
I count. Or I try. My voice comes out thin and my hand is trembling and if he notices—which he does, because he notices everything—he doesn’t mention it. Instead he squeezes my wrist once, lets go, and steps back.
“Better. Again.”
My heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my wrists.
Don’t, I tell myself. Don’t do this. He’s your trainer. He probably does that with everyone.
I pour again. My hands are still shaking.
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Last Call — A scene TOO HOT for Amazon
Six months after the epilogue, Eli and Nolan close the bar on their anniversary. The tip jars come out. The backroom door locks. And Eli discovers that the quiet barback he trained to pour has learned a few moves of his own — including one that involves the bar top, a blindfold, and a bottle of the good bourbon.
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