cosmo?”
He thrust the shot glasses at a couple of customers, snatching up their money, and marched over. He stared down the man I was helping. “You want a drink that’s more fruit than liquor, you get the hell out of my bar.”
My mouth dropped.
“We got whiskey, we got vodka,” Mikey snapped, counting off on his fingers. “We got tequila and we got beer.” He lunged at the guy who was adjusting his expensive-looking glasses that I doubted had a prescription in the lenses and laughed. “Now, sissy-boy, pick your poison.”
“I’ll just have some water,” glasses boy replied, his voice cracking.
The look that broke out on Mikey’s face made it seem he was experiencing a coronary. “Get the hell out of my bar. You’re a disgrace to the male species.”
To my surprise, “sissy-boy” turned and left, not another word or a single protest.
Despite his vulgarity, shallowness, and the fact he was a couple sandwiches short of a picnic, I wished I could take command of my life and tell all the annoyances to bug off like Mikey did.
Mikey turned to me, his face a tomb of grave. “Listen here, California. I know you’re new here, but don’t riddle me with any more questions about what we serve.” He stared me in the eyes. “Whiskey, vodka, tequila, beer.” He pushed off the bar and pointed at a row of girls in boobilicious tops. “Capiche?”
No room for confusion—I liked that. “Capiche,” I answered as he made his way to the beer taps.
I heard Mikey curse something in Italian and found him covered in a froth-like substance. “Hey California, the keg blew,” he said, reaching for a dishtowel to wipe his face. “Go roll me out another one?”
“I’ll be back in a jiff.” I ducked under the bar and shoved through the crowd, no measure of politeness possible if I wanted to get to the storage room in the next week.
I felt like a pin-ball being slapped, bounced, and thrown through the crowd, but was making steady progress. It would have been so much easier to use the strength I knew I possessed to cut through the crowd, but having promised Hector last night I would be a better Immortal (no more measly trying), I suffered through.
I had a few more bodies to shuffle through before I could get into Mikey’s liquor cache—as impressive as an exhibit at the Smithsonian—when a man swerved in front of me without warning, causing me to run smack into him.
“Excuse me,” I said, dodging to the right of him.
He lunged right with me, blocking my path again. “You’re anything but excused.” He eyed me in a way that made my skin crawl. He wasn’t a large man—I probably could have held my own against him when Mortal—but there was a cockiness in his eyes that was intimidating and a confidence in his stance that gave him his power.
“Nice line.” I narrowed my eyes and rolled to the left.
I felt his hand barely grip the flesh of my right butt-cheek before it was promptly removed.
The man squealed with pain.
“Keep your ham-hocks off her,” a familiar voice shouted, but I couldn’t place it given it being out-of-context in this dive on the bad side of Paris. I spun around to find a face I never thought I’d see again. Saying goodbye to him that day in Corvallis, begging him not to tell anyone that I was still alive, I thought it had been the most final kind of goodbye.
Paul had the man’s arm twisted behind his back. “Say you’re sorry,” he ordered.
The man, who was breaking out in a sweat, did as commanded “I’m sorry.”
“Good boy,” Paul snarled, shoving him away from us. “Now get out of here, tete-mairde,” he yelled as the man scurried through the crowd, making for the exit.
His dimples set as he shrugged. “Pardon my French.”
“Paul!” I yelled, throwing my arms around his neck. “What in the world are you doing here?”
His dimples drilled deeper. “I could ask you the same thing.”
“I’m dead, remember?” I said, winking. “You’re the
He thrust the shot glasses at a couple of customers, snatching up their money, and marched over. He stared down the man I was helping. “You want a drink that’s more fruit than liquor, you get the hell out of my bar.”
My mouth dropped.
“We got whiskey, we got vodka,” Mikey snapped, counting off on his fingers. “We got tequila and we got beer.” He lunged at the guy who was adjusting his expensive-looking glasses that I doubted had a prescription in the lenses and laughed. “Now, sissy-boy, pick your poison.”
“I’ll just have some water,” glasses boy replied, his voice cracking.
The look that broke out on Mikey’s face made it seem he was experiencing a coronary. “Get the hell out of my bar. You’re a disgrace to the male species.”
To my surprise, “sissy-boy” turned and left, not another word or a single protest.
Despite his vulgarity, shallowness, and the fact he was a couple sandwiches short of a picnic, I wished I could take command of my life and tell all the annoyances to bug off like Mikey did.
Mikey turned to me, his face a tomb of grave. “Listen here, California. I know you’re new here, but don’t riddle me with any more questions about what we serve.” He stared me in the eyes. “Whiskey, vodka, tequila, beer.” He pushed off the bar and pointed at a row of girls in boobilicious tops. “Capiche?”
No room for confusion—I liked that. “Capiche,” I answered as he made his way to the beer taps.
I heard Mikey curse something in Italian and found him covered in a froth-like substance. “Hey California, the keg blew,” he said, reaching for a dishtowel to wipe his face. “Go roll me out another one?”
“I’ll be back in a jiff.” I ducked under the bar and shoved through the crowd, no measure of politeness possible if I wanted to get to the storage room in the next week.
I felt like a pin-ball being slapped, bounced, and thrown through the crowd, but was making steady progress. It would have been so much easier to use the strength I knew I possessed to cut through the crowd, but having promised Hector last night I would be a better Immortal (no more measly trying), I suffered through.
I had a few more bodies to shuffle through before I could get into Mikey’s liquor cache—as impressive as an exhibit at the Smithsonian—when a man swerved in front of me without warning, causing me to run smack into him.
“Excuse me,” I said, dodging to the right of him.
He lunged right with me, blocking my path again. “You’re anything but excused.” He eyed me in a way that made my skin crawl. He wasn’t a large man—I probably could have held my own against him when Mortal—but there was a cockiness in his eyes that was intimidating and a confidence in his stance that gave him his power.
“Nice line.” I narrowed my eyes and rolled to the left.
I felt his hand barely grip the flesh of my right butt-cheek before it was promptly removed.
The man squealed with pain.
“Keep your ham-hocks off her,” a familiar voice shouted, but I couldn’t place it given it being out-of-context in this dive on the bad side of Paris. I spun around to find a face I never thought I’d see again. Saying goodbye to him that day in Corvallis, begging him not to tell anyone that I was still alive, I thought it had been the most final kind of goodbye.
Paul had the man’s arm twisted behind his back. “Say you’re sorry,” he ordered.
The man, who was breaking out in a sweat, did as commanded “I’m sorry.”
“Good boy,” Paul snarled, shoving him away from us. “Now get out of here, tete-mairde,” he yelled as the man scurried through the crowd, making for the exit.
His dimples set as he shrugged. “Pardon my French.”
“Paul!” I yelled, throwing my arms around his neck. “What in the world are you doing here?”
His dimples drilled deeper. “I could ask you the same thing.”
“I’m dead, remember?” I said, winking. “You’re the
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