8. Chapter 8 #2
I know exactly what to order.
“I’ll have a Cosmopolitan.”
Her hand freezes mid-reach and she pivots back, eyebrows climbing toward her hairline. “A Cosmo?”
“Yes.” I straighten my shoulders. “Vodka, triple sec, cranberry juice, and fresh lime juice. Shaken, not stirred. Served in a martini glass. With a twist.” I’ve done my research. This should demonstrate cultural competence.
“Oh, I know how to make it.” A grin splits across her face. “I’m just surprised. Most guys who walk in here order beer or whiskey, not . . .” She gestures vaguely at me. “That.”
I may have miscalculated here.
“I heard it’s good,” I manage, fighting the urge to avert my gaze.
“It’s fantastic.” She’s already pulling bottles, movements quick and sure. “You’re just going to be the first guy to order one here. Possibly ever.” She chuckles while measuring vodka. “I respect the confidence, though.”
“Should I order something else?”
“Absolutely not. I’m making you the best Cosmo of your life.”
She shakes the metal container, its rhythmic rattle folding into the bar’s ambient noise. When she pours it into the martini glass, the liquid is aggressively pink.
“Welcome to Brindlewood.” Maddie slides it across the polished wood, garnished with a lime twist. “First drink’s on the house.”
I take a tentative sip. Tartness hits my tongue, then sweetness, then a cold so sharp it splinters through my teeth. The sensation is so novel that I go back for more, chasing the experience.
“So.” Maddie plants her elbows on the bar, chin settling into her palms. “You’re new, brave enough to order a pink drink in a dive bar, and you look like someone scraped you off the bottom of an awful night.” Her eyes glint. “What’s the story?”
“I’m here on business.”
“What kind?”
Evie’s face flashes through my mind. Green eyes flecked with gold before fear widened them.
I wonder what they’d look like without panic in the way.
She’d been pretty, even while yelling at me.
Which seems like a strange thing to notice about someone who was actively trying to make you leave, but my brain doesn’t care about context.
Maybe it’s because I haven’t been this close to a human in years, or because there’s something about her that draws me in despite the circumstances. I sip my cocktail instead of answering.
“Local business,” Maddie says, watching my expression with narrowed eyes. “And based on how red you just turned, it involves someone specific.”
The Cosmopolitan tries to exit through my nose. “What?”
“You heard me.” Her grin sharpens. “Let me guess. You did something dumb, she’s furious, and now you’re sitting at my bar this late, drinking pink vodka, and spiraling about damage control.”
The accuracy borders on supernatural.
Is this normal? Are all humans this perceptive, or is it a job-specific skill? I should have researched this more thoroughly.
“That’s . . . perceptive.”
“I’m a bartender in a small town. Reading people is literally the job.” She moves away to refill someone’s beer, the golden liquid flowing smoothly from tap to glass. When she returns, she picks up where she left off. “So. How bad is it?”
“I appeared in her house without warning. She thought I’d broken in. I’m relatively certain I triggered a panic attack.”
Maddie’s eyebrows achieve new heights. “Okay, that’s significantly worse than anticipated. Most guys come in here moaning about a forgotten anniversary. You went straight to potential felony charges.”
“It was accidental.”
“You accidentally showed up at someone’s house uninvited? At night?” She doesn’t sound convinced.
“The circumstances were . . .” What’s a word that means a cat used a novelty spirit board and accidentally summoned me from another dimension? “Unusual.”
“I bet they were.” She’s studying me again with sharp hazel eyes. “You’re not actually dangerous though, right?”
“No.” I consider this. “Not really. I can’t even pull off intimidating.”
“Good.” She nods once, decisively. “Because if you were, we’d be having a very different conversation involving the aluminum bat I keep beneath the register.
” Her easy smile resurfaces. “Okay. Here’s what you do.
Apologize. Actually explain what happened, even if it sounds weird.
Give her room to process without crowding her.
And whatever else you do, don’t show up unannounced again. That one’s non-negotiable.”
“That’s good advice.”
“I’m full of those. It’s my primary marketable skill.” She grabs another glass to polish. “What sort of work are you in, anyway?”
Contract negotiation. Soul acquisition. Demonic bargains through accidental feline summoning. How do I phrase this without sounding unhinged?
“It’s complicated.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it keeps being true.”
“Fair enough.” She shrugs, and the silver-white pieces framing her face shift against the dark waves, revealing the pale underlayer beneath. “Well, good luck with your complicated business transaction.” She shakes her head and walks over to help another customer, who’s waving an empty glass.
Every drink in this room is beer, whiskey, or some brown liquor served without ceremony in a short glass. I glance down at my Cosmopolitan. It practically glows against the scarred wood of the bar.
At least everyone here is dressed more or less exactly the way I chose to dress when I was trying to pass as human and approachable. Worn denim, work boots, sun-cracked hands, faded baseball caps, and flannels dulled from countless washes.
This town seems to exist in a comfortable time pocket where my outdated fashion sense reads as normal instead of fifteen years behind.
If I’d chosen the suit and tie from the field manual, which demons wear for formal contract negotiations, I would’ve gotten strange looks before I even reached the bar.
Still. The Cosmo situation is not ideal.
I wrap both hands around the stem of the glass in a doomed attempt to make it less visible, which only succeeds in making me appear deeply protective of it.
The man next to me has forearms the size of my thighs and has been stealing glances at my drink for the past minute. I prepare myself for whatever comment is coming.
“That a Cosmo?”
“Yes.” I make myself look him in the eye.
He considers this, rubbing a rough hand over his jaw. “My wife makes those at home sometimes. I always drink hers when she’s not looking.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Never been brave enough to order one. I figured Maddie would engrave it on my headstone.”
My shoulders relax. “It’s great.”
“Good for you, though. Someone had to go first.” He sounds wistful about it. Then he catches himself and takes a very masculine swig of his beer, as if to compensate. “Anyway. Welcome to town.”
He clinks his pint against my martini glass without me asking, then goes back to watching the pool game.
When Maddie swings around, she glances between us, her eyes narrowing. “Are you corrupting my regulars?”
“No, ma’am.” I shake my head hard enough to knock my glasses crooked.
Why did I say ma’am? She’s roughly my age. The guy next to me coughs into his fist in a way that sounds suspiciously like a laugh.
Maddie mercifully moves on. “While I was pouring the world’s most boring beer order, I had a thought about your girl problem.”
“I don’t have a girl problem.”
“Sure you don’t.” She flips the bar towel onto her shoulder. “Just so you know, a girl who’s got you this twisted up is worth the effort.”
I stare after her as she moves down the bar, wondering how a stranger could see so clearly what I’m only beginning to understand myself.
She’s right about one thing. I am twisted up. I’m sitting in a bar, drinking something the color of a sunset, thinking about a woman who never wants to see me again.
But only because she’s my last chance. The final opportunity to prove I can do this job before Hell decides I’m more trouble than I’m worth.
That’s why I keep thinking about her.
She’s a contract. An assignment.
That’s all this is.