Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 62637 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62637 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
I’ve been told my eyes look “too deep,” whatever that means.
I snap out of my musing and cross my arms nervously. “He wants a Dirty Thirty.”
Tarek does a little bow toward the bar. “Give him hell.”
I smile and instantly relax. I’m back where I belong, in a place where I do everything right and don’t think about the nights of no sleep or the days of feeling chased by nothing but air and loneliness.
I grab one of the tall glasses and fill it with ice, then pour in a shot of Tito’s, followed by a splash of lime. Cranberry juice is next, followed by some cherry juice and two dark cherries. A shot of Bacardi floats on the top with a squeeze of lime and a spicy chili-sugar agave nectar garnish.
Normally people stir the Dirty Thirty since it can be intense, but I like to think of it as a Macchiato… let the flavors settle, then you stir, but the first sip should always taste a bit strong and spicy, just like turning thirty and realizing you’ve done nothing with your life and only have ten years until forty, thus the name, Dirty Thirty.
The crowd intensifies, and Tarek disappears with another bartender filling orders while I bring the tall drink over to the one who never smiles.
He looks down at the drink, back up at me, then down at it. “No stir?”
I give him the same look, then shrug. “Didn’t think you were so delicate. Can’t you handle a bit of alcohol?”
He scoffs. “Trust me, it’s not that. I’m just wondering if the first taste is going to make me gag.”
I roll my eyes. “Just try it before you bring judgment.” I lift the glass. “Bottoms up.”
“Such a weird phrase,” he grumbles, taking the glass in his massive hand. He’s wearing a large gold ring on his right hand; it has the symbol of a falcon, and just above the ring is a black tattoo of an eye.
Cool, so he’s part of the Illuminati.
Makes sense.
I smile at my own joke while he lifts the drink to his stupidly lush lips and takes a small sip. He doesn’t cough, but I notice his eyes water a bit. They’re so blue I can’t tell if it’s a trick of the light or if they really are starting to shed some tears.
He coughs into his hand and sets the glass down. “Again.”
“What?” I grab the drink, ready to take a sip, but he snatches it away and gulps it down like he’s not one more away from a hangover.
“I said”—he clears his throat—“again.”
Who died and made him the expert? I may not be good at a lot of things, but I damn well know how to make good drinks.
I clench my teeth and smile. “All right, same drink?”
“Isn’t that what again means?”
Where did they find this guy? Shouldn’t HR be notified that the trainer has the personality of an ass?
I turn around before I say something stupid and get fired, and wedge myself between the other two bartenders. Tarek is on the far side of the bar, pouring out shots and smiling at all the girls flirting with him. One hands him a twenty that he puts in his pocket.
He makes it look way too easy.
Okay, focus.
I grab a fresh glass and repeat the process, except at the end, where I would normally add in the garnish, I decide to add some of the dark cherry juice on top with a slice of lime and orange. It will give it a similar effect. With one last sprinkle of crystalized chili powder, I make my way back to my trainer and hand the glass over. “Cheers.”
He stares down at it. “This isn’t a Dirty Thirty.”
“You didn’t like the real version of the Dirty Thirty. I assumed it was a test, so here’s my version of the drink. If you hate it, I’ll try again, but I figured you might like a little… twist.”
His eyes flash like he’s intrigued, but he abruptly looks down, grabs the glass, and tilts it back.
He starts choking immediately. The drink sloshes over the side of the glass when he sets it down on the bar top.
He wipes the back of his mouth with his arm. I’m convinced I just poisoned him, or he’s allergic to limes. This is it. I’ve finally done it.
I guess there was one more bar owned by a similar scary guy in Chicago, Sin, was it? Though rumors have it that the bar hides some weird tiger that eats people if they get out of line and that the main guy likes to taunt the Russian mob, but there’s no way that’s true. At this point I wonder if I’d be safer there than staring at this giant angry God of a man. I make a mental note to contact them and wait for the inevitable words: “This isn’t going to work out.”