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“A flourish on an already perfect drink,” I say, pushing it toward the woman. “Just for fun.”
Gabe grabs the bottle and the cherries and turns away.
I slide off the stool. Personal poking is fun. Professional one-upmanship is wrong. I know better. “I should go.”
“Nuh-uh,” Mendo says. “Things just got interesting.” He turns to Gabe. “I’ve known you for nearly ten years. Nobody’s improved upon your mermaid sunrise.”
I hold up a hand. “It’s all right. I have a slightly different skill set.”
Gabe whirls around. “I thought you might be a bartender. Where?”
“Atlanta, Georgia.”
“Oh.” His angry demeanor falters.
The bear has feelings? Concerns? “Oh, what?”
“An American bar,” he says.
I get it now. “What’s wrong with American bars?”
“Nothing, if you like pale beer and watered-down cocktails.”
The bar patrons let out the sameoooooyou might hear at a wrestling match.
Apparently, I’m getting into a bar fight. Or, I suppose, a booze brawl?
“Who said anything about a brawl?” Gabe snaps.
Dang it. I did it again. Said my thoughts aloud.
Normally my bar is so noisy nobody notices.
Mendo bangs his fists on the counter in a steady rhythm. “Booze brawl! Booze brawl!”
The other patrons take up the chant.
Gabe holds up his hands, his ears red from his anger. Maybe smokewillcome out. “We wouldn’t want to embarrass the little lady. She’s not familiar with island cocktails.”
“Little lady!” I’m practically sputtering. “I could cocktail you under the table!”
“Whoooooo.” The patrons turn to Gabe for his retort.
He shrugs. “If you want to do a drink challenge, we can.” He wipes down a glass as if the whole idea is beneath his concern. But I know better. The redness has spread to his neck. He’s mad.
“When?”
Gabe slams the glass on the bar with a thunk so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t crack. “Right now is as good a time as any.”
Mendo leans forward on his stool. “No, no, no. If we’re doing a La Jarra versus USA bar brawl, we’ve got to do it right. Set a date. Promote it. Really pump it up.”
Gabe’s eyebrows draw together. “It doesn’t have to be a big deal.”
Wait. Is he nervous? “Afraid you’ll lose?” I ask.
Anotheroooooripples around the bar.
Gabe stands opposite me, hovering over the counter until our faces are inches apart. His breath is warm and smells of cherries. He ate some. “I’d challenge you anywhere at any bar at any time.”
