The bartender’s eyebrows rise, but he gets out his shaker.
“I’ll have a vodka martini, extra dirty, extra olives, please. I take my seat again while Queenie orders. The bartender is quick to spot his new customer. I release her hand and instantly want to find a reason to touch her again. “Hi, Ryan.” Her gaze darts down and then back up. Maybe I don’t use my last name because my entire identity has been brought into question thanks to today’s events. In part because of my career choice, where my last name is what most people recognize. Even my siblings call me by our last name most of the time. No one calls me Ryan except for my parents. “I’m Ryan.” I don’t know why I introduce myself this way. The way her eyes flare makes me think she’s felt it too. “I’m Queenie.” She holds out a hand, and when I do the same, she slips hers into my palm, sending a jolt of unexpected energy through me. She climbs into the one next to mine before I have a chance to offer my assistance. “Uh, no, it’s all yours.” Regardless of my sour mood, I push back my stool and stand, partly to make space for her, since the stools are crammed in close together.
But beyond how beautiful she is, she looks sad. I notice several things as her gray-blue eyes, ringed in navy, lock and hold with mine: she’s pint size and stunning, with long chestnut hair pulled up in a loose ponytail, high cheekbones, full lips, and thick lashes that don’t appear to be coated in mascara. “Excuse me, is this seat taken?” A soft, slightly smoky female voice draws my attention to the left, where the stool next to mine sits empty. Mostly because I’m not a fan of the way alcohol tastes, so I’ve only had a couple sips out of each glass. Despite the variety, I’m still having trouble getting drunk. I have six different drinks in front of me, ranging from very expensive scotch to some kind of carbonated fruity cocktail that’s so sweet I’m positive I’ll get a cavity if I finish it.
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