Casanova(40)

Camille gave me a knowing look with a raise of her eyebrows and leaned over the bar. “Hey, Raven! Who do I have to blow to get served around here?”

A woman around our age with fittingly dark hair threw her head back and laughed. Ice clinked inside the metal cocktail shaker in her hand, and she threw Camille a wink before she tossed the shaker in the air. It landed back in her hand the right way up, and she popped off the lid without seemingly moving, then filled three martini-style glasses with an electric blue liquid in one long pour.

Somehow, amazingly, not a single drop of liquid splashed onto the bar.

My eyebrows shot up. Well then, that was a fancy piece of drink pouring, wasn’t it?

After taking money, Raven slid down the bar and leaned forward in front of us. She looked me over with bright blue eyes. “No, wait, don’t tell me,” she said over the music. “Dark hair, dark eyes, look of wonderment...you’re Lani.”

“How did you know that?” I half-smiled.

“I could be cocky and tell you it’s because I’m fucking awesome, or I could be honest and say Brett called and told me not to tell you he’d be here. Whoops.” She smirked and stood up straight. “Looks like that went wrong.”

“Don’t worry. He already pissed me off outside.”

“Ah.” She leaned back and went up onto her toes, looking to the side. “Yep, that explains why he’s glaring at me.” She grinned sassily and wiggled her fingers in what I presumed was his direction.

My smile dropped a little when Raven laughed.

Camille obviously noticed because she nudged me, leaned in, and said, “Raven moved here from Key West. She worked in this place when it was Rocky’s Diner—after you left—and the moment she looked at Brett, she told him that if he tried hitting on her, she’d hit on him with a machete.”

I propped my chin on my hand and offered Raven my widest smile. “I think we could be really good friends.”

She laughed with a loud clap. “Girl, anyone who has Brett Walker’s number is a friend of mine. Now, what can I get you?”

“Two Pussy Pounders,” Camille said.

“And the guys who’ll serve them,” I chirped in.

Raven laughed as she spun around to the liquor behind the bar. “Don’t we all want that?” Quick as lightning, she grabbed two cocktail shakers. She mixed the drinks faster than I could keep up with what she was pouring into it. All I knew was that there was a lot of liquor being poured freehand into those glasses.

A lot more liquor than anything else.

Two minutes later, after some more fancy shaking stuff, she poured the contents of both shakers into two cocktail glasses over a couple of cubes of ice. Finishing with a strawberry on the edge and two red straws inside, she pushed them across the bar with a flourish.

“There. Try that,” she said to me.

I was skeptical. I was a classic cocktails only girl, but hey, I’d give it a try. So I pulled the glass close to me and sipped. Flavor exploded on my tongue, and the aftermath of the initial sweeter taste was a comfortable warmth on my tongue.

“Oh my god,” I groaned. “What is in this?”

Raven held up one hand. “Red berry vodka, strawberry liqueur, a dash of cherry sours, and lemonade. Oh. And a cheeky shot of tequila.”

“I’m moving in,” I said around the two straws between my lips. “This is the best thing ever.”

She chuckled and as she picked up the twenty-dollar bill Camille had sneakily thrown down, she winked at me. “Girl, it should be. I’m the best mixologist in the state.”

Well, then.

I could take more of these drinks.

All. Night. Long.





Two hours later, as the fairy light surrounded clock above the bar dinged eleven p.m., Camille and I fell back to our seats in a fit of laughter. The last two hours had been full of drinks, dancing, and giggles. She’d found herself with someone’s phone number brazenly slapped in her hand, while I found myself on the end of a sneaky butt pat—and a smooth transition of a scrap of paper with the hot guy’s number on.

I had no intention of calling it, but it still felt good.

The only bad thing had been the fleeting moments when I’d felt Brett’s too-hot gaze on me, but for the most part, I’d ignored that.

I sipped from my new glass of Pussy Pounder—this thing was giving my inhibitions a pounding, never mind my pussy—and put my hand over my eyes, still grinning from whatever it was that had made me laugh. Camille was doing the same.

Raven’s drinks were magical. I felt tipsy, but the good tipsy. Uncontrollable giggles and unfiltered speech kind of tipsy. I should have been much more drunk than I was, and I knew the same went for Camille.

“Ohhh.” She blew out a long breath. “That was fun.”

“Speak for yourself,” I said, dropping my hand. “I think the last time I had that much fun I was eight.”

Camille giggled. “Now you’ve had fun, tell me what’s going on with my brother.”

“Nothing is going on with your brother,” I said with a completely straight face.

“Something is going on with him.”

I rolled my eyes. “If you count his misguided attempt to get inside my Victoria Secrets, then yes, something is. For him. Not for me. All that’s going on for me is gritting teeth and bearing his bullshit.”