Jesse stretched his hand out to stop the glass from sliding across the bar, eyebrow raising as the sloshing purple liquid washed some of the salt off the rim of the glass.
“Didn’t order this,” Jesse said.
“Lady in the corner sent it over,” the bartender said, head jerking over towards the booth tucked away in the smoky corner. Jesse lifted his head up, squinting through the haze as a figure in a deep purple sundress waved at him from over the rim of a similarly eggplant colored cocktail.
“Send it back,” Jesse said, sliding the drink back towards the bartender. In the mirror behind the rows of liquor bottles, he could see the bartender walking back towards the booth, loosening the clasp that held his revolver in place in case things took a turn for the ugly. There wasn’t any sign of Lacroix or Reyes; just a small handful of oil-rig workers watching the hockey game at the end of the bar.
The clinking of glasses drew Jesse’s attention back to the bartender who was struggling to place a tray of twelve identical purple prickly-pear margaritas in front of him.
“The, uh…lady in the corner insisted I give these to you,” the bartender said a little sheepishly, recoiling a little as Jesse stood up with a crack of his neck, draining the last of his Buffalo Trace and sauntering over to the booth in the corner.
How about some McSombra, if youre man enough
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