~ 1 ~
CARTER
She didn’t just move, she glided across the bar like her feet never touched the ground. It was a pretty neat trick, considering she was wearing five-inch heels and fishnet stockings.
“Excuse me?”
I’d been staring at those legs since the second she came in. Which, by the way, was only five seconds ago.
“Bartender?”
Damn. Sexy, beautiful,andimpatient. What a combo.
“Be with you in a sec.”
I tapped the last of the round of beers while looking her over, until I felt the cold foam glide over the rim and down my fingers. She had black and red horns. A hooded cape. A blood red corset, cinched in front, accentuating the slender curve of what looked to be a pair of fantastic hips. That corset was a goddamn hero. It pushed those amazing breasts upward and forward, like an offering.
But hey, that’s the kind of night it was. After seven years of slinging drinks on Halloween, I should be used to this shit by now.
“Umm… hurry? If you could?”
The words came imploringly, but without a hint of annoyance. Even her voice was beautiful.
“Alright then,” I smiled, shoving the tray of beer in the opposite direction. Four frat-boy pirates seized the pint glasses, sloshing even more foam to my dirty floor as they hoisted them in some loud but obscure toast. “What the devil do you want from me?”
“I need anangelshot,” the woman said quickly, emphasizing the word. “Please.”
She had black patent leather boots that showed off her calves. Decorated with flames, too.
“Riiight,” I smirked, looking her up and down. “A lady of darkness like you probably eats angels for breakfast.”
Her expression didn’t change at the joke. For the first time, I realized why:
This devil wasn’t sexy or confident, though she ought to be. She was worried. Even fearful.
“An angel shot?” I repeated carefully. “That’s what you want?”
“Yes.”
Do you understand what that mea—”
“YES!”
She glanced hurriedly over her shoulder again, for the third time in the last twenty seconds. Did she really know what she was ordering? It seemed like maybe she did.
“Neat, or on the rocks?” I squinted, leaning in closer.
“I— I think—”
“Or maybe with a twist of lime?” I pressed.
She nodded fervently, catching on. “Maybe…” she breathed. “I just don’t know if—”
Just then the door to my bar flew open, and a Roman gladiator appeared. He was six-and-a-half feet tall if he was a foot, with splint mail armor, viking blond hair, and arms then hung down to his knees.
Oh yeah, and he clenched a double-bladed battle axe in one big fist.
“Ah, sweetheart! There you are!”
