He raises it in salute as I approach and knocks back the rest in one long swig before setting the bottle down with a clunk.
“What happened to me buying the first round?” I ask, a smirk pulling at the corner of my mouth.
“You got the next one, compadre,” he replies, flashing a grin.
I roll my eyes and head toward the bar, weaving through tables and elbows as I dig my wallet from my back pocket. The music shifts to something slower, and I signal the bartender before settling against the counter, trying not to think about how much I’ve needed this drink.
“What’cha havin’, darlin’?” the bartender drawls, her thick Southern accent wrapping around the words like honey.
She’s older—probably late fifties—with sun-worn skin, red-tinted lips, and a honey blonde bun that looks like it’s been through the wringer. Her cherry red top dips low—low enough that her breasts threaten to spill out with every move. A wadof gum snaps rhythmically between her teeth as she polishes a glass with a bar towel that’s frayed and stained from years of hard use. Her half-smile is easy but practiced, the kind you earn working dive bars long enough to see it all.
“Two Dos Equis and a shot of tequila, please,” I say, sliding my ID and debit card out of my wallet and placing them on the counter with a quiet slap.
The bartender gives a nod without missing a beat. She sets the glass she was drying down, gum snapping between her teeth as she turns toward the fridge behind her.
While she moves, I let my attention drift, half-turning to survey the place. A couple of college kids, repping the university, are hunched over the pool table near the back, cue chalk dusting the air as one lines up his shot. Off to the side, two construction guys in sweat-stained work shirts are locked in a friendly shouting match over the baseball game playing on the TV. They’ve got enough empty Miller bottles stacked on their table to pass for a sad game of bar bowling.
The bartender pulls two beers out and sets them down on the counter, then grabs a clean shot glass and a bottle of Patron off the shelf, pours an ounce and a half into the glass, topping it with a lime wedge.
“Here ya go, darlin’,” the bartender says, pulling me back as she slides the drinks my way.
“Thanks,” I mutter, grabbing the shot glass in one hand and the lime wedge perched on the rim with the other. I squeeze it into my mouth, let the bitterness cut through for a second, and then throw back the tequila in one smooth motion, welcoming the burn as it goes down.
She swipes my debit card from the counter, ignores the ID, and runs the payment while I breathe through the heat in my chest. The second she drops the receipt in front of me, I scribblea signature and slide a five-dollar tip her way before pocketing both my cards again.
Grabbing the two beer bottles by the neck in one hand, I make my way back toward Kline. He’s already leaning back in his seat, watching me with that easy smirk like he’s been waiting for me to hurry the hell up.
I set both the bottles down in front of us. Kline doesn’t waste any time and jams a lime wedge into the bottle. He throws it back, taking a long swig as I sit in the chair opposite him. When he finally comes up for air, there’s maybe a third left in the bottle.
“Thanks, man,” he says as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, setting the bottle down on the table.
“Don’t mention it,” I reply as I shove the lime into the bottle, then take a sip, the bitter aftertaste coating the back of my tongue as I swallow.
We sit in comfortable silence for a few beats, letting the buzz of the bar fill the space between us. Pool balls clack in the distance, country music hums low through the speakers, and the occasional burst of laughter or curse comes from across the room.
Kline leans back in his seat, one arm draped over the backrest, bottle in hand. He takes a long sip, then exhales slowly, the corners of his mouth twitching into a relaxed grin. “You know,” he says after a beat, voice low and reflective, “sometimes I forget how damn nice it is to sit down and have a beer without having to watch your six.”
I nod, nursing the last few sips of mine. “Yeah. Too many nights end with adrenaline still jacked through my system. It’s nice to come down without crashing face-first into bed.”
Kline lets out a short laugh, tipping his bottle lazily. “Remember that call a few months ago? The naked guy on the roof, screaming about government drones spying on his cat?”
I smirk around the rim of my beer. “How could I forget? You were the lucky bastard who had to climb up there.”
He groans like the memory physically pains him. “Damn rain gutter tried to kill me. I still have a scar on my hip.”
I chuckle as he polishes off the last of his bottle and shakes it, the lime inside rattling like a bell. “I’m grabbing another. You want?” he asks, already halfway out of his seat.
I glance down at my empty bottle, then shake my head. “Nah, I’m good. You go ahead.”
Kline nods and strolls to the bar, leaning against the counter with the ease of someone who’s been here more times than they’ll ever admit. His shirt rides up just enough to reveal the grip of his off-duty piece tucked into the back of his jeans. It’s too loud to make out what he is saying to the bartender, but whatever it is, it makes her laugh. Her body language practically flirting back as she slides him a fresh beer and a receipt. I don’t catch the exchange, but whatever he said must’ve landed.
He returns a minute later, a smug grin etched across his face and slaps the receipt onto the table. “Check it out, man.”
I raise an eyebrow, glancing down. A name (Vicky) and number scribbled in loopy handwriting. “You got her number?” I say, slight shock evident in my tone. “You gonna call her?” I ask as he goes through the ritual again—lime in, then sip.
“I dunno, maybe.” He shrugs. “Depends on how many more of these I have.”
I laugh and stand, stretching slightly as I glance at the bartender. Even under the neon lighting from the sign above the bar, I could tell she was flushed. “Well, whatever you decide—wear a damn condom.”
