“Consider it a tip. You know how to make it or what?”
She huffs out a laugh and slaps her hand over the money, balling it in her hand. “Yeah. I do.”
“Well, show me how you make it.”
She stuffs the money into her back pocket and turns around, grabbing a bottle off the shelf behind the bar.
“It’s made with gin.” She turns back, slamming the bottle of Beefeater on the counter. “You a gin drinker?”
“It’s only two folks in this world I trust with my life, and Jack is one of ‘em. I ain’t never fucked him over for gin.”
She chuckles, grabbing an empty cocktail shaker and scooping a handful of ice into it. Afterward, she drops her chin to her chest and scans the area under the bar.
“I used to work at a bar off Westheimer in Uptown—a few blocks from the Galleria and right across the street from some fancy office building. All the girls would come in for happy hour after work—Louis Vuitton sales associates and big-time lawyers. They always ordered French 75s.” She pours a splash of the Beefeater in the cocktail shaker and glances at me. “I’ve never made one for a man—let alone a person who doesn’t even drink gin.”
“Well, today’s your lucky day, I guess.”
She smirks. “Yeah, I figured as much after I read your name on the credit card you gave me. After years of hearing about you, I can finally put a sexy face to a sexy name.”
I laugh, avoiding her gaze.
She’s easy. There’s no push and pull between us. She’s not smart-mouthed or throwing around words I’m never supposed to hear in my lifetime, nor is she overly nosy. She’s just another woman that’ll fall into that dark part of my brain after today.
“What’s next?” I ask.
“Lemon juice…” She grabs a bottle from under the bar and pours a splash in the same mixer. “And simple syrup.”
She puts the lemon juice back and grabs the simple syrup, pouring a dash inside the mixer too. Then she slams the top over the cocktail shaker and looks me in my eyes as she shakes it with so much force her titties bounce up and down in her low-cut shirt.
My eyes veer into her top, but my dick still won’t budge. It won’t even jump. If I ain’t know any better, I’d think it was heartbroken too.
She sets the shaker down and grabs a chilled champagne glass from the deep freezer behind her, keeping her eyes on me.
“You strain the mix in here,” she murmurs, blinking up at me through her fake lashes while grabbing a strainer from the sink and holding it over the glass.
The liquid drips into it in a slow dribble, and her tongue glides against her glossy lips. “Now we top it off with champagne.”
She tosses the strainer and cocktail shaker into the sink with the other dirty glasses and grabs an open bottle of champagne from under the bar, pouring it into the glass. “You’re supposed to garnish it with a lemon twist, but this ain’t Uptown. Wedon’t have shit like that here. We barely have champagne. Folks around here prefer to celebrate with Hennessy.”
She slides the cold glass toward me.
I stare at the drink as if I’ll find Slim in the yellow, bubbling liquid since she wasn’t in my whiskey yesterday or the day before.
“Taste it,” Mel says.
I pick up the cold glass with caution and put it to my lips.
“It’s the best French 75 you’ll ever have.”
I close my eyes and take a sip. The cold liquid flows down my throat and into my hot stomach.
Finally, I think I can taste Slim again.
The sour zing punches me in the gut like she knows I’m talking to another woman, and the sweetness rushes after it to soothe my insides. I think I even taste her tongue that I let run wild inside my mouth every time we kissed.
“So, what’s her name?” Mel asks.
My eyes pop open. “Huh?”
