With a threat growing in the shadows, Lieutenant Drew "Daisy" Farrell is sought out for TF141, an elite squad of soldiers trained to deal with the world's most serious threats. The transition onto the team goes smoothly, except for the animosity bet...
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This and the following chapter are pure filth. There is no plot.
Enjoy, thirsty bitches.
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She told the team she wanted to go somewhere fun. And as much as she liked a pub, she wanted a place with music she could dance to. No thinking, very little talking, just feeling.
They'd picked a good spot based on the music that leaked into the parking lot, and upon hearing a hit song from a decade ago, she beelined for the bar, not waiting for anyone.
Inside was small and dimly lit, with a row of red leather couches along the back wall that shone under strobe lights. To the right of her was a bar that stretched nearly the length of the place, and she went directly for it, sidling up close between two groups of people. Almost immediately, she felt a presence behind her, and when she glanced over her shoulder, she found Simon a step away with his arms crossed over his chest.
He looked like a bodyguard, and her his ward.
When the bartender caught her attention, she turned, "Ten shots of tequila please."
"Whiskey."
"Eight shots of tequila, and a double whiskey on the rocks. Bourbon."
The woman nodded, lining up plastic shot glasses on the bar top.
"Don't like tequila?" Drew teases, looking back over her shoulder.
"I like bourbon," Simon states simply.
So uptight, she noted.
She'd change that.
As the drinks were filled, she passed them behind her, careful not to drop the wedge of lime that sat atop the rim. Simon reached past her, grabbing his glass before tugging her arm gently.
"I have to—" her eyes landed on the cash in the bartender's hand, and she turned, sending a glare at Simon. "I was going to pay."
"Be quicker next time," he quipped with a sly smirk.
