Angie P.O.V.
“How many miss?” the hostess inquired. Her face, young and fresh, was unfamiliar to me though I’d been coming to The Stockyards for years.
I smiled lightly. “Just me.”
She nodded, reaching down to remove a single menu from the stand in front of her. “Would the bar be alright?”
“That’s fine.” I followed her high heels as she strutted past tables full of people to the long bar. As I walked, I couldn’t help but admire the familiar Western décor. The place was over fifty years old, and though it had changed with the rest of the world, it had still managed to maintain the country feeling of the Old West.
The hostess sat me down near the middle of the bar, wishing me a good time. I thanked her and setting my satchel down beneath my feet, opened the menu.
“Do ya really need to look at the menu?” a thickly Irish-accented masculine voice teased.
Stifling a grin, I looked up at the mischievous bartender that had spoken. “Yes Francis, I do.”
One of his ginger eyebrows rose. “How many times have I told you, it’s Frank, not Francis,” he admonished.
“But that’s not as fun to say,” I pointed out, a smile creeping onto my face.
“Well if ya keep calling me that, I’ll have to start referrin’ to you as ‘Everill’.” Leaning forward, he rested his chin in one of his hands and cocked his head to the side for emphasis.
“Do it and I’ll kill you,” I threatened. Why oh why did my parents have to give me an old lady name for my middle name?
“Ha-ha calm down. So, what brings ya ‘ere? I ‘aven’t been graced with your presence in at least a few weeks.”
“I’m having a crappy day,” I explained.
“Ah. No worries, I have just the thing.” He reached down and pulled out a bottle of vodka, pouring it into a shot glass. After mixing in another liquid—I think it was orange juice—he pushed the glass towards me.
I looked at the glass in disgust. “You know I don’t drink, Frank.”
He shrugged. “Just think of it as medicine. Tastes bad but it sure does the trick. I’ll even do one with you, if it’ll make ya feel better.” Pouring out a glass for himself, he nodded at me in encouragement.
I sighed. “Fine.” I reached out and pushed the glass to my lips, the bitter liquid rushing down my throat.
“Bleck! Give me a glass of water,” I begged. Frank chuckled, but did as I asked. I drank the water greedily, breathing easier when the rancid taste had dissipated.
“I’ll have the usual,” I announced.
“Already ordered it,” he smirked.
I frowned in confusion.
“As soon as you came in, I figured you’d want ‘the usual’,” he elaborated, making quotation marks with his fingers at the end.
“So, you just assumed that I wouldn’t want anything different?”
“Yep,” he replied.
I gave him a blank stare. “My life is getting too monotonous. If people like you can predict what I’m going to do every time they see me…….oh God.”
Frank narrowed his eyes. “People like me?” he repeated, clearly not amused.
“I’m just messing with you. So, who’s the new girl?”
