Irish Whiskey

Part One

February 2, 2006

The soft lighting was minimal, in deference to the late hour. A subtle amber glow gently illuminated the deep mahogany wood of the hotel bar, but still left plenty of surrounding shadows to hide from the world. That seemed to suit Siobhan's last patron just fine.

Last call had come and gone, taking with it the few still lingering at that hour – except for one lone man. She slid a look toward the end of the bar while appearing to inventory her remaining liquor. He was still firmly ensconced there; head hung low, oblivious to anything around him. He'd been there most of the evening, not really drinking a lot, but drinking steadily.

She knew who he was, of course. You didn't turn sweet sixteen in the eighties and not recognize this man. Oh sure... the dark hair was significantly shorter, the lines in his face more pronounced, but there was no mistaking his identity. He may not have been quite the same icon as the fluffy headed lead singer, but their tandem travels had earned him his own dedicated following. A following that was still very much alive from what she'd read online.

A pang of sympathy had her surreptitiously checking on him again. She'd seen something else online today. Something that probably explained his presence here, as well as being the reason she hadn't kicked him out yet.

His wife had filed for divorce yesterday, apparently without bothering to tell him. He'd been doing a routine interview before tonight's concert, when a reporter asked him to verify the news, saying the wife's publicist had released it to the press an hour earlier.

No amount of money could protect you from that kind of pain and humiliation.

"Another Jameson's, barkeep."

Although she'd been keeping a close eye on him, the gruff request startled her. She managed to keep it hidden, and flipped the long, coppery French braid over her shoulder with an apologetic smile. "Last call was almost an hour ago. Bar's closed."

Squinting one eye, he lifted his finger to point at a spot over her shoulder. "But it's right there next to ya. All ya hafta do is jus' hand it to me and I'll pour it muhself."

The slurring wasn't overly pronounced, but it was enough to tell Siobhan that he'd found someplace to escape the pain. She hoped he was staying in the hotel tonight.

Shaking her head regretfully, she had no choice but to refuse. "They tend to frown upon customers pouring their own drinks."

"Ah yes, but if the bahr's closed, I'm not a cust'mer." A dimple materialized in his left cheek. "Problem solved."

"Ah yes," she countered, eyes sparkling like a fine glass of cognac. "Then you're a thief. Whole new problem."

His face collapsed tragically, reminding her of a cartoon character who'd been blown up like a balloon and then popped with a stick pin. "C'mon pretty lady," he implored, eyes traveling the length of her petite frame. "I had a really shitty day. What's one more drink gonna hurt?"

He was right. He'd had a majorly shitty day. So what that it was two o'clock in the morning and that she had to be back here in nine hours to re-open? It wouldn't kill her to bend a little. If she lost her job, there were a hundred other bars just like this one in Washington, DC.

Sighing, she hooked her foot around the step stool, dragging it across the floor to stop in front of the Jameson's. Of course he had to drink the good stuff that was kept on the top shelf. Her five-foot-two stature had climbed up and down from this stool a hundred times already today, and her back was feeling every last one of them at the moment. Stepping down, bottle in tow, she knew there would be at least one more trip to restock the liquor.