Last Call at the Nightshade Lounge by Paul Krueger Page B

wreath.
    “I don’t have to answer that.”
    Zane chuckled and then rapped his knuckles twice on the counter. “Well, barkeep, let’s say I want a drink with rye, bitters, sugar, and water. I want an—”
    “Old fashioned,” she said. This she could do. Whether the subject was the Battle of Hastings or the makeup of a magic-inducing cocktail, Bailey had always understood pop quizzes. Read, memorize, regurgitate. Though not literally, in the case of the cocktails. She cast a still-wary glance at the bathroom door.
    “Over ice, in an old fashioned glass,” she said, finishing the recipe.
    “Served with?” Zane raised an eyebrow, almost like he was teasing her, and Bailey briefly forgot what they were talking about.
    “Um,” she said, “a smile?”
    Zane shook his head and mimed a spiral with his finger. Oh, right. The garnish.
    “An orange twist,” Bailey said, “and nothing else.”
    “Damn right, nothing else,” he said. “So why don’t you make me one?”
    She turned to the bottles behind her and, ignoring her shaking hands, pulled the appropriate ones, taking the time to check the labels before plunking them on the counter. Glass in place, she built the drink layer by layer—the sugar, the water, the bitters, the Court-issued whiskey—then gave it a stir with a long silver bar spoon and dropped in one of the oversize ice cubes meant specifically for drinks like this. Finally, she shaved a perfect spiral off an orange peel, rubbed it along the rim, and slipped it into the drink.
    The peel hit the liquid with a tiny
plink
. Bailey caught her breath and eyed it like the fuse on a bomb, waiting for it to make the drink light up and.…
    Nothing.
    “Dammit.” Bailey flicked the glass but it was no good. Bum fuse. The cocktail had been perfectly measured, mixed in the right order, poured into the right glass, and chilled with the right amount of ice. What she created should’ve been a glassful of magic potion instead of a mere drink.
    “Well, I bet it tastes great,” Zane said. “Just keep practicing and you’ll get the hang of it.” He patted her on the shoulder—a friendly pat, Bailey knew, but one that still sent a flutter to her stomach. “Here, why don’t you have this?”
    He slid her creation over to her. Bailey eyed the six-ounce monument to her failure.
    “You said no drinking on the job.”
    “Yeah, but you’re not on the job for another fifteen minutes,” Zane said, glancing at his pocket watch (
because of course he has a pocket watch
, she thought). “You might as well enjoy that one.”
    Bailey looked up from the drink. “But don’t I need to make one that, like, works?”
    “Baby steps,” Zane said. He’d started drifting to the back. “I’m gonna do some quick inventory. Just try to breathe, okay? You’re gonna do great.”
    He left and Bailey exhaled. Of course. Of course tonight wasn’t going to be that different from all the nights she’d already endured as a barback. Zane was in charge, and Bailey followed orders. What had she expected to change about that?
    Instead of letting herself answer the question, Bailey downed her drink.
    It might not have been magical, but it didn’t taste half bad: bitter and sweet, with a smack of orange to perk everything up. Good but not perfect, and that’s what this business required. Perfection. Precision. People’s lives were at stake.
    Bailey took another sip and scowled. So much for underpromise, overdeliver.
    The door swung open and Trina slipped in, wrapped in a pink coat and matching puffy headphones that clashed fantastically with her red hair. She must not have seen Bailey because no sooner had she shut the door than she struck a rock star pose, one arm in the air, and mouthed along to words that only she could hear.
    Bailey stood still and sipping and watched until Trina’s eyes flew open.
    “Bailey!” She turned almost as red as her hair and tugged her headphones out of her ears. “I—I didn’t see you there.