New chick was a lot less hot once her full face was in view, at least if you asked New Chick. That wasn’t her fault. She’d been raised in a government breeding program full of literal perfect specimens, and Domino hadn’t made the cut. Then, she’d been shuffled to the somehow-worse orphanage, and if you thought children would be nicer about her face, you’d have been wrong. But Domino was thirty now, and no child, and besides, say something. She dared you.
She had looked up as he’d spoken, not because she particularly cared but because he sounded so familiar, but it wasn’t who she thought it was. And that became incredibly clear when he poured himself, of all things, a White Russian. Domino had put the Johnnie Walker bottle back where it went, and she boosted herself up onto the bar, since there was no one to care one way or the other.
“Thanks for the info,” she said, almost sweetly, and the smile on her face nearly matched. Nearly. “But I think I’ll save the appletinis for baby boys that like White Russians.”
That smile widened, became something more predatory, but Domino laughed and raised her drink in a sort of cheers gesture. The scotch was gone in three quick swallows and she huffed. “Hey, man, what do you mean ghosts?”