Mick had been keeping to himself for most of the evening. For all intents and purposes, things were back to normal but the repercussions were another matter entirely. There was something deeply grating about not having a hand in Mojo's comeuppance. Their group had a personal score to settle and the chance had never come around.
It left Mick listless and unsatisfied and his temperament was already bad enough. He wasn't proud of his recent lack of restraint and the fact that he still wanted to burn most things was frustrating as hell. If this kept up he was gonna have to find a doctor in the city and that was always a pain the ass.
Mick already had a few drinks under his belt. His current shot of tequila was still untouched. He'd spent the last ten minutes staring at a half empty ash tray and trying to ignore the fact that alcohol was wonderfully flammable.
At the request for a light, he looked up, giving the guy a once over. British, huh? Someone was a long way from home. Mick dug out a cardboard pack of matches (most full) and slid them down the bar.