“The only kind I think you’d be interested in,” he said. “I said you were probably better than them. If you heard ‘slut’, well.” One shoulder rolled in a languid shrug. Laughter danced at the corners of his voice, ever just at the edge of her hearing. “That says more about you than me.” He leaned farther over the bar, his eyes solidly on hers in spite of the ample distraction the catsuit provided. For an instant he might have looked contrite, if not for the impish gleam in his eye. “It certainly wasn’t my intent to insult you.”
Again, Fee laughed, this time as she started to put together a couple of Dark and Stormies, pouring dark rum over ice. “I heard you telling me if I weren’t working, you’d be in my pants -- or catsuit -- in two drinks, and that you’d think I’d be better in bed than girls who’d make you wait three or four dates to get in their pants, I guess because I’d let a stranger in a pirate costume get in my pants after two drinks.” She grinned at him as she gently poured the ginger ale over the rum, floating it so the colors of the two liquids remained distinct, one above the other. As she passed them to the waiting customer, she tossed over her shoulder,
“I’m interested, though, in finding out how even though I’ve probably got the most skin covered out of any chick in here, I’m the one who’d bang you in the bathroom after a couple of cocktails.”
“Is that what you heard?” he pulled back, clicking his tongue in mock chastisement. “Maybe I meant playing chess. It’s the glasses that do it, I think.” Laughing, Fee shook her head at that explanation. He propped an elbow on the bar, resting his chin in one cupped palm. “Either way. There’s a lot to be said for a woman smart enough to know the difference between just showing skin and being really, honestly sexy. Seems to me most of California doesn’t know the difference, if you want the truth. It’s like a breath of fresh air.”
Giving him a half-smile that hinted at a smirk as she popped the tops off a couple of bottles of Harp and passed them to the waiting storm troopers.
“You’re good, Westley. I’ll give you that,” she said, flashing a smile at another customer, who asked her for a couple of Manhattans. As she started to prepare the drink, she said,
“If I weren’t working right now, I might let you buy me a couple of drinks so we could test your theory. About chess, of course.” As she shook the double order of liquor, she watched him. “But I am working, and you don’t look like the type to wait around for the end of a girl’s shift, regardless of her chess skills.” While she shook the Manhattans, she slipped the tips from the previous drinks into the kitty.
“I’d ask what that is supposed to mean,” he quipped, “but I’m not sure I’d like the answer.”
At last he pushed off from the bar, satisfied, it seemed, with the groundwork he had laid. “But I really should let you get to work,” he said. He reached into his pocket, glancing briefly down to ensure he procured the right bill. Satisfied, he slipped the fifty dollar bill across the bar, his fingers staying firmly atop it as they neared the edge. “No change,” he said. “But that’s not to split with your offensively boring co-workers. I’m sure I’ll see you around, Baroness.”
Looking down at the bill, then back up at the pirate, Fee arched her brow once again, shaking her head as she poured vodka over one rocks in one tumbler and rum over rocks the other, then poured cranberry into the vodka and diet coke into the rum, plunking a lime into each before sliding them to their respective owners. “Keep it,” she said. “I like your costume, so your money’s no good here. Besides, if I didn’t split a tip like that, my ‘offensively boring co-workers’ would shank me with stirring straws, Julius Caesar style.”
“Oh I’m sure you can fight ‘em off,” he purred. With a drumming of his fingertips atop the counter he pulled away, lifting his drink to her as if in toast. “G’nite, darlin’,” he said, and slipped back into the crowd.
Fiona could only shake her head. For a moment, she considered holding it for him, but realized that was dumb as shit. Left with little other choice, she slipped the fifty into the kitty with the rest of the tips, smirking to herself as she took the next order.