If this guy's talent was people-reading or x-ray vision or whatever the hell it was that saw right through her carefully thought-out disguise--she thought, irritably--then Dahlia's talent was glaring. The sideways look she gave him was one of her best--work of art, really--all sullen ire and subtle promises of violence, yet entirely remote and reserved. A rich and complex expression, like a fine wine, with just a hint of eau de teenager. Briefly knocked ten years off her face, just like that.
But, fuck it. No use being furtive anymore. She tugged the hood off her head with a hand, running her fingers through her short, choppy hair. Then the outerwear got shrugged off, leaving her stripped down to a thin tank and sleeve tattoos. Draping the extra layers over one thigh, she spun around on the stool to face the bartender, mirroring his body language as she leaned against the bar again, arms folded and shoulders levelly squared.
On Dahlia, though, the same exact gesture just looked vaguely threatening. Couldn't help it, really. It was kind of her default setting. It also, coincidentally, perfectly framed her with those dense arms of hers, now exposed for the world to see.
After a moment, she reached for the flask hanging down by her knees. Toying with it in her grip for a contemplative pause, she unscrewed the cap again. Then, finally, she answered: "Nah."
And that was that. All matter-of-fact, with a soft lift of her shoulders. More like she was casually rejecting dinner plans with a friend instead of low-key extortion. She lifted the flask to her lips as she raised her gaze, cooly staring the bartender down as she took an unnecessarily long drink.
Swallowing, her tongue traced her teeth, scrubbing the cheap whiskey into her gums. "Like," Dahlia added, almost thoughtfully, "I seen the prices y'all charge for the well-grade piss y'all serve here. What you're proposin' s'definition of cruel an' unusual an' I ain't even done nothin' wrong." Not that her bar was any cheaper--not by a long shot--but she at least had the nerve to stock a carefully-curated selection of bourbon worth bragging about at those prices, in her oh-so humble opinion. "So, nah. I don't fuckin' think so. An' if you or your 'management'--" he could almost hear the scare quotes, "--think you're gonna get me t'pay up for some bullshit like that, well."
Dahlia snorted, that careless grin of hers reappearing as she glanced back down at the flask, as if considering another drink. Just to further rub it in. "I'd sure as fuck like t'see you try."