Page 32 of Fire for Effect

“Uh,” I said, still stunned by her cold reception. “I’ll take a Corona.”

It was the first place my eyes landed, so that was what I was ordering, I guess.

“Hmm,” she said, as if she was judging my choice.

You’d think I had pissed in her wheaties.

Griff leaned on the bar with one elbow, his body still facing towards me as he casually smiled. Her reaction to him was far different from hers to me. Typical.

“Hey, hon,” he said, giving the honey-thick charm offensive. “You got anything Blonde or white back there?”

He leaned to peer at what was on tap, and she almost preened forward to display her breasts for him. She pursed her lips to the side, looked at the offerings, then slowly said, “I guess the Allagash white.”

The fuck? When I had asked the same question months ago, she gave me a roll of her eyes and told me no.

“Ah! A Belgian will do,” he said. “Give us two. Cancel whatever she wanted.”

“I’m not gonna do that, sugar,” she said, leaning her breasts forward until they hovered over the bar top. “Ladies get to pick their own drinks here.”

“My friend here doesn’t want a Corona, do you, Guerro?” He didn’t break eye contact with her to speak to me, and I knew he was on full seduction mode. I’d seen it dozens of times after his divorce, and familiar bile crawled up my throat. Whatever hatred Ellen had for me, I was ready to spit back at her.

I could literally feel the feminism leaving my body, replaced with the jealousy of seeing him flirt with someone else.

“You two friends?” Ellen asked, as mesmerized by his eyes as any warm-blooded woman would be.

“Very good friends, right, Guerro?” My name is Taz. Why the fuck isn’t he calling me by my nickname? The answer was clear, of course. He was telling Ellen that he wasn’t my boyfriend. “We were on a team together back in the Army.”

I’m not allowed to be jealous. He’s not mine. We’re just…

…

Friends.

“Put it on her tab,” Griff said, giving her a wink. “She owes me for almost getting me killed.”

Was he trying to make it obvious that we weren’t together? Because that was definitely how Ellen took it, as she beamed at him, before her eyes cut towards me with a look of absolute contempt and scorn. Jesus, if looks could kill, I’d be burned to a cinder.

“Fuck you,” I said, punching him in the arm.

“Nuh-uh,” He wagged a finger in front of my face like a reprimanding teacher. “Got anything that can beat this?”

He threw a coin on the bar, and it rolled on its edges, emitting a high, ringing sound as the metal ran along the wood. It’s just as big, though twice as thick, as a silver dollar. It settled, vibrating with its last throes of movement before laying flat.

“Shit,” I said under my breath. I did not have a coin that could beat his challenge.

“That’s what I thought,” he said, triumphantly putting his fists in the air.

It was a challenge coin from the President of the United States. It was a silly prize of thick metal, with a gold border, the Presidential seal, and the number “50” in silver script. The name “Lau” was laser engraved on the border.

Challenge coins were once created as a means of giving an IOU. One could use the coin to call for the aid of the person who gave it. In more recent times, it became a military and government token of appreciation - a useless trinket we collected for random tasks and performances. So we did what soldiers do… turned it into a drinking game.

In a bar, if a soldier threw down a coin, it meant their mates had to pick up their bar tab. However, if another man “challenged” them with a higher coin, then he must buy the other man’s drinks. He might even have to do a free round for all those around as well.

“How the hell did you get this?” I said out of frustration, and immediately regretted it. It skirted too close to asking the questions that would give away the secrets that kept him safe. The secrets I wouldn’t ask for. It’d be considered unprofessional to do so.

But he smiled, undisturbed.

“Work,” he said, cryptically before changing the subject. “You are my bar bitch tonight.”

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