Page 6 of Dirty Ex-Mas
I give her my bestbring it onlook. She sets a tray on the counter along with six pint glasses which she fills with water, not beer, from the beverage gun behind the counter.
I grab it with both hands.
“One-handed.”
“It’s too heavy for one-handed,” I complain.
She takes it from me, spins it in the air like pizza dough, and lifts it overhead by the tips of her fingers, then walks back and forth behind the bar a couple times.
“Well, sure, easy for you to do, you’re the pro.”
“All my girls can do that.” She brings the tray back down to the counter; I examine it carefully to make sure nothing spilled.
It didn’t.
I huff loudly and roll my eyes, then slide off my bar stool, take the tray and hoist it over my head, careful to balance my palm directly in the center. Then I begin a slow and measured walk to the other side of the bar. The tray wobbles precariously above me and I keep my other hand up and at the ready in case it falls.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
I count my steps, watching the floor to make sure I don’t trip over anything. I feel like when I was a kid trying to balance a library book on top of my head and walk. When I reach the other side, I place the tray down on a tall table and raise my fists in air. “Woot!”
Daria raises one brow at me. “Now come back and wind your way through all the tables.”
I take a minute, but I do it, and with barely a spillover on the tray.
Daria nods, impressed.
“You didn’t think I could do it,” I taunt.
“True. Now, you do that same walk in one-tenth the time when the bar is filled to capacity with a basket of burgers in your other hand, and then we’ll talk.”
Or maybe not impressed. “Daria!” I whine.
“Quinn!” she mocks.
“Fine. Let me do the other thing.”
“There is no other thing.”
“Yes, there is, come on.”
She stays silent.
“It’s either that or I borrow money again.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” I say, doing a happy dance in little circles. “Why is it so much easier for you to let me kill a bad guy than it is to serve some drinks and burgers?”
She shrugs. “I can send backup to take care of it when you fail an assassination. But here, at the bar, so many more bad things can happen. Broken glass, spilled beer, bad cocktails, cold food, wrong orders, unhappy customers . . .” She trails a hand in the air showing the list goes on.
“I could somehow make all those things happen while I was out trying to kill someone too you know.” I smirk.
She grabs the empty glass in front of me and refills it with Diet Coke.
