Page 35 of Gin and Lava

“You’re right, this is probably only the second shittiest bar on the island,” Connor cracks.

“Ha, ha, very funny.”

“Well, I’m impressed you can quoteCasablancaat all,” Ned interjects. “When did you actually watch a movie that’s in black and white?”

“I never said I watched it,” I defend, to which Ned rolls his eyes. “YouTube and porn, my friends. Is there any other entertainment needed? Except, maybe boning your wife.”

“You’renot going near my wife!” Ned snaps.

“Boning in general,” I clarify, dropping two empty glasses on the bar in front of them. “I’m talking the universal happy slappy, not your wife in particular. Now, tell me what you’re drinking, or stop taking up real estate at my bar.”

Connor gives me a skeptical frown, dramatically looking around the Gin n’ Lava at the empty tables and bar stools. It’s the middle of the afternoon, of course we’re dead.

“You sit. You drink,” I explain. “Whiskey? Gin? A Rum Your Wife Swizzle?” I point at Ned. “That drink doesn’t exist yet, but I can make a special exception for Mr. I’m-only-going-to-be-fucking-one-person-for-the-rest-of-my-life over here.”

“You realize this isn’t even a gin joint?” Connor says, pointing at the Gin n’ Lava sign that’s hand carved above the bar. “Ninety percent of all tiki drinks are served with rum.”

“Notallof them,” I defend.

“I used to work here,” Connor throws back. “All ofyoursare. Tell me again why you didn’t name this place the Rum n’ Lava?”

“Shut up, Voss.”

Connor grins like the shmuck he is.

Yes, the whole rum-tiki-drinking phenomenon has been brought to my attentionnumeroustimes. But at that point, signs had been carved, branding had been finalized. I do serve gin here, but I don’t go through it at the same rate I obliterate my Captain Morgan’s stash.

I glare at Ned and Connor. “Did the two of you really give up the opportunity to be spending your afternoon licking your girlfriends’ pussies to bust my balls? Cause ironic bar-names aside, I thinkyou’rethe ones who’ve made some questionable life choices.”

“Arie and Simon are in the middle of a fight,” Connor defends, picking up his empty glass and nodding to the expensive whiskey shelf. “And it’s not something my cock can fix.”

“Trouble in paradise?” I ask, pulling down the brothers’ favorite whiskey. “Did Arie burn down Flambé and her co-owner is pissed?”

“Literally? No,” Connor says. “But metaphorically? Let’s just say I’m glad the wedding is over.” Connor looks to his brother with an apologetic frown. “No offense. The wedding was great, but Simon and Arie may be entering a separation period.”

“Your girlfriend digs her own grave sometimes,” Ned grumbles. “I’m surprised Simon’s put up with her this long.”

Connor nods, taking a gulp of the whiskey I poured him, and I’m surprised to see him admit Arie might be in the wrong.

“Did the red dragon finally burn too many bridges?” I pry, mentioning the nickname Connor gave her due to her flaming red hair and fiery personality. “It’s not like I’m not still pissed she stole you away from this establishment. Are you tired of licking Arie’s pussy and want your old job back?”

Connor used to work for me.Iused to be the one raking in money from his talents with cocks and tails, not his succubus girlfriend.

“For the record, I’ll never get tired of dragon pussy,” Connor declares, leveling me with a look that says working for the Gin n’ Lava will never compare to his girlfriend’s cunt.

Fair.

I think with my dick sometimes too. I get it, Arie’s a hot piece of ass. Still, the price seems pretty steep to tap the dragon. Connor kinks his neck to the side and rolls his shoulders like he doesn’t want to talk about it.

“Hopefully, Arie and Simon can work it out and it’ll blow over,” Connor says, refocusing his attention on me again. “But bitching about my girlfriend isn’t why we’re here.”

The grin that the two of them walked in with plasters itself across their faces again.

“What the fuck is that?” I point at their Cheshire cat smiles as the brothers exchange a mischievous glance.

“Speaking of licking pussies…” Connor motions for me to pour a third glass of the expensive stuff for myself. “We think it’s about time you told us about that pretty, blonde, Scandinavian hottie you left the wedding with. And specifically, I want to know if she tastes like sweet lingonberry Ikea cream.”

Fuck.

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