“Another,” Kendra said simply, overturning her shot glass and pushing it forward with two fingers.
The bartender committed a cardinal sin: he raised his eyebrow and passed judgment. The man was in his mid-sixties, his bald head speckled with liver spots, his face covered in lines and white stubble.
Kendra cleared her throat, reached into her wallet, and put a twenty on the bar.
“Give me another fucking drink,” she demanded, her voice and face deadpan.
The man swallowed hard and took the shot glass from in front of her. He seemed to stare contemplatively at the glass cylinder for a moment before he retrieved another glass and placed both on the bar in front of Kendra. Then he filled them with Jameson.
“Sorry,” he grumbled, pocketing the twenty and then turning.
Kendra swallowed the first shot, barely tasting the caustic liquid as it first coated her tongue, then slid down her throat.
The bar was quiet for a Sunday afternoon, and aside from the bartender and a young man with red headphones alone in a booth toward the back, Kendra was the only patron.
Which didn’t bother her one bit.
Even when the man with the headphones came over and sat beside her, she didn’t really mind. In fact, she actually enjoyed being pulled out of her head—something that the alcohol hadn’t quite achieved.
“Girl must have some demons to be downing Jack like that.”
Unlike Martin’s game, this was one that Kendra knew well. Instead of answering, she kept her eyes trained on her full shot glass, not terribly unlike how the bartender had looked at it but a moment ago.
Her whole body ached all of a sudden, as if she had just run a marathon.
And tired, Kendra was fucking tired.
“Ah, I see… must be some bad demons, then. Hey, barkeep, hit me with another beer, would you?”
Kendra glanced up and saw the old man move to action. This kid—had to be a kid, closer to twenty than thirty—was clearly no stranger to him.
This didn’t bother her either.
When the kid’s drink came, he indulged in a massive gulp. Then he too stared straight ahead.
Kendra appreciated the momentary silence—there was no need to speak; they both knew where this was headed.
After another minute of calm, Kendra downed her shot. Then she turned to the young man.
He wasn’t bad-looking, with green eyes, a square jaw, and messy, curly brown hair. And he wasn’t as young as she had first thought—perhaps he was closer to thirty than twenty after all… but barely.
Kendra licked her lips.
“It’s not Jack,” she informed him. “It’s Jameson.”
The man nodded.
The sheepish expression on his face reminded her of Brett in some way, and a pang of guilt hit her.
Kendra forced this away. He had called the director; he had made his bed, and now he had to sleep in it.
Alone.
She cleared her throat and said, “Do you want to fuck?”