Caitlin Carlson swore when an overly enthusiastic dancer stepped off the floor and into her. Her vodka tonic splashed across the front of her blouse, plastering the thin fabric to her chest. “Terrific,” she mumbled. Oh, well. A see-through shirt might draw some attention when she ordered her next drink. The plain font on the menu in her hand stared mockingly up at her. She could order from the special house menu, let everyone know what she wanted, but it didn’t guarantee anyone would be interested in taking her upstairs. At least I’d get a free drink out of it, she thought grimly and climbed the steps leading to the central bar. She’d teased Ben once, telling him that a complimentary drink was a poor consolation prize if you’d come to the bar looking for a night of hot sex, but he’d just laughed. Probably because it almost never happens… please don’t happen now. She waved to Bernie, the bartender, whose friendly smile melted into alarm as he caught sight of the menu in her hands.
What do You think about Virgin Daiquiri (Last Call #4)?
