French 75
a bit from the first chapter of Twilight Embers by Katie Pink
I weave through the crowd, rounding the corner toward the washroom. Just as I reach the hallway, the cute waitress steps out of the kitchen, something pinched between her fingers. She moves as though she’s on autopilot, but as I brush past her, she presses a cocktail napkin into my palm.
I blink, thrown off. “Uh — thanks?”
She doesn’t answer, just flicks me a look — something unreadable — before disappearing back into the din of the bar.
Odd.
For a split second, I wonder if the washroom is out of paper towels or I have something awry with my makeup. But as I pass the mirror, I steal a glance. Nope, makeup still flawless. Damn, I’m good.
I slip into a stall, toss my purse on the hook, ready to toss the napkin inside. But something about it — its weight, the way it sits too stiff in my hand — makes me hesitate.
Curiosity wins.
I unfold it slowly, heart knocking against my ribs. The message is scrawled in neat, block letters.
He’s not safe. Come to the bar for another French 75. More to say.
My stomach flips.
A prickle of heat crawls up my neck as I read it again, as if the ink itself is pressing against my skin.
I exhale, stuffing the napkin deep into my purse like it might burn me if I hold it too long. Finish up, wash my hands, check my makeup once more. Lipstick still intact. Poker face, on.
Then I step back into the bar, pulse hammering, pretending like I didn’t just receive the strangest warning of my life.
Walking back to the table, a familiar, loathsome sensation hits me. Frag, I was right.
Lido’s hunched over his phone, scrolling with the kind of blank, absentminded focus that says he’s in no hurry to leave. He looks comfortable. Too comfortable.
I pull out my chair, barely settled before —
“Hey, there you are.”
Lido lurches up and grabs me, hands clamping around my waist, pulling me in like I’m some prize he’s just decided to claim.
My breath catches — stunned, disgusted.
“What the hell?!” I shove him off, stepping back so fast I nearly knock into the chair behind me.
He just grins, like it’s all some joke. “Relax. You’re so tense.”
A sharp, sick twist coils in my stomach. Tense? The sheer entitlement of it makes my skin crawl. My pulse hammers in my ears, drowning out the low hum of the bar.
My fingers twitch toward the flowers on the table.
Option one: Smack him across the face with them.
Option two: Dick punch.
Option three: Both.
Lido chuckles, rolling his eyes like I’m overreacting.
Yeah, that does it.
I don’t think — I move. The bouquet whips through the air, smacking him dead in the face with a satisfying thwack.
A beat of silence. Then —
“Why don’t I get these in a glass of water for you?”
The waitress — Max, her name tag reads — appears at my elbow, her voice smooth and unbothered. She places a hand over mine, gently taking the flowers as if I hadn’t just about weaponized them. Before she saunters off, she shoots me a conspiratorial wink.
Lido is fuming. The heat of his anger is almost tangible, mixing with something else — confusion? Embarrassment? His jaw works like he’s chewing over what just happened, but before he can find his voice, Max reappears. This time, she’s holding the check.