The Five Dollar Mail (Book 1: The Green & Book 2: Lynch's Boys)

93: Sarsaparilla

Cover painting by Angela Taratuta. Chapter artwork of Saint by Melissa Zayas. All graphics by me.

Saint was startled when Jack sat the sarsaparilla bottle down in front of him at the bar with a deliberate thud. He looked up at the silent, stern-faced bartender with surprise.

"Thanks, Jack," he said, wrapping his hand around the bottle, finding it surprisingly warm. Odd...Jack usually does a good job of keeping the soda cold. The bottle was less than half full. He cocked his head. What...

Jack grunted, nodding, and turned away. Saint leaned forward slightly, sniffing warily. Jack, sometimes I love you. He lifted the bottle to his lips and savored the rough kiss of the whiskey Jack had concealed there. If he'd ever needed a good, stiff drink, it was now.

"Hey, there, handsome." Honey was shouldering up to the bar, giving his back a fond caress as she settled next to him. "Y'alright? Heard you spent two days in the lockup."

"Hi, Honey." He snaked a hand around her waist, giving her a one-armed hug, enjoying the warmth of her against his side for a moment before releasing her.

"Look, sugar," Honey leaned in close to his ear. "I'm sorry about what happened last time you were here." Her hazel-green eyes were earnest and a little sad. "You know. With Fox." She cast her eyes down to the worn surface of the bar. "We had a fight." Unshed tears suddenly teetered on her lower eyelids for a moment before she blinked them away. "She can be...a real angry person sometimes," she said quietly.

Saint nodded gently at her, taking in her burnished bronze curls and her dark golden skin. She'll never appreciate how beautiful she is, he thought wistfully. Too many people got too much to gain by convincing her otherwise. Even Fox. He scowled at the thought, taking a deep pull of his disguised whiskey. The heat of it burned down his throat and stung his nostrils as he exhaled.

"I'm sorry,sweetheart," he breathed, biting back the uncharitable thoughts he harbored towards Honey's lover. "You could do better."

"Find a good man, I reckon?" she murmured bitterly. "No thanks."

"Honey," Saint put down the bottle and turned to her, exasperated. "It aint' that she's a woman. I ain't judging you on that. I'd say the same thing if she were a man." And it's too bad about that, she could have one if she wanted one. Or three. Hell, if Wash thought he'd get anywhere with her, he'd probably marry her by the end of the week. First time poor old Ginger laid eyes on her, he couldn't stop staring.

"What about you, Saint?" She cut her eyes coyly at him, focusing the conversation back onto him. "How's it going with your gal?"

He felt his face crease with disgust before he could stop it, and drained the bottle. The steadying warmth of the whiskey seeped into his bones, and he let himself relax into it. I guess we got quite a bit in common, gorgeous. We both got woman problems ."She ain't my girl, Honey," he said quietly.

He felt her eyes on him, studying him for a long moment. "I got whiskey upstairs," she said, her voice low. "You won't even have to drink it out of a soda bottle, like a little boy sneaking hootch off his daddy."