The Bartender's Guide To The Galaxy

1 - Mr. Extra

Blue neon reflected off the man's sunglasses as he walked into the bar. He surveilled the room, tucking a cell phone into the pocket of his leather jacket as the door slid into its frame, kissing the heel of his boots. I pegged him for an off-duty cop, maybe searching for an unassuming joint where nobody knew him.

His strides turned purposeful as he made his way to the last stool at the bar, nearest the bathrooms. Based on his baby-smooth chin, he likely didn't suffer from age-related bladder issues, but he hadn't taken off his glasses yet. Eyes were always the tell.

I gave him time to settle in before starting my approach. If my cursory reading was correct, he enjoyed his drinks neat. Nothing too fancy. Medium grade whiskey. No . . . bourbon—more patriotic. The other potential was a domestic draught.

"What's your pleasure?" I asked.

He tipped his shades up to rest on his forehead, and the eyes that met mine could have stopped time; hazel swirled with stormy grey, like a galaxy twinkling with moody stars. I'd seen a lot of eyes in my day, but I'd never been star-struck by them.

"Why don't you pour me what you think I'd like. I expect you've already made your guess."

A smartass, huh? I was feeling better about my initial assessment of his profession. "Are you sure about that? If I get it wrong, you'll still have to pay for it."

The corner of his mouth lifted, and I traced the curve of his lips, imagining. "I have faith in you."

"My job is to serve." I offered a sideways smile, giving him a taste of his own medicine, but I might have been out of my depth here.

I walked to our draught selections, catching him watching me in the backbar mirror. I couldn't picture him ordering anything we had on tap. Something about his unapologetic attitude told me he didn't like things watered down.

I made for the shelf of bourbons, feeling more confident, but I refused to cheat and glance back for guidance. I chose a call we sold a lot of. Something with a bite that wouldn't hurt the next morning. Pulling a glass from the rack, I inspected it for spots. If I got this wrong, at least I could make it look good.

Ignoring the ice, I poured out two fingers, inhaling the sharp vapor as I walked back with his prize. His smirk told me I had gotten it wrong. Damn.

"I guess I misread you," I said, setting the glass on the bar.

"Why do you say that?"

"Your smirk."

"Are you sure you didn't just misread my smirk?" He lifted the glass to his mouth and let the drink slide between his lips. Then he held the glass up, using the neon to reflect light through the amber liquid. "It's lighter than my usual, but in a good way. You have a gift."

"So, right liquor, wrong brand?"

He shrugged, swirling the bourbon before taking another sip. The guy was enjoying himself at my expense . . . and getting away with it.

"Well, I owe you a pour of the right stuff. So, what's your pleasure?"

He lifted one brow, giving me another glimpse into those mysterious eyes. "We can revisit that when I'm done with this pour. You're being summoned." He jutted his chin down the bar where one of my regulars, Carol, was waving her empty beer bottle at me.

Feeling giddy at our borderline flirtation, I left him to nurse his drink and stopped by the beer cooler to dig out a Corona, the preferred brand of our beachside clientele. Carol was our best customer. She could put away a six pack in under an hour without being challenged. I chinked off the lid, wedged a slice of lime into the neck, and walked it over to her.