Like I mentioned last week, Call me Interested, my Nanowrimo story is a menage. This week’s chapter is from the perspective of the third main character: Daniel Rosa. The previous posts have been from the perspective of Kim Sung Joon and Babajide ‘Barby’ Joel.
As usual, this is a first draft, utterly unedited. Please ignore typos and grammatical what-not and just enjoy.
Mickey’s bar was exactly like any other bar in the country. It was dark. Smelt of beer and sweat. Had bartenders turning tricks or flirty for extra cash and barmaids who attended to those that were in need of a meal. The corner held a Guinness tap and Daniel knew he could easily count about twenty-five people all waiting in line to pour themselves a Guinness. Why anyone would enjoy taking the sharp, bitter brew he would probably never know. All he did know was that he could only tolerate the thing by mixing it with yoghurt to reduce the taste. But go to any bartender and ask for a glass, a Guinness and yoghurt and proceed to mix it on the counter and be prepared for a black eye and laughter trailing you as you log your ass beaten behind out of the space. And that would still happen if you were a cop.
The only thing that made Mickey’s special was the ninety-nine percent clientele that were Irish, from the bartenders to the two men at the moment fighting over a cup of Guinness that was spilling out of the glass as the grappled for it. Idiots. By the time one person would be declared winner, he would be holding an empty cup that would do nothing for him. Daniel snorted.
But the sound had some buffed guys with tattoos running from their head to the sleeves turning to look around and Daniel turned it into a cough. No need bringing to everyone’s attention that it was only him and James that made the clientele ninety-nine percent Irish.
Then he noticed that James was almost at the bar and hurried after him so they both slid onto bar stools at about the same time.
James waved at a bartender. “What you got?”
The bartender looked them both over, “What you want. I’ve got spirits. I’ve got beer.” He gave a pointed glance at Daniel. “I’ve got nothing for pansies though. So what’s your poison?”
What the fuck? Did he have a sign on his head or something? Did the bartender read his mind about the yoghurt? And that just made him even more determined to order a yoghurt and Guinness. What’s the bartender going to do? Beat up on him? He had his partner here. He had a badge. And a Government licensed weapon.
Just as he made to order, James beat him to it. “Keep the whiskey coming. And for him,” he nudged his chin at Daniel. “He’ll have a vodka on the rocks.”
Daniel wrinkled his nose. “Make it a Cognac. You got Hennessy?”
The bartender just smiled and walked away without answering. Daniel decided to take that as a yes. He stretched his hands over the bar so he was half lying on it and turned to James. “Nothing wrong in me ordering yoghurt James.”
James didn’t blink. “And have you get beaten up, then have to rescue you and in the process blow our cover? You can do without your yoghurt-Guinness fix.”
Talk about being reminded of your priorities. Daniel’s head hit the bar with a thunk. Then he heard James’s voice. “You do realize that a ton of people have probably puked all over that bar right? And then there will most likely be the occasional midnight hookup.”
That got him snapping his head back as he glared at James. “You could have told me sooner,” Daniel said as he proceeded to sniff at his clothes whilst James chuckled.
“Sometimes I wonder if you’re ever this goofy with anyone else.”
Daniel was still following the stench he thought he caught on his shirt and had his head away from Daniel as he answered. “Nah. I save this part of myself for you. No one else.”
“Not even Sung Joon?”
He gave up searching for the smell. He hadn’t caught it all this while. He probably wasn’t going to and would just give everyone a visual of him as a dog chasing its tail. “Not even Sung Joon.” He smiled. “With Joon-a, I was more serious.”
At that point, the bartender deigned to attend to them. Daniel shot a look at the group that had kept said bartender occupied for almost five minutes. One of them met his gaze and snarled. Daniel held it until the man dropped his gaze. He turned to the Bartender whose lips twitched. “Not a pansy after all,” he murmured and poured Daniel his Henney. It slid down his throat just so, no harshness that brought pain to his eyes, no burn that made him want to hurl after he’d indulged in one too many shots. To him, Hennessy was just perfect.