Page 27 of Second Alarm
"What'll you drink."
"Whatever's not going to make me regret my life."
"Whiskey."
"That will make me regret my life."
"You like whiskey."
"I like whiskey."
"Whiskey's fine, then." He's already reaching for the bottle.
He pours it. He doesn't ask me if I want it neat or on the rocks or what brand, because he's Big Jim, and Big Jim has decided what I'm going to drink, and I'm drinking it. He slides it across to me. I take it. He doesn't charge me. This is his bar and I'm Tom Larsen's daughter and I'm not going to pay for a drink in this establishment for the rest of my life.
"Thank you."
"Welcome home, girl." He goes back to drying a glass.
I look at the room. I sit down at the bar, two stools away from Ty, because two stools is the measured professional distance of two people who work together, and we're two people who work together, and nothing is happening.
"Hi."
"Hi," Ty says.
"Whiskey?"
"Apparently."
"Big Jim's whiskey is a commitment."
"I'm discovering."
"Pace yourself."
"I was going to, yeah."
He has a beer. He's wearing a navy henley and jeans, and he has that after-shift look, the soft-edged look he used to have at twenty-three, and my hand around my whiskey glass does a thing I'm not going to examine.
I sip the whiskey.
I don't regret my life.
Okay, I regret my life slightly.
I put the glass down.
"Larsen!" Derek bellows again, because Derek doesn't so much speak as transmit. "Come here. Come sit with us. We're gonna tell stories."
"About what."
"About everything. It's Ty's fault. He told a story about his probie year and now we're in it."
"I didn't tell a story," Ty says.
"He told a story."
"I answered a question."
