Her efficiency was something else. There she was, making one customer's drink, taking another's, and making my job a little easier.
Fuck. How did she remember and notice all those things? I was glad I had tickets for customer orders, because my memory was so fucking shit a goldfish could remember stuff better than I could.
Slowly, after weaving my way through bodies and tons of people, I managed to get through to collect all the empty glasses. I took that tray right out to the kitchen dishwasher to put on a quick cycle. Raven's words about them just needing to be clean ran through my mind, so I ran a sink full of hot water to hand wash some.
I had no fucking idea what I was washing. They were all different shapes and sizes, fucking big, small, round, triangle-you name it, I had it in front of me to wash. I scrubbed each one and drained them until I was done and could hand-dry them. Then, after a wipe of the tray, I took them all right back out to the bar.
"Raven." I stopped at the door to the bar when I saw she was close to me. "Here."
She poured tequila into a metal shot measurer and glanced at the tray. "You run out of room?"
"No. They're clean."
"How?"
"I used this wonderful creation called my hands."
"You're so cocky. Thanks. Two seconds." She poured some blue and then some yellow liquid into a shaker and then put on the cap. "I need a few of these done. Could you...?"
"You owe me breakfast," I warned her.
"Fine-whatever." She shook the shaker with some serious vigor before pouring the now-green liquid into two martini glasses. She garnished each sugar-rimmed glass with a slice of lime. Then, she turned to two girls just feet from me. "Two Panty-Melters for you, ladies. Sixteen dollars, please."
The blond one handed her a twenty with a wave. "Keep the change. That's on my boyfriend."
Raven half-grinned. "Tell him I said thank you and that he's welcome."
The girls both giggled as they turned away. I watched them with a slight smile of my own.
"Panty-Melter, huh?" I asked, one eyebrow arched.
"Does what it says on the box," she defended, holding up her hands. "Two of those suckers and there are some happy boyfriends."
"Is that the strongest one you have?"
She pulled four martini glasses from the tray and set them on the shelf. "No. The strongest one I have isn't on the menu. Mostly because the name isn't exactly...printable."
I was intrigued. No lie, no way around it, no denial. How could I not be? A name so bad she couldn't print it? What the hell was she putting in it?
"How do people order it?" I asked, handing her two wine glasses.
"They just...do."
"So, you're kind of drug dealing?"
"Not at all. What can I get for you?" she asked a guy who caught her attention with a wave of two fingers.
"Can I get a Makers on the rocks?"
"You sure can." She whipped a small, square glass from the shelf. "Single?"
"Make it a double."
She scooped a few ice cubes into the glass and held it up the optic for two shots. "Ten-seventy-five, please."
The second she had the glass on the bar, his money was in her hand.
"Rest is yours, darlin'."
"Thank you." She smiled and ran it through the till, glancing at me. "It's not on the menu because of its name, but also because it started out as a joke. When I was in school, one of the assignments was to create our own drink. I did it with some friends, and accidentally, the name slipped out of me. They all insisted I submitted that for my drink, but I changed the name and watered it down slightly. Now, if my friends are ever in Florida, they come down just to get that drink. It's very slowly started to be known amongst the locals here, but many don't ask for it. The last person to ask was Camille and she passed out ten minutes after she finished her drink."
My eyebrows shot up. "It's that strong?"
"Cam isn't exactly the poster child for holding her liquor. Hold on."
I waited while she served another three customers.
"Keep it to yourself," she said out the corner of her mouth, pouring vodka freehand into a glass. "Ryan doesn't know I have a cocktail so dirty it's not on my list, and the last thing I want is Yia-Yia asking me what it is."
But the problem was now, I wanted her grandmother to ask her.
I also wanted to know what it was.
Badly.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Raven
I slid the bolt across the front door and sagged against it with a sigh. Rosanne calling in sick at the very last minute had really fucked us over. It was Friday night, it was the start of summer, and the first night of food.