Cardinal by Sara Mack Page A

a real asshole,” she says and then meets my eyes. “Do
you want me to get someone?”
    “No. I’ve got this.” Stepping forward, I rest
my hands on the bar and lean toward the Douche with cool confidence. “You think
I don’t know my job?”
    He snaps, “Did I stutter?”
    “Hmm. Right.” I play like I’m unaffected and
tap my chin. “How about this. Since you’re so thirsty, I’ll make your
drink right now.” I gesture toward my defenders. “If these people think I can’t
do my job, the drink is free.”
    “And if they can?”
    “You pay double.”
    “I’m not falling for that shit. They’re already
on your side.”
    “Then I guess you’d better find witnesses of
your own. The faster you come up with some, the faster you’ll get served.” I step
back and move to take other orders again. “Or, you could just wait for Gwen to
help you over there.” I jerk my thumb toward the opposite side of the bar. “It’s
your call.”
    Jerk Face Douche, as I’m now calling him,
curses under his breath. He obviously felt I was inferior and would cave to his
belligerent attitude. Not so. I can tell he doesn’t like being challenged by me,
especially since my new group of friends is staring at him with satisfied
smiles. He turns around and quickly grabs a couple of random strangers. He
tells them about the bet, leaving out the intricate details.
    “Good then,” I say and wipe my hands on a towel.
“What’ll it be?”
    “Dirty martini,” he says with a smug look.
    Really? I think to myself. Number
one, he in no way, shape, or form looks like a martini drinker. He resembles a
rugby player. Number two, his choice makes it obvious he’s never made a martini.
It may sound like a complicated drink, but it’s not.
     Before I start, I meet the eyes of my support
team to my left. Entertained, they give me encouraging nods. I grab a metal
shaker and toss it in the air. It flips around twice before I catch it with one
hand and set it on the bar. I fill it with a few ice cubes, then grab a bottle
of dry vermouth from the cooler. I look at Jerk Face Douche. “Shaken or
stirred?”
    His eyes narrow. “Shaken.”
    He doesn’t know the difference, I think. I
move my hand to the neck of the vermouth bottle and toss it behind my back,
catching it over my shoulder with the opposite hand. This earns me a few “ooos”
from my audience. After I add a splash of vermouth to the shaker, I pick up a
bottle of gin and repeat my theatrics, this time tossing the bottle higher and
in front of me. I add some olive juice to the mix, then shake everything
together. I find a cocktail glass and strain the martini into it, raising the
shaker high above the bar so the liquid pours out in a precarious stream. I
don’t spill a drop. For my final act, I pluck two olives out of their container
and then step back a few feet. I toss them into the drink one at a time.
    Plunk. Plunk.
    My skills earn applause from both sides. Little
do these people know I only learned to flip bottles to fend off boredom. If
some of my past jobs weren’t so slow, I’d never have practiced with coworkers.
    Stepping forward, I lift the glass and hand it
to my customer in complete smart-ass mode. “Your dirty martini. As requested.”
    Jerk Face Douche turns to his witnesses, sees
their nods of approval, and knows he lost. He slams thirty dollars on the bar
and yanks the glass from my hand, spilling half of it, and stalks away.
    I grin. Go me.
    As I pocket the cash and step forward to continue
working, Gwen sidles up to my side. “Slow down there, Coyote Ugly,” she teases.
    She has no idea I was trying to prove a point. “I
was putting an asshole in his place.”
    “Oh. I thought you were trying to impress the
boss.”
    “Who?”
    “The boss.” She nods over my shoulder. “You
know. Latson.”
    What?  I turn around and, sure as shit, from
the far side of the bar, Latson is leaning against the wall with his eyes fixed
on me. For some unexplained