by Meg Muldoon
It didn’t bug me that these girls came here every weekend acting like they were queens of the saloon.
What bugged me was that they under-tipped.
Every single time.
But like I said, I didn’t have much time to think about things like that. The Cherry Cosmos were just the tail end of a long list of drinks that customers were waiting on. I got to work. I started shaking up Cupid’s Slingshots, High Desert Sunrises, Hibiscus Margaritas and Cherry Cosmos like my life depended on it. The aggressive and sloppy beat of Cattle Carnage droned on obnoxiously from the small stage.
I really wished Dale would put a little more effort into the acts he booked. Granted, it was March, and this was a small town in Oregon. But still. There had to be something better than these guys. We were two sets in, and my ears were already begging for mercy. I swear, I didn’t know if I could take much more of—
“You git your hands off of her.”
A raised voice boomed over the music.
A moment later, a beer bottle shattered against the wood floor, and then there were a few surprised screams.
End of Sample
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