The bartender interrupts us with a fresh beer in his hand, sliding it across the counter. “This one is on me,” he says to Stevie, with a grin that can only be described as “panty-melting.” A tattooed hand slides around Stevie’s waist from behind. “Absolutely not.” Zanders’ venomous glare is focused on the soon-to-be dead bartender. “Abso-fucking-lutely not.”
AAAAAAAA BARK BARK BARK
