Chapter 1
Sometimes he just needed a beer.
Not an expensive malt whisky or a dirty martini.
He didn’t need a mission or a sense of purpose every day.
He didn’t always need to be part of a team, to experience the camaraderie or the satisfaction of the job.
Sometimes he just needed a cold beer, in the corner of an ordinary bar, by himself.
Clint watched the bubbles rising up through the amber liquid and a faint smile played on his lips. It was a Saturday night and the bar was pretty noisy but not so packed that he couldn’t have a booth to himself. He didn’t mind the noise and the throng of kids out trying to get their kicks, it meant people noticed you less.
He breathed in the earthy aroma of hops as he raised the glass and savoured that for a moment. He knew that smell and taste were inextricably linked and you needed both to fully appreciate flavour.
Something to do with receptors.
Actually he didn’t care much how it worked he just liked the end result.
The first hit was the head, creamy, almost like a dessert. Then the clean, sharp tang of lager that for a moment brought back memories of freshly cut grass, the sound of the fairground organ and the roaring crowd. He drank about a third in one go and put the glass back on the table, running his tongue across his lips with approving tilt of his head.
"Hey can I sit here?"
It was his job to appraise people quickly, to be able to give an accurate description.
Female - fair hair not quite blonde cut to her chin - blue eyes - about 5’3" - late teens maybe - full figure and a plump face with a fresh complexion. English from her accent.
Not a threat.
Might be a pain in the ass though.
He arched an eyebrow and leaned out of his booth to check out the other empty booths before giving her a pointed look.
"Do you have to?"
"Obviously not but it seemed like a good conversation opener." She had a generous mouth and a pretty smile.
"Right, well that seat’s taken so sorry but you’re out of luck today, kid."
"My name’s Rosie, " Rosie said as she sat down. "What’s yours?"
Pain in the ass confirmed.
"Does your mother know that you’re out, honey?"
"I’m thirty-one," Rosie grinned. "But thanks."
”You’re thirty-one? " Clint looked doubtful, "is that what your fake ID says?"
"Straight up. That’s the benefit of a fat face I suppose, fills out the wrinkles. "
Clint noted that there was nothing apologetic or self-deprecating about her - she seemed to be very happy in her skin which indicated a confidence that usually came with maturity.
"Okay so you’re thirty-one but you still can’t sit here so with all due respect, Rosie, fuck off."
"I’ll fuck off if you tell me your name. "
"You will huh? Those are your terms and conditions? "
"They are. I think you’ve got a good deal there if I’m honest."
"You got balls, kid, I’ll give you that."
"Thirty-one, " Rosie reminded him. "Don’t call me kid, it’s weird."
"You win. My name’s Steve. Have a good evening, Rosie." Clint raised his glass and turned his attention back to his beer.
"You too, Steve. See ya."
To be fair she was as good as her word and slipped happily out of his booth, disappearing amongst the crowd.
He made sure that she didn’t see him watch her go.