Free Cocktail Hour by Tara McTiernan Page A

elbows on the bar and wiggling her rear, and hoped her neighbor didn’t recognize her.
    “Hey,” he said.
    She clenched her teeth together and closed her eyes. Please God, let him be talking to someone else.
    “Hey, aren’t you…hey, you’re my neighbor! Sharon, right?”
    Damn. It. All. She opened her eyes, plastered on a polite smile, and turned to face him. “Oh? Hi.”
    “You are my neighbor! Hello, neighbor! How ya doin’?” he said, smiling at her cheerfully as if they were good buddies.
    “Ah, I’m fine. Just meeting some friends for a drink.”
    He nodded knowingly. “This is the place, man… I mean, woman. Lady. Man, am I stuttering or what?” He laughed at himself in a buck-toothed horsy way.
    Sharon looked at him. This was Mr. Suave Party-Man bringing home a different crowd of women every night? Unbelievable.
    Maybe it was all the nights she’d cringed at the sounds coming from his back yard next door, but she’d started to imagine him as someone wildly seductive, someone who could easily make your knees weak. Instead, apparently he was a tall, dark, and mildly attractive goof. At least he was acting like a goofy loser, nothing like the shaken-not-stirred man of her imagination that Sharon had only met once while he was moving in, his muscles bulging as he carried furniture out of the truck with a male friend, sweat making his short dark hair cling to his forehead in little chunks. He’d stopped and put down the couch they were carrying to shake her hand, saying he was glad to meet her and thanking her for the welcome. Then he’d introduced his burly blond friend as Moose. That should have been her warning.
    She raised her eyebrows and said, “Uh, huh. I guess. I haven’t been here before.”
    “Oh, this place rocks. Especially late night. You should see all the stuff that goes down. It’s a blast. What am I doing. I should be getting you a drink. In the neighborly spirit. Can I get you a drink? Let me get you a drink.” His last words came so fast, they almost overlapped.
    She resisted the urge to laugh at him. This was crazy. And she really wanted to buy her own drink, but he was practically begging her. “Um. Okay? Sure.”
    His smile widened. “What’ll it be, my fair lady?”
    She cringed inwardly.  “Vodka martini, preferably Grey Goose. Very dry. Though I doubt you’ll be able to get the bartender’s attention. She seems pretty busy.”
    “Dry Grey Goose martini, straight up. Ooo, you’re smooth. I wouldn’t have pegged ya as a hard liquor type,” he said and then leaned out over the bar, stretched out his arm, and waved it. “Samantha! Sam, baby!”
    “You know her name? And wait, what do you mean 'hard liquor type'?” she said, feeling vaguely insulted and strangely stimulated at the same time. Was it… was she actually having…fun? No, it was aggravation she was feeling. The man was like scraping fingernails on a blackboard.
    Samantha the bartender looked over and smiled, her moderately pretty face becoming almost beautiful with delight. If Sharon didn’t know who Samantha was talking to, she’d think the girl was in love. “What, you silly fool? Can’t you see I’m talking to these gentlemen?”
    “Please, Sam. Desperate times. We need supplies. My drink is broken – see?” he said and held up his empty beer glass. “And my lovely neighbor here is in dire need as well. Please help us?” He put his palms together in front of his face in prayer and looked appropriately mournful.
    Samantha turned back to the men she'd been talking to. "All right, guys, duty calls."
    The three men started making moaning poor-me noises, one of them shouting out nonsensically, "Bullshit!"
    The bartender didn't seem to hear them, her eyes focused on Sharon's neighbor as she approached. "Dean," she admonished, wagging her finger at him dramatically. "I can’t believe you broke your drink again. How many times do I have to tell you not to play with the dirty money?"
    Dean