Free Diva Las Vegas (Book 1 in Raven McShane Series) by Caroline Dries, Steve Dries

looking for them.”
    “Good tip.  For now, let’s check into the hotel and get some food,” I said.  “I’m starving.”
    We arrived at our hotel in downtown San Diego around 5:30 and checked in.  We met up in the lobby and the concierge pointed us in the direction of the Gas Lamp District, a historic and slightly touristy section of town about a half mile from our hotel.  We stumbled upon a Mexican place with outdoor seating.  I wondered briefly: do Mormons eat Mexican food?  Then again, why on earth wouldn’t they?
    “This okay?” I asked.
    “Looks good to me.”
    I ordered a blue margarita and Mike ordered a diet Sprite.
    We studied the menus in silence.  Mike decided on a baked tilapia special, while I ordered my old standby, ground beef chimichangas.
    “You ever drink?” I asked.
    “Once or twice.  Religion says we’re not supposed to, you know.”
    “Try mine.  Just a sip.”  I pushed my glass in front of him.  I felt like a crack dealer trying to suck in a new customer.
    We locked eyes for a few seconds and he gave me a little smile.  “Okay,” he said, “just for you.”
    With his finger he wiped some of the salt off the rim of the glass.  Then he took a big gulp.
    “Not bad,” he said.  “What’s all in that?”
    I explained the basics of margarita mixing to him.  “The key is, never order a house margarita.  They sit in those giant vats all day and there’s almost no booze in them.”
    “Good tip,” he said.
    The waitress returned a few minutes later with our food.
    “Anything else I can get you folks?” she asked.
    “I’ll have a house margarita,” Mike said.  The waitress nodded gravely and left.
    My mouth was hanging open.  Mike tried to keep a straight face, but he burst out laughing.
    “You bastard,” I said.
    “Sorry.  I just had to mess with you a little.  I’m not a nun, you know.”
    “No kidding.  My great aunt’s a nun and she has a pint of schnapps every day.”
    “I’m just like everybody else.  Do you know anyone who follows every single tenet of their religion, every day, all the time?”
    I thought about it for a second.  “I guess not.”
    Mike’s drink arrived, and we clinked glasses.  He took a big sip out of his straw.
    “Yours was better,” he said.
    “No shit.”
    About halfway through my second chimichanga I realized Mike was getting pretty drunk.  I could tell because he was talking without being asked a question.  He’d only finished about a quarter of his drink, but his liver was obviously out of practice.
    “Drink up,” I said.  “They’re going to think you didn’t like it.”
    He took a big slurp.  I liked men who responded to gentle nagging.
    We finished up our meals and along the way he managed to drink about three-fourths of his margarita.  I paid the check and slurped down the watery green dregs of his drink, which was clearly concocted with children or the elderly in mind.  We left the restaurant and began walking slowly up the street.
    “What now?” he asked.
    I had no idea.  It was only a little after seven, and I had a nice buzz going.  And Mr. Titanium Thighs was feeling good.  “When was the last time you had a beer?”
    He giggled a little.  It was an unseemly sound for a six-one guy like him, but it was kind of cute.  “Is alcohol your answer for everything?”
    “No.  Sometimes hard drugs are required.  But if you want me to drink a beer alone, I understand.”
    “Okay, okay.  One beer.  How about this place?”  The bar on our right was very touristy, but it looked as good as any, and we could sit outside.  Mike found a seat next to the sidewalk and I went inside to the bar.
    Knowing that you’re one-hundred percent definitely going to hell can be very liberating sometimes, and this was one of those times.  Mike had said “one” beer, so I wanted to make it worth our while.  The bartender assured me that the “imperial” amber ale they had on tap was their strongest beer,