tony's girl

Max rolled his eyes, heaving a dramatic sigh as he brought his cigarette to his lips for a drag. “How many more do you have? We’re coming up on the building, should we slow down our pace so you can get a few more quips out? Don’t mind hanging back,” he mumbled, tossing his barely finished cigarette to the ground as the taste of nicotine began to turn his stomach. Max shook his head at Bradley, sniffing as he scuffed his boots along the damp cement. “I know you don’t,” he said. “If I thought you did, wouldn’t really give you the time of day anymore,” he explained, chuckling as he glanced down to her for a moment. As she finished her thought, he cleared his throat, stopping outside of Green Buzz illuminated in that very colour, a green G reflected onto the pavement. “Part of me kind of wishes I could like… Go back in time,” he admitted. “And not to erase everything we did, because I don’t regret any of it. I don’t regret, you know, being with you or whatever,” he gestured between them, exhaling shakily. “I just — I feel like we fucked up by trying to make it work when we both weren’t stable enough, you know? Just both crash landing simultaneously knowing we’d both inevitably fucking die at the end of it. Didn’t make much sense,” he stated simply. “So, I kinda wish I could start the whole, you know, romantic storyline a little later. Like fucking… now or maybe even when we’re more — I don’t know. Not sure what I’m saying anymore.”

When the man’s expression went from one of indifference to one of genuine regret at not being able to give her what she wanted, Alyssa knew that she had him. The same smile that got her the tips she lived off of tended to work off stage as well, especially in these moments now, with Bradley making snide comments off to the side. Under the bar, Alyssa placed a gentle hand atop of her friend’s, fingers curling around the other’s in a silent plea to let her sweet talk him into allowing her a drink. Her comments hadn’t seemed to turn him off to the idea of letting Alyssa order for them. She nodded sympathetically at his warning, about to order when Bradley cut her off, a soft sigh escaping her even as an amused smile played at the corner of her glossed lips. The man seemed to be ignoring Bradley in favor of staying on Alyssa’s good side, the cerulean haired girl giving him a bright, flirtatious smile when he asked for her name. At Bradley’s words, she gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Just a vodka cranberry,” she didn’t quite feel like blacking out tonight. “And my name is Lola.” The ease of her tone was believable enough, and she’d gotten used to using different names with various unfavorable men. The bartender’s shy grin widened at the seeming lack of rejection, and Alyssa continued to portray the girl he seemed to enjoy. She was all but batting her lashes at him, teeth catching her lower lip in a bashful smile before he turned to walk down the bar to fix their drinks, Alyssa dropping the facade and turning back to Bradley. “You’ve got to stop with the projectiles. Not every man will bend to my charm,” she chides, pulling her hand away to adjust her top slightly lower than it had been. “Good job on the manager, though, that guy’s an ass.”

It felt like the jolt of a live wire in a full-to-the-brim bathtub, Alyssa’s hand on hers, no matter how gently she’d placed it there. She’d been bad, lately, even at the slightest touch. A man bumped into her in the supermarket when she was pouring over labels, searching for the highest percentage proof that was small enough to slip into the back of her waistband, and she’d started so suddenly that a bottle landed in a crash besides her boot. Cuffed ankle of her boyfriend jeans sopping, she held a rigid palm up to indicate that she didn’t need assistance, violently sidestepping when he so much as steadied her elbow and asked if she was alright. It was her last trip home that was responsible. She’d been seeing it in her dreams, ever since, picturing that winding driveway and the all white walls, the gentle sway of the tulips in the back yard, so yellow it scorched something inside her. Looking at them left welts. “Thanks for nothing, Mr. Brand,” Bradley called out to him as he retreated, ignoring the fact he’d just come up with an elaborate rouse that allowed her to drink. She hadn’t moved her hand at all in the entire time that Alyssa had held it, too scared that a touch that gentle would trigger something volcanic, if she acknowledged it properly. Tony Milligan operated in a way that meant he set the cold compress to the skin before he inflicted the burn. “Worst fucking hairline I’ve ever seen. So low to the ground it’s winning first place in a limbo competition,” she exhaled, swivelling slightly so that she could pay her full focus to Alyssa. Beneath the bar, the hand Alyssa hadn’t touched furled in on itself, fingers gauging crescent impressions against her palm. “Yeah. He was eating this big plate of bolognese, in the back, one time. Always eats bolognese, like he’s living in a fucking Dolmio advert. Went black ops one time when he was having a piss and just... threw it, plate and all. Got a bit of the sauce on my face, when I did, though, and it was pretty good. Tongue flicking around like a salamander to get the rest off. Wouldn’t have minded a proper bite,” she explained, thrumming with energy from both the adrenaline spike of physical contact and the bump she’d had, earlier. Russell returned, setting down their glasses and shooting Alyssa an apologetic smile as he nodded to a far booth. Snatching up her vodka, Bradley raised it in toast, careless to the slosh she got on the counter. “Thanks for serving me, Russell,” she said rather loudly to expose his plan, hopping up off the bar stool and making her way to the corner table.

adrian: if livingstone was a reality tv show i think i would be the one who throws drinks in people's faces

adrian: like the villian

adrian: but id have a redemption arc in the second season because i'd shave my head and take a vow of silence. twitter would uncancel me and i've have my own line of unisex boxer briefs

adrian: wby whats your story line

bradley: reality stars never oversee the design process so ur boxer briefs would get recalled after excessive complaints on ballsack restriction. congrats on the new discourse at least 12 men pinched their scrotum n cried about it. no vow of silence can save u now. there are no gods here

bradley: anyway

bradley: idk i'd probably be the one that snaps and bites a girl's ankle in the middle of a fight. gets thrown off the show for breaking the No Violence rule bc all reality tv is pussy shit since jersey shore

dakota: i have a plastic shrek i'll leave for you

dakota: & if it makes u feel better i would have appreciated it michael cera was the first man i masturbated to

dakota: worst case scenario we flash some titty & go to a new bar nothing can stop me i swear

bradley: that's the hottest thing anyone's ever said to me

bradley: What

bradley: stop. please say ur lying. Please Fuckgin Say Sike,,,,

“Hey,” Teddy whined when he felt Bradley pat at his back, loose t-shirt rolling higher on his torso from the movement, “no free shows allowed. I’m working on becoming a born again virgin and I don’t think this is the right path to go down,” Flashing the bartender a largely cartoonish smile, Teddy held both beers in hand, refusing to break eye contact first. He knew that he was coming across as far too obvious, sure that the man working behind the counter was aware of what Teddy was going to do the second he turned his back, but after his comment and a put-out eye roll, he was moving away to take more orders, “Slam dunk! Ally-oop!” Teddy hollered, motioning the beer towards Bradley dramatic, imitating slam-dunking a basketball into a net without actually spilling any of the beer over the lip of the bottle. “Ugh, vodka gives me, like, year long hangovers. Even though I’m pretty sure clear alcohol’s supposed to be better on you hangover wise? Dunno, kinda ruined it for myself in freshman year either way,” Tapping the tip of his bottle against Bradley’s, Teddy took a generous sip while Bradley spoke, making a noise of confirmation, “Got some pretty good blow, actually. This dealer I’ve never tried before, but my other one wasn’t picking up and I always feel kinda bad bumming off Blake even though he says he doesn’t care. Like, when you’re supposed to say you don’t care to be polite? I think he’d just straight up tell me to fuck off if the circumstances were different but now that we’re dating I feel like he thinks maybe he’s obligated? Not that he says he feels obligated ‘cause that’s rude too,” Teddy rambled on, gesticulating wildly as he did so. Even without the lines he’d done earlier, he was usually as energetic as they come, however the chemically induced kick in adrenaline surely didn’t help, “What? Oh, yeah, no problem. I’ll get you, like, something with vodka next time. I’m going to the washroom, you wanna come?”

Corners of her lips twitching with the urge to smile as he made a noise mid sip, Bradley lifted her eyebrows and maintained a neutral expression. “Oh? Letting out a yiff, for the boys? Didn’t realise this was a furry hot spot.” Nodding along, she took another swig from her beer as she listened. “Right, yeah, quite the predicament. Kind of like he’s an udder and you’re just... You know, fucking going to town, yoinking on it,” she explained, hand lifting up to make a jerking off motion like a farmer doing their best to juice out a fresh pale. “And he’s too lovesick to tell you he’s chafing. He knows the townsfolk need their calcium. Give the people their milk, I say! No matter the cost! Fuck,” came as her hand dropped, landing with a light thud against the counter. “Somebody get him the Savlon. Sounds kind of like a modern day vigilante. Putting those less fortunate first. Robin Hood, giving back to the poor.” In reality, even if her default sarcasm might’ve implied otherwise, Bradley actually found Teddy somewhat amusing. He’d go off on one tangent after another, back to back, for what felt like hours compacted down into three short minutes. It was probably down to the sheer volume of topics that he managed to cover in the space of a few breaths. Sometimes, it felt like sitting next to a gremlin she’d made the mistake of feeding after midnight, being around him, but she’d always preferred the toothy monstrosities to the fluffy thing at the beginning of the movie. “Next time? Fuck. Hey, big spender! Absolute baller. Party rock is in the house tonight...” trailed off, amusement growing more obvious as he induced another round of whiplash, encouraging her towards the bathroom. “This some voyeurism shit? You inviting me to watch you fire out a fat log, so we can stare down into the bowl, after, and name him like he’s our firstborn son? Wow,” came as she slipped up off the stool, already falling into step. “Count me in!” Completely ignoring the sign reading ‘MEN’, Bradley wandered in like she’d just deposited the down payment and was perfectly entitled to sleep there, if she wanted, tips of her fingers investigating a dick graffiti’d onto the closest stall. “Erm? You can’t be in here?” a redhead practically gasped, prompting a limp waft of her hand in his face. “Fucking relax, Ed Sheeran. Bitter ‘cause your Game of Thrones cameo was shit, perhaps?” He scuttled out like a disgruntled crab along the ocean floor, leaving them alone among the grime and soda spills. “I could sell to you, you know,” she informed, stuffing her hands into her pockets as she studied him. “Save you sponging, in future.”

Saskia was looking for a certain person, tapping them on the shoulder as she popped the bubble of her gum, trying to dissipate the smell of vodka on her breath as she offered them a smile. “I have a favor to ask. My dealer’s outside, and he’s offering me some free weed. But only if I get you to talk to him. Apparently he has a crush, or something.” She ran a hand through tangled brown hair, looking at a hole in her fishnet tights, pulling at it with her index finger. “Thinks you’re cute. Don’t worry, he’s harmless. Just like… really awkward. Think he wanks every night to photos of people hugging.”

Perched up on a counter-top with a leg pulled towards her chest, Bradley sipped from a red Solo cup as a nameless boy gingerly applied a plaster to her freshly skinned knee -- she’d stolen somebody’s skateboard, held onto the back of a moving car and ended up rolling almost twenty miles per hour into a carefully pruned hedge. She had a matching cut along her cheekbone, a particularly gnarled bramble catching her off guard as she went catapulting. The ebb of blood didn’t seem to bother her, though, fingertips poking so they could reach out and swipe a lone line down the centre of Saskia’s forehead, in response. “Sim-bah. You’re welcome, for the christening.” It was obvious from the way she prodded the boy away with the toe of her boot that she was drunk, merely pulling a face when he took a second longer than necessary to extract his hand from her leg. “Christ. Evacuate. Hear that? Sirens. Get to the air raid shelter!” Once he’d scuttled astray, cool eyes pinged to land on Saskia. “Sask, I genuinely think I’d rather fuck Timothy Spall. Which one is he? Mousy, with the cricked neck? Always looks like he’s in the middle of the Thriller dance?” As if example was needed, she angled her head onto an awkward slant before letting it go slack again. “Pussy bwoi.” She let out a sigh. “I’ll do it, but he’s giving two bags, not one. If we graze elbows and he cums in his jorts, I’ll lose it. I’ll go fucking feral.”

dakota: that was brutal & unexpected but made me laugh thank u

dakota: we don't have to only drink i copped some blow earlier today but the guy gave me a bag with paw patrol on it so idk how i feel

dakota: & if we go to heights we drink for free until midnight !!!

bradley: ur not welcome. gratitude isn't welcome in this house i only accept spit in the eyes and tiny orc figurines left on my window ledge while i sleep in the night

bradley: just got flashbacks to the time i blew a handful of coke in this girl's eyes in an impression of michael cera from this is the end n she didn't find it funny :/ no-one appreciates a little ad libbed scene run through i've fucking Had It

THE   BRIT   QUITE   LITERALLY   CHOKED   ON   HIS   IPA,   a   stinging   sensation   tingling   his   nostrils,   eyes   watering   as   he   tapped   his   chest   with   a   curled   up   FIST,   attempting   to   regain   some   sort   of   composure.   he   blinked   a   couple   of   times,   curling   his   fingers   against   the   wooden   bar   before   turning   to   face   the   raven   haired   female,   “HANG   on…that’s   for   real?”   charlie   questioned   in   awe,   captivating   chocolate   orbs   glistening   with   amusement,   “saw   that   earlier   and   thought   it   was   like…a   meme   or   something.   actually   wouldn’t   be   surprised   to   find   that   plastered   all   over   instagram   and   tumblr…   ‘beware   of   the   spaghetti   girl!   she’ll   haunt   your   dreams   and   overcook   your   noodles.”   he   snorted,   cocking   a   brow,   “alright,   how   about   this.   i’ll   order   your   drink   for   you,   make   it   look   like   i’m   a   thirsty   motherfucker   and   when   the   cute   bartender   with   the   nice   ass   isn’t   looking,   you   toss   it   back.   i’ll   be   your   rigatoni   accomplice.”   the   guitarist   teased   with   a   smirk.

“Shit, do you need a Heimlich? Can I get a Heimlich? Can I please get a Heimlich?” Bradley quoted the waffle Vine to nobody in particular, craning her neck to get a glance around the bar as if the request was genuine. Attention returning to Charlie at his question, she waited for clarification before the corners of her lips just barely tweaked, eyes averting elsewhere. “Alright, Christ -- settle down, class. Hands off my baby sweetcorn. Jerking it all around the place,” came accompanied by a sigh like she cared at all, black thumbnail chipping at a fleck of wood splintering off the counter’s edge. She gently prodded against the sharp point, playing Sleeping Beauty with the spindle, briefly stuck with the image of her slumping forwards like a sack of old potatoes, gone limp at the start of a long fairy-tale. It was a nauseating thought, really, given that she’d always found Disney films irritating. They wreaked of the kind of ever-glowing optimism she’d never witnessed, in person. “Cute bartender with the nice ass?” Her eyes flit to test the theory. “Really? Kind of looks like a sock with two rocks jangling around in it. Something you’d whack a mugger under a bridge, with. Just fucking... Concave. Coming for Timothee Chalamet’s brand,” she observed, gaze shifting once more. “Yeah? Thanks. I’d cry, but I had my tear-ducts surgically removed and sold on the black market. Hand delivered them, and everything. Hats off to Finn Wolfhard for the investment, I guess. Fuck knows, he needs the extra help turning on the waterworks. Watching him act is like a live action Pinocchio where he never becomes a real boy.”

Shaking his head, Max lit his cigarette, in need of a moment to calm down. He felt like he had to do that a lot recently, take a breather so not to snap. Exhaling with smoke on his lungs, he glared down at the ground. “Yeah, we’re doing great as friends, you’re right. Super.” Swallowing thickly, he eyed her as he leaned against the brick wall of the bar, letting her rant and rave as much as she felt necessary. “When you want him to?” he asked. “Did the whole back room at No Angels thing just slip your memory? Pretty sure I wouldn’t be letting someone like that’s dick anywhere near me,” he mumbled. Nodding his head, Max wanted to believe that was true, but he wasn’t entirely convinced. “Fine, if you say you’re good, then it’s good,” he said, shaking his head as he dropped his cigarette to the ground. “So, let’s drink,” he decided, nodding his head. “Somewhere else. Anywhere but fucking — Where I work,” he said, gesturing down the street. Max wanted for things to work for them, to keep in touch and to stay friends, but it was proving more and more difficult. They were too invested and it got in the way. “Green Buzz is just down there, so… Might as well. If that’s what you came to do.”

dakota: i accidentally stepped on a dung beetle and i was reminded of how shitty life is

dakota: ba dum tss

dakota: let's get drunk and forget about it

bradley: pretty cavalier for someone that just admitted to smushing ezra mercer to a pulp beneath their shoe in cold blood but i respect it

“Sounds like something Shrek would like to eat. Don’t touch me rancid sea cucumbers!” Voice raising to practically a holler, spit flew unceremoniously from his mouth as he attempted a rather pathetic rendition of a Scottish accent, flecking and landing in Bradley’s general vicinity, “Oh, Jesus Christ. Land ho,” It was with a choked off chuckle that Mercy’s expression immediately turned sour when Bradley called him by his birth given name, an obvious jab at some sort of rare vulnerable bone, cutting through skin and oozing as grotesquely as the idea of him showing any sort of reaction to her words at all. “Don’t be a moron,” he replied lamely, determined to keep his cool instead of letting her win and snapping in her face like a rabid dog like he really wanted to. Mercy knew that once he hit a certain level of aggressive anger, it was truly game over, but Bradley was the same way - and he’d seemed to have pushed enough buttons to get her there without even realizing it. Letting out an automatic gasp of shock, Mercy almost went lax at her grip, used to the person on the other side being his father twisting and turning until Mercy gave in. Instead, snapping himself out of his momentary lapse of reality, he moved to tug his wrist out of her grip, before letting out an astonished scream - an odd howl of anger mixed with something of genuine shock, once she clamped her teeth around his finger and chomped. For a second, he really thought he was about to lose the digit, hand still clutching the bottle raised to hit if he really needed to, when she was finally relenting. Mercy didn’t waste any time on formally assessing his injuries, brain kicking into overdrive the second he was free from her grasp, scoffing incredulously as she dumped a mix of his blood and her saliva at his feet, “Fuck is wrong with you, cunt? Can’t believe no one’s put you down yet,” Mercy spat, thumbing the cap off the bottle of scotch with ease and putting on a show of dribbling some over the dripping teeth shaped cut on his finger, “Might need something purer to clean this off. What, you hungry or something? Daddy finally give up on your basic human needs?” There was a glint of something in Mercy’s eyes in the next second, straightening up with a scowl over his features and shaking the bottle around like it was a bag of treats meant to coax a pet forward, “Might need to wash your mouth out after such a mighty chomp! Here,” In the next moment, he jerked the bottle roughly once, pointed in Bradley’s direction, and smirking when a large dollop of liquor hit her square in the face. The girls that’d started whispering in panic earlier once Bradley bit at his finger let out audible gasps this time, hearing one of them let out an astounded oh my god, “on me.”

Oddly enough, the rancid taste on her tongue reminded her of home. Of Marco, flashing a bloody grin under the fluorescent strobes of No Angels, Nikita shuddering with her hand on her mouth at the corner of the stage in a schoolgirl uniform as the entire room fell silent. Of Bradley, staring at the chunk he’d bitten from Kevin’s cheek just because, apparently, he’d looked at him like he was keeping a secret. “I’m not gonna tell you shit, pussy! Not, not, not. Not shit! Fucking pussy!” He liked saying things in threes. He’d rolled his punches the same way, knocking him out shortly after the first lunge. Bradley was the only one in a room of twenty plus to walk up to him and gently shake her head, putting a cork in the bottle of wine he’d mentally sloshed all over the carpet. With a waft of her hand and a hard swallow, she indicated that somebody should clean Kevin up as she took Marco into the back to wipe the red from his chin. Stuttering back to the present like she’d had her head dunked underwater, legs scrabbling, before finally catching a gasp of oxygen, Bradley composed her flinch into consciousness as much as possible, knowing by now when to expect it. Somehow, she managed to just keep it to a faint jerk of the shoulders, eyes blinking up to watch Mercy as he cursed. “Yeah, I know. I’m pretty scandalous,” came out sounding like she was severely bored, forced to sit in a classroom sorting through algebraic fractions -- like she hadn’t just chomped on his finger and spat the blood back out again. An average evening. Mundane, even. She’d been planning on continuing that way, playing the role of a cat bored with the mouse it had bat to death between it’s paws, when the mention of her father flashed something unreadable across her face. Her jaw set. Lips parted. She would’ve given him an earful, a threat so despicable it stained the back of her throat with the taste of stomach acid, when the scotch splashed her face and forced her to stumble a step. Fingers instantly swiping her cheeks down, Bradley let out a laugh that was completely cold. The beginning rev of an engine before it went barrelling out of the driveway, tires screeching as the exhaust spluttered with the brakes cut. Flicking a few droplets off her hand at the carpet, she’d been a millisecond away from stepping right into his face when a broad shouldered nobody appeared besides them, hands erected high like a lollipop warden commanding traffic to a standstill. “Yo, what the fuck? Guys. Guy....” trailed off, quick swallow coming as he directed the latter towards Mercy. “Cool it, alright? Cool it.” He traded a glance back at Bradley, apparently having only come in to witness the end of Mercy’s expletives, the scotch thrown back in her face. “You good?” It took everything she had not to laugh at him. That was the thing, about being a girl. It made you easier to kick around, but it also made it easier to play the victim. “I don’t know,” she exhaled, gaze shifting so that it could perfectly align with Mercy’s as she swept the damp from her jaw. She looked smaller, somehow, shoulders sagged and tendrils of hair sopping. “This guy’s just fucking... crazy. Throwing shit, everywhere. I don’t even know why.” When their company’s face swiftly turned, eyes wide with disbelief, Bradley took the opportunity to make a jerking off notion behind his back, knowing full well how infuriating of a situation she was setting up for Mercy. It was like the stranger couldn’t believe his ears. “Are you fucking for real, man?”

Max laughed, the kind of strained chuckle that only ever came when he felt too many emotions at once to properly articulate his words yet. “I’m not — I’m not saying it’s just that, it’s just… Fuck, Brad. It’s not like you’re with a real gentleman either,” he pointed out, shaking his head. “I mean, how can you even fucking judge my situation?” he asked. “Nic and I are like — We’re barely even seeing each other. We fuck sometimes, that’s it,” he stated simply, digging in his pocket for his cigarettes. He needed nicotine, but he also needed to air something out. “This is just —…” trailing off for a moment, he held his cigarette between two fingers, trying to find his words. “This is fucked, you know? Trying to be friends. It’s fucked. We shouldn’t have these… these super invested opinions in each other’s relationships. It shouldn’t fucking matter, but it does,” he urged, running a hand through his hair as he shook his head. “But… Fuck, Brad. Billy?” he asked, chuckling in disbelief as he practically paced, unable to stand still after the shift he’d had and the adrenaline setting in. “Billy? After everything he’s done? Like… Fucking hell. What are you even doing?” he asked. “We should care about each other. That’s true. But — I mean, you’re not really one to talk on the whole romantic front right now.”

Sitting down beside her friend at the bar, Alyssa watched as Bradley was denied the chance to order her drink, eyes drifting to the poster the bartender pointed at. Her hand came up to cover the laugh she let out when she saw Bradley’s silhouette on it, shaking her head. That’s where she had gone the last time they’d decided to come to this bar. She knew it wasn’t just an innocent smoke outside. “Clearly this all a plan from the app to get your bones brittle enough to overpower your throwing arm.” She leans onto the counter, crossed legs bouncing slightly as she watched the bartender’s eyes roll, shoulder shrugging with a mock apologetic look on his face. “Not even one little drink? We came all this way, we’ll even make amends if you’d like. Though, that’s not my friend on the poster. She’s got a little fan that likes to run around in cosplay of her. Some real Single White Female shit.” She shakes her head, feigning sadness and worry. “Won’t you have a heart and let my friend have a drink in this trying time?”

The bartender -- Russell, as she’d overheard a coworker referring to him as on many occasions -- seemed to have a large appetite for a sweet smile. He turned to mush like a wax candle in the firing line of a blow torch, regretful expression rearing once he noticed the way Alyssa’s face furrowed. Bradley couldn’t help but scoff under her breath, resisting the urge to fake a wretch. She’d never been able to maintain a delicate persona for long, far too sharp around the edges to ever be mistaken as soft. “Pwease, sir. I’m Benjamin Buttoning. Thirstier, in my old age.” He shot her an eye roll before looking back at Alyssa. “I mean...” he trailed off, letting out a reluctant sigh. His eyes flit further down the bar, checking whether his manager was around to catch a slip up. “I’ll get in shit, if I... What can I get you?” came with a pointed lift of his eyebrows, wordlessly trying to convey that he’d let her order whatever Alyssa wanted, for the pair of them. “You’ll have to take the drinks to a table, though. Got CCTV up at the bar. If Ray catches her drinking shit, he’ll have my neck.” Perching her chin on the stoop of her palm, Bradley studied him with a vaguely amused expression. “By the neck? Zoo wee mama. Kinky. Is there a red room, in the back, or..?” Not even giving him a chance to speak once he’d opened his mouth, she straightened and slapped the counter-top. “One of her drinks is gonna be... A vodka, I think. With ice. Slap a few cubes in there and Bob’s your uncle. Promise not lob one at your forehead, again. Scout’s honour.” She gave a firm salute, face serious. He ignored her with a sigh. “And you...? Can I get a name, too, maybe?” At the shy beginning of a smile on his face, Bradley let out an exasperated “Jesus...” below her breath. “Yeah, because that’s fucking likely.”