Tommy sniffed cautiously at the contents of the cocktail glass.
Given the lack of guinea pigs available for easy commandeering, he’d been reduced to test-driving his own drinks on a sun-drenched Wednesday afternoon.
As part-owner of a semi-successful nightclub.
Inside an old steel factory.
God, responsibility had a way of sounding pathetic in the harsh light of day. Not that he’d had much experience in the area, since his memories of anything before four P.M.
were usually of the REM sleep variety. Hard drinking and harder partying had a way of making the daylight hours dagger-like to the retinas.
Up until six months ago, at least.
Tommy turned on his heel, hunting for the picture he kept behind the bar, and raised his glass. “This one’s for you, sweetheart,” he said, toasting a smiling picture of Laurel Lance.
The drink went down easy, fresh liquid silver for the Verdant specials — if only he hadn’t overdone it on the crushed ice.
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