"Now we try something harder."
The martini glass was delicate.
I was afraid I'd break it. My hands were shaking—not much, just enough to make the glass tremble in my grip. Matt noticed. He didn't say anything. He just placed his hand over mine, steadying it, and guided the shaker to the glass.
"Slow. Steady. You're not in a rush."
"What if I spill?"
"Then you spill. You clean it up. You try again."
He stepped back, and I poured. The liquid slid into the glass, clear and cold, and I didn't spill a drop.
"See? You've got steady hands when you let yourself have them."
"I don't feel steady."
"You don't have to feel it. You just have to do it."
He set a lemon twist on the rim and pushed the glass toward me.
"Taste it."
"I don't—"
"You need to know what you're serving. Taste it."
I picked up the glass and took a small sip. The gin was sharp, botanical, with something underneath—something briny, something that reminded me of the ocean, though I couldn't remember ever seeing the ocean.
"Good?"
"I don't know."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
He took the glass from me and finished it in one swallow.
"It's good. You did good."
He set the glass in the sink and turned to face me.
"Now we learn how to read customers."
"The man at the end of the bar."
Matt nodded toward the far end of the room, though the bar was empty.
"Hypothetically. He's been sitting there for an hour. He's had two beers. He's not on his phone. He's not reading. He's just... watching."
"Watching what?"
"Everything. The door. The windows. The other customers. You."
"What does that mean?"
"It means he's not here to drink. He's here for something else. Information. Revenge. A score."
