Man, the joint was rocking -- the new band loud enough to make the bar mats vibrate all along his legs and up through his balls. Jake and Lee both fucking showed up and were working -- Miss Lynn must've torn them new assholes after their last little Saturday night stunt -- pricks. Shane grabbed a bottle of Cuervo and started pouring a round of shots, laughing at Vic's lame assed joke about titty bars and avoiding old man Robert's roving hands, all the time moving to the music, knowing his ass in those jeans in the big mirror behind the bar? Money in the bank, baby. Everybody who was anybody stopped by, chatted him up a second, grinning and trying to talk over the music. Jake kept giving him that 'how do you do that' stupid-ass, monkey-face look. Shit, he'd been tending bar here for a good long time -- since Spring Break in '95. He'd come down to play with a couple three baby-faces from college and sorta stuck in the sand and the surf and the good life. He was thinking he'd not go home after his shift tonight. He liked the crowd, liked the band, got his booze for free. And that way he wouldn't have to deal with that... smell in his apartment. Whatever the hell it was. ''Can I get a whiskey?'' He could hear that voice right through the music, maybe because it had a drawl that wouldn't quit. Brown eyes, cowboy hat pulled low, and tall enough to lean right over the bar. Oh, hello. ''Sure enough. You got a preference to type?'' Oh, now, that was just fine enough to lick off a spoon. ''I'm not picky. Jack is fine.'' Fine and looking right back, too. Those sloe eyes went from his face to the mirror behind him and back, not a bit shy. He flipped the bottle, singing along with the band, distracted by tall, fine and studly enough ...