I wouldn't really call myself a big drinker. Although, I suppose no 'big drinker' would.

I tried to be, once. Cara's dad took the three of us on a road trip to Dad's for the weekend, and he and Dad made sure to give us their sceptical eyes and strict instructions to stay away from the alcohol. Naturally, when they popped out for a late dinner, our first and only order of business was to steal Dad's key and sneak into the pub.

At 14, we all read too much and listened too little, and the misdirected wannabe artist in me was convinced that taking a couple of swigs of the bitter stuff would be the key to my awakening.

"Y'know, Sartre did some of his best stuff on amphetamines," I'd said, unlocking the door as if I had a clue what I was on about, "and Stephen King was coked out of his mind for, like, half his career."

Babe suggested we drink spritzers, because her Mum said those tasted like squash, but I couldn't find a bottle that said 'spritzers' on the front, so Caz picked up the one that said 'Smirnoff' instead, since they sounded sort of similar.

As it happened, it didn't taste much like squash at all.

Covering our mouths to muffle the sound of our hacking and gagging on the taste of sour nail polish remover, it occurred to us that spritzers and Smirnoff must have been different things entirely.

Dad figured it all out during a bottle check the next morning, and after he delivered a lengthy lecture sorely lacking in self-awareness, I asked him why alcohol tasted so bad.

He laughed; he never could stay mad with me for long. Dad was always something of a god to us, but Mum always said that Auggie and me would always be his Achilles' heel.

"People don't always drink because it tastes good, Tangerine."

"Well why else would they drink this stuff?"

"Because it makes them feel good."

Squinting now as I scan a menu of drinks I don't recognise, somehow I doubt Dad would approve, but by God I need a bit of feel-good tonight.

"Hi," I smile, "could I please get a, um, Tama- Tagam-"

I'm trying to say 'Tamagozake' if I ever get the bloody word out. I picked it because the menu says it's sugary, and the name kind of reminds me of Tamagotchi, but when I look closer, I spot 'raw eggs yolks' inconspicuously hidden in the ingredients list, and I cut myself off like I've accidentally uttered a hex.

"Sorry," I blink at the menu, "is there really raw egg yolk in that?" I must look a proper fool, because the barman laughs at me outright.

Just as I'm about to throw in the towel and ask for water, I meet his dark eyes.

"Hey!"

The 'dishy' black-eyed waiter is looking at me amusedly, towelling down the inside of a glass. Except, his eyes aren't really black - his mop-messy hair is, and under the low lights, his hazel eyes look it too. I like his hair.

He smiles back, and his not-so-dark eyes sparkle when I recognise him.

"Tamagozake. The yolks make it creamy. You a picky drinker?" His voice is richer when he's speaking in semi-full sentences; gruffer. I scrunch my nose. Being picky is one thing - admitting it is another.

"Alright," he laughs, "different question. Berry or citrus?"

"Citrus?" I say it like a question, with a brow raised, and, mocking me, he raises one too.

"Spicy or sweet?"

"Sweet..."

"And how strong?" Finally, something I'm sure of.

"Strong." I stress it with widened eyes and earn myself another low laugh.

His brows are dark and untamed, and he wags them up and down once before the towel in his hand goes over his shoulder.

"Oh, white wine makes me sneeze!" I flush red as soon as I've said it, but the barman's smooth exterior is unfazed, although entertained.

"No white wine, got it," he smiles with playful reverence. I humour him with a nod, and watch as he turns his back to me, reaching and pouring and shaking with proficiency.

I catch myself trying to decode his cadence, and I realise how accent-conscious being around the Macklins makes me. He doesn't speak all plummy and proper like they do, and he doesn't quite sound like me either - he drops more of his letters, 't's, and 'g's, and 'h's. Birmingham, maybe?

I look at him little while longer, long enough that I feel like a creep, and it's only when I force my gaze away that I notice that there's a stare trained on me.

Louisa, Kitty and Nelly are huddled like a glamorous coven at the other end of the bar, and really I don't know how I didn't feel their collective icy presence sooner. Kitty's nursing a glass of something tentatively bubbly as she explains something to an impassive Nelly, but Louisa's peer is keen, and when we catch eyes, I flash her something too fast and too forced to be a proper smile.

I've managed to avoid her since our run-in this morning, but I know there are only so many square feet of this lounge. If I have to face her, I'd rather do it not-entirely sober.

When I drum my nails on the counter, eager to see what all the rocking and stirring will amount to, the barman's shaking a steel cylinder back and forth in one hand, and the sloshing sounds of alcohol and ice ring out impossibly loud.

He holds my gaze as he rocks the container, before shaking its contents out into a slim glass, tucking in a little swirly straw and umbrella for garnish, and presenting me with an icy white potion with leaf-looking things peppered against the inside surface,

"There you are, Picky," he grins, and oh we're at nicknames, are we?

True to his questions, it's sweet, and the liquid's almost milkshake-creamy with the coconut flavour. The velvet taste lingers after just one sip, and when I sit up in pleasant surprise, hints of something minty and limey tickle the tip of my tongue.

"Shit, you're good at this!" I rave, pointing insistently at the concoction. And here I thought I'd be bracing myself for shots of something bitter to distract myself from tonight.

His jaw clenches when his wide shoulders lift in a bashful shrug, and his facial structure is unironically perfect.

"Sort of my job to be..." He nods down at the golden clip bearing his name and role. Daisuke, mixologist.

"And my ex," when he clears his throat with gusto his thick brows furrow involuntarily, "she liked her drinks sweet and strong too, so, I s'pose these are sort of my speciality."

Momentarily, I imagine his 'ex'. In the unsubstantiated confines of my mind, she's a bartender too. They met on the job, and she likes her men like she likes her drinks.

"How much do I owe ya?" I ask, and I've always wanted to say that. I imagined I'd say it at some ritzy bar, with a mojito in hand, at an underground bar in Dublin, but I suppose this place'll do.

Daisuke shakes his head, and a dark curl falls free against his forehead. He casts me one last facetious look before he turns away, busying himself with bussing the counter. Surely he's not giving me another drink for free?

"Dude."

"What's that your friend said?" He speaks without turning to face me, but I can hear his smirk clear as anything. "Say thank you and start sipping?"

He left out the 'dishy' bit, but that doesn't stop the blush from rising to my cheeks, and he seems to revel in the reaction when he turns to give me a suave wink with his pink tongue between his teeth.

"Thank you," I say, and my grin is shy even when he's turned away again. I can't help but study him a while longer, watching how he ruffles his hair instead of tucking it aside when pieces fall in his face; the way his pronounced muscles move under his shirt.

I look away when he starts tapping out a text on his phone, but I immediately wish I hadn't – Louisa's still watching. She waves me over and her smile looks soft, kind, and it's bearing just enough teeth to make me nervous.

Maybe if I pretend I don't know what she's saying she'll leave it alone. I raise my brows and force a small smile, hoping it'll bring the mimed interaction to a close, but when she continues wagging her dainty hand, she catches Kitty's attention - Nelly's too - and Kitty smile is wider, whiter and harder to wilfully ignore.

"Evangeline, darling! Come join us!"

"Fucking... wonderful," I mutter. I hear Daisuke snort, and when I look up, he's watching me in the gleaming reflection of the soda foundation. His smirk says good luck, and I manage to resist the urge to stick my tongue out at the cheeky charmer.

───･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

NOTE 1: today's chapter is just part (a) of Chapter 36, so it's a little short, but I'll be posting part (b) on the next scheduled day (Sunday)!

NOTE 2: Chapter media for today is Daisuke the mixologist! I don't usually like sharing the faces I have in mind in case it's different to how you lot see them, but I don't think we'll see too much more of him so enjoy!

NOTE 3: LADS 'N' LADETTES, we've just hit 2K reads! As in TWO FREAKING T H O U S A N D !! Thank you so much to everyone giving my lil story a read, a vote, a comment – I appreciate every set of eyes laid on the stage that is Evie's life, and I'm beyond honoured that I get to share my passion with so many people! I hope you're all enjoying the story, staying inside, and thank you so so much again! (TWO BLOODY THOUSAND I'M STILL SCREAMING I REALLY NEVER THOUGHT I'D SEE THIS DAY)