"WHISKEY, NEAT!" I growl.
Everyone at the bar goes silent. So silent the bar would seem empty but for the myriad of faces staring at me. Everyone has a different expression everywhere. Some wear frowns, angry at my interruption. Some smiles, those with eager eyes. A few women address my attire, sampling me from head to toe in a second. I feel like a wedding cake. In the silence, a pudgy man has a half-empty plate before him, his fork midway up his mouth. His only expression seems to be regret I guess. He couldn't order a second plate now. But then their gazes finally flow out from me and they look behind to see Yennara, and Lance—I can tell when it's him because their eyes actually lift upwards. He's tall. I get it. When they finally peer back at me, their eyes are huge, recognition dawning. Even the few dumb ones can tell from Lance's fierce eyes and full golden armor that the object they'd been ogling is royalty. They all seem to grab manners at once, bowing stupidly from everywhere. Not caring, I head straight for the man with the napkin on his shoulder. The bartender.
"Whiskey, neat!" I say again, slowly this time so he knows I won't repeat myself.
The wooden cup he has in his hands shivers and he quickly drops it to the Brownwood countertop. "Y–Your G–Grace, w–whiskey?"
Oh, I forget. Not America. Mythronos.
"Your strongest drink!" I wave a hand, inwardly glad I don't have to show an ID. The simpler times.
The bartender sweeps around to the shelves so fast he seems to be doing the Michael Jackson swirl. Come to think of it, he looks like him a bit. I settle myself on a high stool. Those on neighboring chairs disperse and Lance's rugged shadow settles over me as he takes position directly behind me. The other officers stand by the door and some by the carriage. These are the outlands, and though the queen is feared, she is not necessarily respected. Their wary glances tell me so. The bartender turns back with a fresh delicate bottle in his hands. Unlike the rest, this one actually looks like it might be wine and not cyanide.
"Only the best for the Light of Mythronos," he says awkwardly, popping the cork.
I smile when I see Yennara inspecting the cup with unsure brown eyes. He half-fills the cup. And then carefully—in a movement I'm sure he'd never adopt with the other patrons—slides it to me. I lift my hand but before I can grab the cup, Yennara does. Bringing it to her lips, she drinks.
"Wait, Yen!" I say but she's already swallowed.
Everyone's breath seems to catch in that instant. I can almost hear their thoughts.
He wouldn't dare poison the queen, would he?
If he dared and Yennara so much as pales, he'd be the first man I'd behead.
But then Yennara starts coughing, tears springing to her eyes. "It burns. It burns," she croaks, and the entire bar bursts into laughter. I even spy a smile on Lance's face just before he smothers it. Trust Yennara to be the one to lighten a tense situation.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I pat her back, rubbing and smiling all the way. Good God! That I'd ever hated this girl seems impossible to imagine. She is such a girly girl—perhaps more feminine than myself. It adds to her seduction.
"It's not poisoned." Her birdy voice returns.
"Yeah! We get that." I tease, and snickers go up in the bar once more. Lance smiles again, not bothering to hide it this time. I rub Yennara's back until her shiny eyes clear. I did ask for the strongest drink, and in this age, that is asking a lot.
Lifting the cup left by Yennara to my lips, I sniff first at it. I'd hate to be drinking donkey's piss.
"Jesus!" My eyes water as the drink hits the back of my throat.
What the fresh he'll have these people been drinking? No wonder all the men in here have voices like scratching glass. By a miracle, I manage to hold down the burn. When I can finally blink away the hot tears, I find the bar once more in silence. Everyone is staring at me. Yennara peers at me like I'd just swallowed a live viper. Lance's gaze is hard, like he wishes me anywhere but here. A dominant male. The rest of the patrons just stare at me like they can believe I just held that down. Well, surprise, ya rowdy folks, pretty women can hold their own too. I must have gotten a pretty good deal in this new reality because in the first, even spiked beer by jock bros at stupid frat parties made me puke. Now I'm sure I just drank what must be paraffin.
Uh! Tastes like car oil.
Bravely—and admittedly spurred on by the faces of the onlookers—I attempt to down the rest.
"Christ!" I swear out. The burn...damn!
It feel like I peel a fresh layer of my gut with each gulp. Whoever said the burn eases with each added swallow clearly never had brew from the Dark Ages. I mean these are hard times, harder than even the Old American West. And History will tell you, those were some times. Seeing as I'd cursed now twice, I'm particularly feeling just water would be the best option. It's then it hits me. These people don't know Jesus. They don't know Christ. And I'm no Preacher but even I can tell that the only religion these people know is that against the terror of Lord Crave. The next time I feel the urge, perhaps I'd remember to swear, Light! Or something.
"Something softer for the Queen." Lance's voice booms down from above. There's a raw edge to it. Being his friend for almost all of both our lives, I can read him like my thoughts.
He is angry.
Sir Lancelot at the moment is so similar to my Lance it's unnerving. Lance would never have had me chug down so much as beer, which incidentally was one of the things that frustrated me so much about crushing on him. He got to go out and party with Cheyenne, hanging out with the coolest people on the planet, faking ID's to get into adult bars, getting fake Tats, and probably kissing in the back benches of empty cinemas. While I got to what? Sit in my room and fawn over Astrophysics, trying not to imagine his hands all over Cheyenne?
Aaargh!
It had been so aggravating I'd watch porn just to clear the image out of my head.
And worst of all was when I'd finally—with much persuasion on my end—get the chance to go to one of these elite parties, he'd have the guts to approach me and be like,
'Oh Allie, you shouldn't be drinking.'
Hell yeah, I know I shouldn't. Underage drinking stems over twelve percent of teenage deaths. I know.
And even though in that moment of his hypocritical cautioning, I want to say,
'Oh, Lance, you shouldn't be frenching Cheyenne either.'
I'd choke back on my reply just because I'd loved him too much to risk our friendship.
But not anymore, Lance. Now I'm fucking queen and you are my loyal subject. And even though I know Sir Lancelot has no memories like me of these, I still slam my cup down on the countertop, sliding if expertly to the bartender.
"Your Queen..." I draw out. "...will have what she fucking wants."
This time Lance can't say a word, can't caution my arbitrary drinking, can't keep me in the cute girl bubble. This time he remains silent. I see his jaw flex and know I've hit a nerve. I smile like a deviant little witch. Oh! Good Sir Lancelot is as dominant as they come and it is pretty fucking amazing to see him skirt the borders of his own control. I test the waters but I don't swim. If I know my Lance well, pushing further will incure punishment—him being my subject irrelevant. Once, Lance didn't speak to me for a week, because I'd taken off my shirt in a stupid game of Truth or Dare. But what? He was shirtless already. I still had a very modest bra which left everything to the imagination. I can still picture the snicker on Cheyenne's face at my green underwear. Everyone had laughed. But not Lance. He'd worn a solid mask the rest of the night and didn't speak to me for seven frustrating days.
I never pushed again after that.
Lance is emotional about the little things.
But I was his, right from the moment the distant blue eyes of his five-year old self met mine.
It seems, in this world nothing has changed at all.
Yennara chews on her lip, catching the tension radiating from his bulk too. For some untoward reason, I find it immensely erotic riling him up. The way he hardens his jaw, his eyes going even colder, dimming to a deep sea blue, the telltale veins on the sides of his head. He just looks so...hard.
...makes me wonder what else might be hard right now?
Experts have said, makeup sex is the best sex. Fighting between me and Lance is hot as hell, makes me bite my lip seeing him stand so tall and bothered. I cross my legs on the barstool.
"Your Grace." The bartender slides a filled cup to me once more. "This would go down easier." He has a confident beam on his face and I notice his broken dentition. Probably why drug peddlers don't do the coke.
Looking in the cup I can already tell it's a girl drink. It's pink in color for crying out loud.
"Strawberry flavored." The bartender smiles some more, evidently not noticing my frown.
It's an ego bruise. I'm trying to look hard for the dashing soldier beside me.
Strawberry, really?
I can tell Yennara is struggling not to laugh. Her brown eyes are lit. Slowly, with all the indifference I can muster, I lift the cup to my lips.
"Enchante!"
I toast to no one in particular as I down the pink liqueur in one gulp. It's good, surprisingly tasting like how I assume whiskey would taste. I suppose there are no soft drinks in a bar in the dark ages.
The stiffness in Lance's shoulders ease a bit as I put down an empty cup. He is pacified I can tell.
"Shall we, Your Majesty?" He says down to me with frozen blue eyes, trying to sound casual and unbothered by the reply I would give. But I know what he wants. And being a sucker for those pretty, pretty eyes of his, I slip off the stool, standing to my feet.
"Yes, we shall."
"To the castle, Your Grace?" Yennara asks, her beach-colored eyes imploring.
Not her too! Apparently, both my Lady-in-waiting and Knight are conspiratorial in this. However I know it's because of they have my best interest at heart. Shaking my head at both of them, I nod reluctantly.
"Yes, onwards to the Castle." I kick my hand in the air like a Mayor during a campaign. Perhaps, strawberry whiskey is stronger than I thought.
And both Yennara and Lance whisk me out of the bar faster than the payment of coins can jingle over the bar top.
Friends, they can be such parents sometimes.