If thereâs one thing Leon can count on, itâs that a barâs a barâno matter if itâs in America or Thailand. Booze, bodies, drunks. Same everywhere.
So when voices spike behind him, Leon already knows where this is going.
A table of twenty-somethings crowd a booth. An argument, from the sound of itâtoo fast in Thai for him to catch more than tone. Leon stiffens.
Their eyes meet in quiet exchange. Not his turf, but Leonâs willing to step inâlanguage barrier or no.
Thankfully, he doesnât have to. The bartender moves first, vaulting the bar in one smooth motion.
Leon sighs. So much for a relaxing vacation.
⊠Except nothing happens.
The bartender says something sharp.
When he returns, Leon gives him a nod.
The bartender arches a brow. âYou wanted a fight?â
âNo,â Leon says. âBut I was curious how youâd handle it.â
âFast.â He tosses a rag over his shoulder. âWhat can I get you, blondie?â
Leon snorts. âWhiskey.â
The bartender pours something darker. Stronger. Leon watches the way he movesâloose, easy. Efficient.
âYou look like a bourbon guy.â
He slides the glass across the bar with easy precision.
âYou read people for a living?â
The bartender notices the way Leonâs stool is angled toward the door. How he scans the room without moving his head.
âSomething like that.â The bartender smirks. âNameâs Porsche.â
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