Grabbing Winter’s hand, I lead her to the bar, not thrilled about the way every man in the building, including the hipster asshole exiting the restroom still pulling up his damn skinny jeans, stares at her like she’s the only female left on a dystopian planet Earth.

Settling at the end of the bar, Winter looks around with a bright smile curling her red lips. “This place is great,” she says, leaning forward on the bar.

I make it a point not to touch anything.

From where I stand, I see that thousand-dollar tip did little to encourage a deep cleanse.

At the other end of the bar, a man built like a cement truck, laughs as he pours beer into a pint glass from a tap. The beer spills over the glass and coats his hand before he notices the glass is full. His reaction, of course, is to wipe his wet, beer-soaked hand on his stained jeans, and keep on truckin’.

He’s about six-four and the bottom of his—I’m assuming beer—gut is hanging just below the hem of his T-shirt. He ambles our way, a smirk telling me he already knows who we are. I’m the asshole who sent my own booze assuming his would be too cheap, and paid him a thousand dollars to clean the place. A request he obviously ignored.

“Hey, kids. What can I get ya?”

“Billie, I presume?”

He laughs and looks across the bar at his patrons already three sheets to the wind. “I don’t know. What do you guys think? Am I Billie?”

The bar sings out in unison, “Aye, Billie! Oy, oy, oy!”

He turns toward me with a pleased smile. The king of his own trash heap.

“Charming,” I deadpan. “You should have a bottle of whiskey that’s mine. Put the corking fee on this.” I slide my black Amex across the bar. He takes it, flipping it over like he’s never seen one before.

“What’s a corking fee?”

Fucking hell.

“It’s a fee you, as a business owner, should charge your patrons for bringing their own liquor into your establishment. Otherwise you’re allowing said patrons to drink on your premises for free. That’s not a wise business choice.”

Winter rolls her eyes next to me. “Did you seriously send your own booze?”

“Booze? No. I sent thirty-year-old Macallan whiskey for us to drink. Pipe down, you’ll like it.” I wave her off.

I’m rewarded with another eye roll that oddly makes me want to pull Winter back to our suite for a quick scolding and an even quicker fuck.

“That’s okay,” Billie waves his hand. “I’ll just take your corking fee out of the thousand you paid me to clean my bar. It didn’t cost that much to wipe the bathrooms down.”

Mental note: Next time Winter drags you to a dive bar and you want to ensure its cleanliness, send a service, not money.

Wait. What the hell am I talking about next time? There won’t be a damn next time.