Tropes of the Trade: Bottom of the Glass

Jacqueline, never Jack or Jackie, swirled the ice around the dregs of her mojito. It was her favorite drink, she had ordered them all around the world, from Mexico, to London, to China. Hell, she'd even taken a couple of barrels with her through the Andes. Now the muddled mix of ice cubes, crushed mint leaves, rum, lime juice, and simple syrup, seemed sad. More of a mess than a proper drink. That wasn't right. Mojitos should never evoke sadness. Maybe she ought to switch to whiskey. There was a drink for mourning.

A blond slid onto the backed bar stool next to her, and gave her a side eye before swiping some of her loose hair behind her ear. She was wearing a powder blue dress that suggested curves rather than revealing them and a speckling of jewelry that flashed like street lamps in the rain.

"You can't stay holed up in here forever."

"Excuse me?" Jacqueline said.

"People die. It's always been part of the job. Hell, you put your share into the ground,"

"Who do you work for?"

"F.A.C.E."

"Impossible."