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The saloon was packed as usual every late evening. A few games of cards at the tables, others crowded with people - mostly burly, gritty men - just talking and cutting up with one another over liquor. Boisterous laughs, loud words, some poor old fellow tapping away on off-white piano keys in a rhythm that was disjointed and not really pleasant to listen to. But the volume was constantly drowned out by the lively patrons.@Pearl Delacroix @Dante De Garcia
Dante had found himself at the end of the bar as he always did. For the most part, no one paid any attention to him - certainly fine by him. Nobody gave much thought to the lone Mexican. Sometimes, though, even the bartender forgot that he was there, which was particularly unfortunate when the shot glasses emptied. But the guy was kind enough every time Dante flagged him down; the whiskey kept coming and he was starting to feel great.
The bartender, however, after the bottle had been finished off, narrowed his eyes at the scruffy drifter. ”You sure you got the money to pay fer all this?”
Sucking in a slow breath, Dante kicked back the final shot. The burning in his throat was enjoyable and he didn’t bother verbally answering the man that still looked at him in a scrutinizing manner. Instead, he reached down into his pocket.
Disgruntled, the bartender started to bristle. ”You owe--”
Dante’s expression quietened the man and he set down a little portion of his small wealth. Just enough to cover his tab. The bartender remained judgemental as he pawed over the money to make sure it was enough; satisfied with the amount, his gaze lightened up and he started back toward the other patrons at the bar.
For the young werewolf, the room was beginning to spin. Wonderful. Delightfully so. Just what was needed to beat the heat. His hands came up and he scrubbed his face before carding fingers through his hair. The boarding house wasn’t far away so walking there wouldn’t be too great a hassle - the hardest part was going to be actually walking.