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The beer was cool and bitter on his tongue, music thumped sensual rhythm in his ears.
He felt fulfilled right in that moment, with his drink, his music, his luxurious, lucky jacket.
He almost ignored the gentle bump on his shoulder. But the delicious squeak of leather on leather snapped him to attention.
He regarded the man next to him, leaning over the bar.
“Nice jacket,” he said.
A pair of blue eyes gave him a once-over.
“Thanks. Yours is cool too.”
They clicked the necks of their beer bottles together.
“I'm Jim Kirk.”
“John Shepard.”