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Summary
Despite the fact that it was none of his fucking business and he was ignoring Jamie Tartt for the rest of his life, he did watch from the corner of his eye as the waitress went to the corner table with a tray full of shots and unloaded every single one. There were only three people at the table, Jamie with a man and a woman, but there were twelve shots on the table. The math didn’t work out into anything good. For one thing, Jamie was a child who drank fucking blue shit and vanilla vodka and never even enough to get fucked up. For another thing, it wasn’t good etiquette to pour booze down anybody’s throat when they were already on a leash, or in any sort of bondage situation.