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I looked at the bartender, who was half-smiling (leering) at me. “Shot of the house wine, please?” I asked, knowing that would most likely be the strongest tequila they had. The bartender nodded and grabbed a shot glass and a handmade, liter-sized flask bearing no label. He poured me a stout shot and was about to walk off. The girl beside me spoke up. “Miguel! Another, please?” she said, holding up her shot glass and giving it a small, obstinate shake. He immediately obliged. I was impressed. Her cocksure voice had definitely driven her point across that she was not to be fucked with. I admired such poise. She then looked over at me, and I got my first glimpse at the stranger with the no-nonsense attitude.
My pulse nearly froze. I immediately recognized the almond-shaped, close set eyes. Those pouty, mesmerizing, full lips. That gaze that said both “come hither” and “fuck you” at the same time. Angelina Jolie. What in the hell was Angelina Jolie doing in a little rat shack like this? Shouldn’t she have been wining and dining somewhere with her Hollywood cohorts, or snuggling with Billy Bob in some booth in an elite Beverly Hills restaurant? I nearly slapped myself in the head to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. The coincidence to end all coincidences!