"Sorry—I don't like men," I said as I yanked the jacket from his limp hands.
"You ripped my sleeve," the man protested, more offended than hurt.
"Then don't stumble into people," I shot back, one hand on his collar, the other flat against the bar to keep him upright.
"That jacket's worth more than your month's rent," he slurred, looking around for support like he could summon an army of money.
"Good," I said. "Keep it." I tossed the jacket back toward him with less force than a shrug.
"Hey," a voice cut in behind me, polite and dry. "Maybe you should take care of your customers."
"I just did," I replied without turning. "You're the one sprawled under the lights."
"It's a VIP table," the man insisted. "You can't—"
"Then act like it," I said. "Or stand up like a grown person and take your jacket."
A cluster of soft laughter rose at the bar. Someone near the speakers clapped. The drunk man blinked, reached for the jacket, missed, and knocked the bartender's tray. Plastic cups clattered and someone shouted.
"Finn!" The owner barked.
"Relax," I said to the man. "You want sleep? I'll kick you out." I nudged his shoulder. He huffed, grabbed the jacket, and tried to stand on unsteady legs. He swayed into a woman at the end of the bar.
"I'm sorry!" he blurted.
"Watch it!" the woman snapped, then paused. Her eyes widened
