“You sure you’re tough enough for this job, fuzzball?” Rochford leered over the counter, his wide-antlered silhouette vanishing into the dimly lit ceiling above him.
A puff of smoke broke against the moose’s unfazed face ahead of Cherise’s reply.
“Do not mistake the softness of my fur for a soft demeanor. I am very meticulous with my routines.” Her well-honed nail traced a circle on the worn wood between them. “And I will be just as meticulous when I count our payment– Up front.”
The corners of the barkeep’s mouth curled down. Past the woman before him, barely lit against the night-dark window, the huddled and hulking shapes of the fox’s entourage eyed him without a whit of subtlety.
Rochford snorted, furrowing his brow. “I’ll not have you rob me before my eyes.”
The old wooden chair below Cherise did not creak as she lunged upon the countertop, her face just a hair’s breadth from the moose’s. “‘Tis fair payment for a service well rendered.”
A curt laugh from the shady crew followed the venom-tipped words as the fox’s nail traced Rochford’s neck. He drew a tense breath.
Across the countertop, a familiar tinny clatter rang out.
“...You’re tough enough, aye. Job’s yours.”