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4
Anissa
I cut the ignition despite the guilty nudge from my self-preservation that tells me not to. I open my door and climb out even though my throat tightens in protest. And I stalk down the sidewalk, undeterred by my reflection in the neighboring buildings that clearly point out I look like Medusa after a five-week bender.
Before I know it, my palms are splayed on the glass door of the Torian restaurant and I’m pushing my way inside.
Heads turn in my direction, the curious stares of strangers kicking my insanity back a notch.
I’m making a mistake.
I shouldn’t be here. But neither should these people.
“Table for one?” A suit-clad young man approaches me, his smile more of a troubled grimace.
This guy knows crazy when he sees it, and I’m sure he’s getting an eyeful looking at me.
“No… Thanks.” I glance around the lavish restaurant, hating the sparkling cutlery and immaculate tablecloths. It’s too pure. “I’ll take a seat at the bar.”
I start toward the place in question.
One drink and I’ll leave. I’ll douse my roller-coaster blood pressure with a taste of liquor and be on my way.
“Excuse me, miss.” He rushes after me. “I’m sorry, but we only provide table service. There’s no seating at the bar.”
I stop dead in my tracks and try to ignore the irritating tic plucking the skin at the top of my left cheek. This poor schmuck is going to be the i
“Miss?” he repeats. “Let me seat you at a table.”
“I don’t want a table.”
I won’t be another nameless, faceless customer.
I turn to face him, pulling my badge from the inside pocket of my suit jacket. “FBI.” I force a fake smile. “I’m going to take a seat at the bar.”
He straightens, his back turning ramrod. “Okay… Sure.” He nods, over and over. “Go ahead.”
“Thank you.” I keep my lips gently curved. I’m sure it exudes goodwill and peace to all as I eye those in the vicinity who think I’m the latest live-stream entertainment. “I appreciate the hospitality.”
I continue to the back corner, to the beautifully crafted wooden bar with its shelves lined with expensive bottles of liquor. But the host was right; there’s not a damn stool in sight. Not even one.
I slide my badge along the counter and make eye contact with the slick-haired bartender cutting up limes, letting him know I’m taking all the liberties my badge will afford me. “A mimosa, please.”
He pauses his task to wipe his hand on his black slacks. “You realize we—”
“Don’t do bar service? Yeah. I get it.” I tap my badge. “Today, you’re making an exception.”
He quirks a brow, a
“We don’t see a lot of your type around here.” He adds orange juice to my glass and then slides it over.
“My type? You mean federal agents?”
“No.” He grins. “I mean disheveled women who start drinking—” He checks his watch. “—before noon.”
Before noon? Okay, so time hasn’t slid by as fast as I thought, but they’re already doing lunch service which means it can’t be far off. “I’m getting in before the rush.”
I grab my drink and turn to rest my back against the counter while I take the first sip. The bubbles explode on my tongue, the sugary sweetness a welcomed reprieve against my sore throat.
I contemplate addressing the room in a come-to-Jesus speech about the dangers of drugs and how supporting local crime only increases their reach. I think of how I’ll shock them into losing their appetites as my delicate sips turn into large gulps.
I’m throwing back the last drops of alcoholic goodness when the bartender takes residence in my peripheral vision and asks, “Another?”
“Yeah.” Fuck it. Why should I leave? “Keep ’em coming.”
I’m not doing anything wrong by being here. The restaurant won’t be on Cole’s radar when he has his father’s escape to occupy him. He’s probably out living it up with his psychotic family. Drinking their own alcoholic beverages in celebration instead of commiseration.
Good for him.
Cole won this round fair and square. He poked and prodded until he gained my attention. Then he made a complete and utter fool out of me for giving him even a slight second of my day.
He’d insisted on talking to me. He wasn’t going to take no for an answer.
First, he attempted to charm his way in, then he teased my curiosity with his uncharacteristic behavior. He didn’t give up, his determination entirely subtle in the moment, but fucking obvious in hindsight.
Goddammit.
How many times had he glanced at his watch? On alert. Waiting.
He was counting down the minutes until his father was out of custody so he could cut and run.
He could’ve used any public place for his alibi. Anywhere with surveillance and a constant stream of witnesses would’ve worked.
Instead, he’d deliberately sought me out, kept me distracted, and ensured I didn’t answer my phone.
Fucking asshole.
I gulp at my second mimosa, downing the contents like a shot as a waitress walks in my direction, her gaze deliberately skirting mine. She continues by me with a guilty look on her face and stops at the opening of the bar to wave the bartender toward her.
She pulls him close and whispers in his ear, her eyes darting in my direction every few seconds.
Subtle. Real fucking subtle.
The bartender doesn’t react, his face not giving a hint to their conversation apart from telling me it’s all about little ol' me. He nods. Whispers. Nods again. Then the woman walks away, her face downcast.
Interesting.
I slow my consumption, taking smaller sips, and watch the guy go back to his chore of chopping limes. Something has changed. Something that could be entirely based on my paranoia. Or maybe not.
He’s stiff in the shoulders. His cuts are slower. His face is deliberately blank.
I glance around the restaurant, my gaze latching onto the host at the door. His eyes widen when I catch him staring at me, then he quickly looks away. I frown, and focus on the nearest employee. A waitress. She places a plate of food down in front of a customer, but her attention is on me. At least until we lock eyes then, just like the guy at the door, she quickly averts her gaze.
Even more interesting.
I take another sip as I continue my scrutiny and lock eye after eye, only to have every staff member show fear at the co
“Can I have another, please?” I place the flute on the bar, my fingers resting on the stem.
“Are you sure?” The bartender’s brows are pulled tight in a wince. “Why don’t you take a breather and I’ll go out back and find you a stool?”
I cock my head, studying him. “I don’t need a breather. And I’m okay without a stool.”
He scrubs his hands on his pants again and clears his throat. “Look, ma’am, I’m sorry, but I’ve been told I can’t serve you another drink.”
I continue to analyze the slight change to his expression. The discomfort. The uncertainty. But it’s my own curiosity taking precedence. “I’m not drunk. Why am I being refused service?”
“I… Um…” He glances toward the swinging doors leading to the kitchen. “I’m not sure. I’m just told the order came from management.”
I don’t react.
Instead, I think.
I put two and two together and pretend the addition hasn’t resulted in a lotto win.