3
WILL
Three weeks. She's been here three weeks, and I've memorized every version of her smile—the fake one for customers, the tired one for Cole, and the real one that slips out when she forgets to be afraid.
That last one is rare. A flash of teeth, a brightness in her eyes that disappears almost as soon as it arrives, like she catches herself enjoying something and has to shut it down. I've seen it maybe four times. Once when Nash told a terrible joke about a priest and a motorcycle. Once when she finally untangled Darla's filing system and realized the whole thing had been organized by zodiac sign. Once when a stray cat wandered into the bar and she spent ten minutes coaxing it close enough to pet.
The fourth time was yesterday, when I brought her coffee without being asked and she looked up at me like I'd handed her something precious.
I'm keeping track. I shouldn't be keeping track.
Friday nights at the Ironside are always busy, but tonight the crowd has an edge to it. The Mariners lost a game they should have won, and half the bar is drowning their disappointment while the other half argues about what went wrong. Rain hammers against the windows in sheets, the kind ofcoastal Oregon downpour that turns the streets into rivers and keeps people inside longer than they planned. The noise runs somewhere between lively and chaotic, and I move through the room more than usual, checking temperatures, defusing small tensions before they become big ones.
Two guys near the pool table are getting heated over a disputed shot. I drift close enough to catch their attention, don't say anything, just let them register my presence. The argument dies down. That's usually all it takes. Most people don't actually want to fight. They just need a reason to back off without losing face.
Gemma works behind the bar with Cole, pulling drafts and mixing simple cocktails. She's gotten better at this over the past few weeks, her movements more confident, her interactions with customers easier. The tremor in her hands has mostly stopped, though I still catch it sometimes late in the evening when she thinks no one's watching.
I'm always watching. That's the problem.
The man at the end of the bar has been nursing the same whiskey for twenty minutes, which would be fine except he's been staring at Gemma for nineteen of them. Mid-forties, decent looking in a forgettable way, wearing clothes that cost more than they should for a Friday night at a neighborhood bar. Tourist, probably. Or someone passing through on business. Either way, he's got that look I recognize—the one that says he's used to getting what he wants and doesn't hear no very often.
Gemma approaches him to check if he needs anything else, and his hand moves to her forearm before she can step back. It's casual, proprietary, the kind of touch that could seem friendly if you're not paying attention. But I'm paying attention, and I see the way her shoulders tighten, the way her smile goes fixed and professional.
"I'm good for now, sweetheart." His voice carries. "But maybe you could keep me company when things slow down? I'm in town until tomorrow. Could use a local to show me around."
Gemma extracts her arm with a smoothness that speaks to practice. "I'm working tonight, but I appreciate the offer. Let me know if you need a refill."
She walks away, and to anyone else it would look like a perfectly handled interaction. A polite rejection, no drama, everyone saves face. Her hand shakes as she reaches for a glass, though, and her breathing comes too deep, too deliberate.
I make my way toward the end of the bar, taking my time, stopping to clear a few empty bottles from a table. By the time I reach the tourist, he's finished his whiskey and is flagging Gemma down for another.
"I've got this one." I step behind the bar, positioning myself between him and Gemma without making it obvious. "What are you drinking?"
His eyes narrow slightly, recalculating. I'm bigger than him by a good four inches and fifty pounds, and I'm not smiling.
"Woodford Reserve. Neat."
I pour the drink and set it in front of him. "Passing through?"
"Business trip." He picks up the glass but doesn't drink, watching me over the rim. "Nice place you've got here. Friendly staff."
"We try." I lean against the back bar, casual, relaxed, taking up space. "Most of our regulars are good people. We look out for each other around here. The staff especially."
The message lands. His jaw tightens. He sets down his drink a little too carefully.
"Just being friendly," he says.
"I'm sure you were." I hold his gaze a beat longer than comfortable. "Enjoy your drink."
I move away before it becomes a confrontation. That's not what I want. I just want him to understand that Gemma isn't alone here, that someone's paying attention, that whatever he thought might happen tonight isn't going to happen.
He finishes his whiskey in two long swallows and leaves a twenty on the bar. Doesn't look at Gemma again on his way out. The door swings shut behind him, letting in a gust of cold, rain-scented air.
Gemma catches my eye from across the bar. She doesn't say anything, doesn't mouth a thank you or acknowledge what just happened. She just looks at me for a long moment, and her expression catches me off guard. Then she turns back to a customer waiting for a refill, and the moment passes.
But I felt it. I'm still feeling it.
The rest of the night passes without incident. The crowd thins around midnight, and by one-thirty we're down to a handful of diehards and the cleanup crew. Cole handles last call while Nash wipes down tables and I start the register count in the back office.
