This was all I had ever wanted. To relax and have complete control, but also no objective. To just be free.
And then…
I got restless.
For what, I couldn’t say. But it felt like I was due for something to happen. Something always did—my father could never leave me alone for long at the house.
Someone was bound to come out of the building and tell me to leave. A cop would probably recognize me and ask me about my father’s whereabouts. A Reaper would pick me up and bring me back to Cole.
No, I didn’t have evidence for these fears. No, I couldn’t rationalize them. But…
I looked down the block. On the far end, a bit removed from all the other buildings, was a sign that said “Tom’s Billiards.” It looked open. And, judging by what information popped up on my maps app, it served alcohol.
Well, I had never before had a drink on a weekday afternoon. Maybe that was strange, maybe it wasn’t, but it felt like the kind of thing I should have done by now in my life. It was time to exercise my freedom and have a literal taste of some vices. I walked to the billiards bar.
Outside, one motorcycle and one car were parked, but otherwise, the place was devoid of vehicles even in adjacent lots. I knew that the motorcycle didn’t belong to a Fallen Saint—the blood painting on such bikes were impossible to miss, for even a blind eye could not have ignored them—but whether it belonged to a Reaper or someone else was beyond me.
And honestly, it made no real difference to me.
I opened the door, took one step inside, and scanned the room. Booths ran from the front to the rear and then along the back, like an L shape. To the far left was the bar, perhaps about fifteen feet from me. One man sat there, a beautiful red-haired girl behind the bar. The girl looked like she had dyed her hair that color, for it clashed with the rest of her face.
But then my eyes readjusted back to the man. He had on a biker cut—one that said “Gray Reapers” on the back, with a bony finger pointed my way and a gray hood around it.
“Hello,” the bartender said in a friendly voice. “What can I get you?”
I walked forward, knowing I wasn’t doing anything wrong but still somehow feeling like I had descended into the wrong type of place. I took a seat at the far end of the bar, cautious to give the biker space.
“Uh, just a margarita, please,” I said, my voice shaky.
I hadn’t given this any thought. I didn’t even know the full ingredient list for a margarita. I just wanted to sound like I’d been in a bar and ordered my own drink before.
“Absolutely,” the bartender said, before leaning close to the man and whispering something in his ear. I kept my eyes straight ahead, transfixed on the various bottles of alcohol. I knew some of them well, thanks to my father owning them, but as far as what the individual differences were? What, for example, was Skyy like compared to Gray Goose?
I knew nothing.
I have a lot to learn about freedom.
“You look familiar.”
With extreme anxiety, I turned toward the biker who had spoken my name. He did, unfortunately, look familiar. He was one of the other two bikers with Cole from last night.
I didn’t say anything. I turned my attention back to the bar rack, hoping that ignorance would work in this spot.
“Are you just going to ignore me?” he said. “I know who you are—”
“No, you don’t,” I snapped. “No one does.”
The forcefulness of my words caught him off-guard. It had to have; it caught me off-guard.
“And that’s how I like it.”
The bartender placed the finished margarita in front of me. I took a sip. It was strong. I made a contorted face like someone had punched me.
“Do you want me to remake it?”
“Don’t do it for the daughter of—”
“It’s fine,” I said. “It’s... it’s fine.”
