Chapter 1
Aubrey
THE ALIBI
Saturday, October 10
With a single nod of my head, the bartender reaches for the bottle of gin. The crowd has steadily increased in the forty-five minutes I’ve occupied this barstool, and I’m thankful the place was relatively empty when I arrived. These old wood floors really sell the honky-tonk vibe, but they practically attacked me the second I walked into the room. I nearly took out a waiter and his tray of drinks, along with a couple of patrons whose only mistake was being too close to me when my three-inch heel got stuck between two boards. There are a few things I’ll miss from my time here, but these shoes aren’t one of them.
The second Negroni of the night appears in front of me. “Wanna order food?”
Glancing at the bartender’s name tag, I say, “No thanks, Ray. Just drinking tonight.”
He moves to the cooler and pulls out two Ultras for the girl who has wedged herself between my seat and the one next to me while I brace myself for that first sip. I get a thimbleful down without cringing. An improvement.
“You sure I’m making it right?”
I have Ray’s full attention, the two beers forgotten in his hand. Maybe I wasn’t as composed as I thought I was.
When I ordered my first cocktail, he was surprised by my choice. This crowd looks like they lean more toward well drinks and shots when ordering hard liquor.
“Yes, it’s just right.” And it’s made exactly the way it should be. It’s not his fault I hate gin. I lift the glass and take a healthy swig, praying I don’t have to wobble my way to the ladies’ room to throw it back up.
He seems satisfied and turns his attention back to the girl, exchanging the two bottles for some crumpled bills.
Tapping my phone screen, I see it’s only been seven minutes since the last time I checked. I need to stay at least another hour. If only I could stir my drink in the same way I would push unwanted food around my plate so I could spare Ray’s feelings.
The couple on my right drops a few bucks on the bar before taking their leave, but the stool next to me is only empty for a second or two.
“Miller Lite,” the man says when Ray asks for his order.
He takes a deep drink as soon as it’s set in front of him. “What a fucking day,” he mumbles to himself, then runs a hand down his face.
God, do I know that feeling. I could say the exact same thing about the day I’ve had. I know what was rough about mine, but I’m biting my tongue so I don’t ask him about his. I remind myself I didn’t come herefor idle chitchat with strangers, no matter how antsy I am for this night to be over.
The man turns in my direction as if summoned by the questions slamming against my tightly closed lips. His gaze sweeps across me, and I pull my hand off the bar and bury it in my lap before he has a chance to spot the rather large diamond solitaire and platinum band on my left ring finger.
Instead of analyzing the motive behind that impulse, I swivel around on my stool. My back is to the bar as I take in the scene in front of me. Smoke clouds the already dim lighting, making everything look a bit hazy.
It’s only a few seconds before he mirrors my move. There’s at least a couple of feet between us, but sitting here like this, next to him, feels oddly intimate.
In desperate need of a distraction to pass this last bit of time, I lean toward him and ask, “Have you heard this band before?”
Spotlights highlight the trio of instruments on the tiny stage in the corner of the room. The band finished setting up just after I arrived but has since wandered to the end of the bar, where they’ve held court with a group of girls here for a bachelorette party. From the looks of it, it doesn’t seem likeLive Musicwill happen anytime soon.
“I haven’t.” His voice is deep and rich. Nodding toward the three pool tables at the other end of the room, he says, “Most people come here to play pool and drink, not listen to the band.” There are lines of stacked quarters down the side rails of each pool table staking claim on future games. Looks like you’ve got to get here pretty early if you want a chance to play. He adds, “Gary, the owner, has the worst taste in music, so I wouldn’t get your hopes up that they’re any good.”
I steal peeks of the stranger next to me while he watches the gameclosest to us. We look like we’re about the same age, so I’m guessing he’s a few years shy of thirty. He’s attractive but still seems approachable, which is the best combination. His deeply tanned face and rough hands tell me he doesn’t work in an office, but the pressed button-down says he likes to look good when he’s off work. No wedding ring. Nice watch. Altogether, it’s a pretty good package.
He eyes the drink in front of me. It’s still mostly full but clearly watered down now that the ice has melted and a river of condensation has soaked the napkin under my glass.
“You want something else to drink?” He angles toward me and I do the same until we’re almost facing each other.
“I can’t order anything else,” I say with a shrug.
His head tilts as he analyzes my words. “But I can order something else for you.” It’s not a question.
My eyes fall on the bottle resting in his grip.
