He was just suggesting work drinks. And Ihadpulled off one of my biggest professional accomplishments to date. Maybe I deserved to let loose. After all, I knew what my night would look like if I said no: I’d go home to my apartment, curl up under a blanket, and watch the bold women in my favorite romances lead lives full of adventure. When I’d finally soothed my longing for companionship, or at least taken the edge off my loneliness, I’d click the lights and go to bed. Same as every night.
Maybe I could try something different, this once.
“You know what,” I said, sitting up and smoothing my pants. “Tonight, I think I’m free.”
16
The Hideaway
The instant we pulled up to the small building on the dark street,thunder boomed so loud it rattled the Town Car’s windows. The sky split open, letting loose a sheet of rain.
Logan leaned over me to peer out the window. “It’s a monsoon.”
Our driver, an older man whose name I’d learned was Nigel, nodded. “The news reported strange weather patterns in the area.” He eyed us in the rearview and spoke excitedly, giving off big dad-whose-weather-channel-watching-has-finally-paid-off energy. “They’re saying the hot and cold air has been gusting up unpredictably. Opposite forces coming together. We’re in for a ride tonight. Maybe the thunderstorm of the year.”
I’d be drenched the minute I stepped outside. These heels werenotmade for walking, especially in a flood.
Beside me, Logan laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“First the lightning storm, now this.”
“You’re laughing because whoever’s in charge of the universe hates us? Bold move, angering her further.”
“I’m laughing because there are still people who say climate change isn’t real. Take one look outside, fuckers. We’ve had more storms in the past few months than we usually have all year.”
“What did I tell you about swearing?” Nigel asked, wagging his finger.
“I’m not putting dollars in a swear jar, Nigel. I’d be broke in a week.”
I shook my head. “You and my sister are the only two people I know who laugh maniacally at bad weather.”
“You want to make a break for it?” He glanced down at my feet. “Or I can carry you if you’re worried about slipping.” He must’ve read my expression, because he said, “Yeesh. Fine, too soon.”
“Run on three. One, two—”
Logan burst out of the door and sprinted toward the bar, hands shielding his face.
“You didn’t wait,” I screeched, scrambling after him, then doubling back when I realized I forgot to shut the car door. “You monster!”
The rain was ice-cold. It took less than a second to soak through my clothes entirely, which I knew because there’s no mistaking the feel of rainwater in your underwear. I stilt-walked as fast as I could to the entrance, where Logan stood under a green-and-white awning, holding the door open. He ushered me in and swung the door shut, and suddenly the pounding rain was replaced by the melancholic strings of a country song as the lights and warmth of the bar enveloped us.
The handful of bar patrons stopped talking to stare. I glanced at Logan and understood why—besides being a semifamous person, he currently looked like a six-foot-two drowned rat. I could only imagine what a sight I must be. My navy pantsuit clung to me like a second skin, and when I squeezed my hair, a small waterfall poured down. I waited for someone to recognize Logan and call him over, but all the bar patrons simply went back to their business.
“Come on,” he said, nodding to the bar. I followed him, studying the place. It was tiny, no more than ten tables, and everything was made of old weathered wood. It was a dive, and not the trendy kind the hipsters had made popular on the east side. This was old-school, a dingy dartboard in one corner, a beat-up jukebox in the other, and old sepia photographs of men in cowboy hats lining the walls.
At the bar, a middle-aged guy in pearl snaps stood rinsing glasses. “Hey Jimmy, you care that we’re dripping all over your floor?”
The bartender grunted and tossed Logan a single cocktail napkin. I guessed that meant no.
“It’s mostly whiskey and beer here,” Logan said, handing me the napkin. I took it gratefully, dabbing under my eyes. When I pulled it back, I noticed a simple logo scrawled across the center: The Hideaway. How appropriate that this was Logan’s favorite bar. The man was a hideaway himself. He managed to be at once so public—literally, his opinions splashed in news coverage across the state—and yet so private, his innermost feelings closed to everyone. I especially couldn’t seem to get a read on him.
As I was preparing to order, all the lights in the bar blinked out. A wave of groans echoed from the tables.
“Don’t worry,” Jimmy boomed. A match sparked as he lit a candle, placing it at the end of the bar. “Been open thirty years. No storm’s gonna stop us now. I’m still slinging if you’re still buying.” He lit a second candle and placed it under Logan’s face. The light danced over him like he was sitting around a campfire.
“You sure you want to stick around?” Logan asked. “I understand if you don’t.”
