"Scotch," he said finally. His voice was whiskey and gravel, the kind that would sound good saying terrible things. "Neat."
"Any particular brand?" I was already reaching for the top shelf. Something about him suggested expensive tastes.
"Surprise me." A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Bunny."
The way he said my name made it sound like he knew it was fake. Like he was playing along with a game whose rules he hadn't quite figured out yet.
I poured him Macallan 18, watching him watch me work. Most men's gazes felt like oil spills, something to be cleaned up later. His felt like assessment. Calculation. Recognition of something kindred.
"Interesting name," he said when I set the glass down. "Your parents big Playboy fans, or is it a stage name?"
"Oh, it's definitely a stage name." I gave him my brightest smile, the one that made people unconsciously step back. "My parents called me something much less fun. But Bunny suits me better, don't you think?"
He took a sip, eyes never leaving mine. "I think you're whatever you need to be."
The words hit somewhere deep, somewhere that recognized truth even through layers of conditioning. I was whatever I needed to be. Had been since that morning on the highway, creating myself from fragments and necessities.
"That's very philosophical for," I glanced at the clock, "3:17 on a Thursday. Rough day at the office?"
"Something like that." He set the glass down with careful precision. Everything about him was careful, I realized.Controlled. Like he was constantly calculating three moves ahead. "You always work Thursdays?"
"Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays. Sometimes other days if we're short-staffed." I wiped down the already-clean bar, needing something to do with my hands. "Are you going to become one of my regulars? I should warn you, I remember everything about my regulars. It's a blessing and a curse."
"Everything?" That almost-smile again. "That must make for interesting conversations."
"You have no idea." I thought about Gregory in the basement, his secrets extracted and catalogued. About David-or-Daniel in the tunnels, teaching me about demonstrations even as he came apart. "I'm very good at getting people to talk about themselves."
"I bet you are." He took another sip. "Though something tells me you're better at deflecting than sharing."
Smart. Too smart. I felt that familiar tension between attraction and danger, the sweet spot where everything became sharp and clear.
"Sharing's overrated," I said. "People think they want to know each other, but really they just want to project their own stories onto blank screens. Much easier to stay mysterious."
"Spoken like someone with practice." He tilted his head, studying me like I was a puzzle with missing pieces. "How long have you been tending bar?"
"Six months, give or take." I glanced at the other customers, making sure no one needed immediate attention. The happy hour crowd was self-sustaining for now. "You? How long have you been whatever it is you do that requires day drinking in expensive suits?"
"Longer than six months." He didn't elaborate, which I respected. "You like it? The job?"
"Love it!" And I did, in a way. "I meet such interesting people. Learn all sorts of fascinating things. Plus Matt is a great boss. Very understanding about flexible scheduling."
Something shifted in his expression at Matt's name. Recognition? Calculation? He covered it by finishing his scotch, but I'd already catalogued the tell.
"Another?" I asked.
"Better not." He pulled out a black card, the kind without limits. "But I'll be back tomorrow."
"Same time, same seat?" I ran his card, noting the name: Nathan Cross. Generic enough to be fake, real enough to pass inspection.
"If it's available." He signed the receipt with a signature that looked practiced in its illegibility. "Wouldn't want to disrupt your regular evening plans."
There was weight to the words that made me wonder what he knew. What he suspected. But I kept my smile bright and my voice lighter.
"My evenings are very boring, I promise. Usually just me and my hobbies."
"Hobbies." He stood, and I realized he was taller than I'd thought. Six-two, maybe six-three. The kind of height that could make a girl feel small if she wasn't careful. "Let me guess - scrapbooking? Knitting? Volunteer work at the animal shelter?"
"Close!" I laughed, and it almost sounded real. "I collect patterns. You know, connecting dots, finding hidden pictures in random data. Very nerdy stuff."
