He looks disturbed. And something else—protective? Worried? Like I just asked about someone’s abusive ex and he’s calculating how fast he can get me out of here before something bad happens.
“You should leave.” His voice is flat. Final. He starts wiping down the counter even though it’s already spotless.
“I haven’t finished my drink.” I pull out cash from my pocket—a twenty, which is either too much or not enough for whatever game we’re playing.
“On the house if you leave.” He doesn’t look at me. Just keeps wiping. Wiping nothing. Avoiding eye contact.
“I’m not leaving.” I drop the twenty on the bar.
He stops wiping. Looks at the twenty. Looks at me.
Then rolls his eyes in a way that somehow conveys bothyou’re an idiotandI respect the commitment.
“Listen. I don’t know what you’re trying to get yourself into but it’s not him?—”
And that’s when he makes a mistake.
His eyes flicker. Just for a second. To a booth in the far corner.
I spin around so fast I nearly fall off the stool.
The booth is closed. Green velvet curtains drawn tight, hiding whoever—or whatever—is behind them.
Except.
The curtains are moving.
Fluttering. Like there’s a breeze.
Only there’s no breeze. The air up here is still and thick and heavy with smoke. No windows open. No vents blowing. Nothing.
Just those curtains, moving on their own.
The ring burns against my chest. Hot. Sudden.
My skin prickles. That same feeling from the murder board.
No. Not doing this. Not here.
My breath catches. The curtains shouldn’t be moving. There’s no breeze up here.
I swallow hard and turn back to the bartender, but he’s already staring at me with an intensity that makes my skin crawl.
“If your mother told you not to touch a hot stove, do you touch it?” His voice is low. Urgent.
“No.” I draw the word out slowly, my brain trying to catch up to what’s happening.
“I’m telling you not to touch the hot stove.” He leans forward, his knuckles white where they’re gripping the bar towel.
“I know not to touch the hot stove,” I tell him slowly, understanding dawning. The hot stove isn’t the booth. It’s whoever is in that booth. “But that’s exactly why I’m here.”
“Then why are you asking me?” His jaw works like he’s chewing words he can’t say. “You already know he’s dangerous. You already know you shouldn’t be here. So why?—”
“Who was he with last week?” I press, knowing it will likely get me kicked out. Knowing I’m pushing too hard. Knowing I don’t care.
Fuck it. I’m in here. I’m asking the questions.
Or I could just... go over there. Walk right up to that fluttering curtain and pull it back.
