A genuine smile broke through my professional mask. “What’s her name?”
“Keisha Jackson.”
“Shut up. I remember Keisha! Brilliant writer. Is she still pursuing a journalism degree?”
“Yes, ma’am, interning at the Atlanta Voice now.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“Oh, excuse me, duty calls.” Mark stepped away to tend to the other customers.
That connection warmed me more than the whiskey. I went back to my notes, jotting down ideas. Then I felt someone watching me. I was used to being noticed, but this felt like someone recognized me.
I glanced up casually, scanning the bar through the mirror rather than turning around directly. There was Chief Ronan Banks, in the flesh, considerably more handsome in person than on his billboards.
He sat alone at a high-top table, nursing what looked like bourbon. Even relaxed, one arm resting on the table, the other wrapped around his glass, he had the contained energy of someone who never fully powered down.
Our eyes met in the mirror, and I felt a jolt. His eyes were steady. Neither of us smiled. I knew who he was, and he knew me, not personally, but the way public figures knew their critics. I had called out his policies on my podcast, pointing out the gap between his smooth words and his department’s actions. I had questioned if his role as a Black man leading a historically oppressive institution was real progress or just good PR.
And based on the slight tightening around his eyes and the straightening of his spine, he’d heard every word.
I broke first, dropping my gaze back to my notebook, cursing the heat that crawled up my neck. It wasn’t embarrassment; I stood by every criticism I’d made. It was strange seeing him in person, like meeting a character who’d stepped out of a book. Suddenly, he was three-dimensional and breathing the same air.
I forced myself to write something, anything.
“You good?” Mark asked.
I closed my notebook, suddenly needing air that didn’t require unspoken words. “Yeah. Just hit a wall. Think I need to call it a night.”
Though I didn’t move to gather my things, instead, I took another sip of whiskey and forced my attention to the basketballgame on the TV above the bar, hyperaware of the man at the high-top table doing the same. Both of us pretending we weren’t acutely conscious of the other’s presence. Both of us probably wondering what the other was thinking.
And both of us too stubborn to be the first to walk away.
2
CHIEF RONAN BANKS
The Monarch Bar was where I went to relax after work. It was nice enough that people kept to themselves, but not so fancy that my uniform felt out of place. Tonight, I just wanted to be Ronan Banks, not the man everyone saw on billboards.
“Starting without me?”
I looked up as Todd sat down next to me. His salt and pepper hair and the lines on his face showed his thirty years on the force. Captain Todd Jordan had been my mentor since I started and was now my right hand. He’d turned down the chief job three times, but he was the only person in the department I trusted completely.
I gestured to the bartender. “Bourbon for my friend. Neat. I figured you weren’t coming.”
Todd ran his hand over his close-cropped hair. “Traffic was a mess on Fifth.”
The bartender put Todd’s drink in front of him and walked away without saying anything.
Todd leaned back on his stool, his usual serious look replaced by a relaxed grin. “You know, I’ve been thinking about yourcabin. We should go for a weekend and get away from all this madness.”
I chuckled and sipped my bourbon. “So, you want me to join you and Sandra on a couple’s retreat? I’m not sure I can relax with all your romantic hooting and hollering at night.”
“Hey, it doesn’t have to be all candlelight and wine. We can fish, hike, and have some beers by the fire. Just good company.”
“You’re trying to sell me on my own cabin like it’s a timeshare,” I joked, though the idea of getting away from work sounded good.
“Come on, Ro. You need this. Just one night away from the bullshit. You spend too much time in your own head. How about it?”
