He relaxed, somewhat buying my excuse.
A man walked in and Bobby tracked him to the far end of the bar. “That guy’s a regular. I gotta go take his order. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“I don’t expect you to babysit me,” I said. “Go do your job.” I took another sip, then eyed the bottles behind the bar, experiencing a moment of shock when I realized I hadn’t felt a craving for whiskey as soon as I walked into the place. I had a craving now, but it seemed like a win that I’d been here at least five minutes before thinking about it.
I glanced down the bar to check out the other patrons. There was a middle-aged couple, their heads bent close together. A few stools away from them sat a couple of men in rich-looking suits, sipping what looked like whiskey or bourbon. Top shelf, probably. Then my gaze drifted to the guy at the end of the bar, and I froze.
I knew him.
Detective Brad Huffington with the Little Rock Police Department. He was one of Keith’s good friends.
I had a moment of horror, fearing that he’d see me and say something, then I remembered I was currently unrecognizable.
Bobby poured his drink—definitely a high-dollar, top-shelf whiskey—when another man walked in through the door and headed straight for Brad.
My heart stuck in my chest, because I recognized him too.
Keith Kemper. My ex.
Keith sidled up to him and ordered a drink. Bobby poured him the top-shelf whiskey too, and I had to wonder why two Little Rock detectives would be getting expensive whiskey after midnight on a weeknight.
The men took their drinks to a booth across the room.
Bobby made his way back to me, checking on his other customers along the way.
When he leaned on the bar again, I said, “Do you know those guys?”
He looked surprised. “Yeah. Brad and Keith. They’re regulars.”
“Do they always get expensive whiskey?”
He looked surprised. “Yeah. I guess so.”
“Do they always meet each other here, or do they come alone? Or with other people?”
“What’s with the twenty questions, Harp?—”
I pressed my finger against his lips, and I lowered my voice. “Call me Amber.”
He made a face. “Seems like you’re takin’ this new persona a little too seriously.”
I leaned closer. “That guy, Keith? He used to be my partner.”
“An ex-boyfriend?”
“And my detective partner.”
Panic washed over his face, and he lowered his face about a foot from mine and hissed, “He’s a cop?”
“The other guy too. They’re detectives. And friends.”
He watched them for a few seconds before he tore his gaze away. “What do you think they’re doin’ here?”
“Could be two friends grabbing a drink together,” I said, then I took a sip of my ginger ale, disappointed it wasn’t whiskey.
“Do you believe that?” he asked skeptically.
“I don’t know. Seems a little late for a friendly high-dollar drink.” I took another sip. “Especially since Keith usually likes to go to bed by ten.”
