And I had a defensible back — no one could approach from behind without passing directly in front of me.
Strategic.
I slid onto the stool and adjusted my posture to appear relaxed.
The bartender — tall, tattooed sleeves running down both arms, hair tied into a loose man bun — worked quickly, barely glancing up as he prepared drinks.
He didn’t question my presence.
Good.
Blending in meant not inviting attention.
Someone shifted from the stool immediately to my right.
Before I could register the movement fully —
A man settled into the seat.
Close.
Too close.
I turned my head slightly.
Late fifties.
Silver threaded through dark hair.
Expensive charcoal blazer over a black shirt with the top buttons undone.
A heavy gold watch wrapped around his wrist — its surface catching and reflecting the club’s flashing lights.
My chest tightened.
Recognition slammed into me like impact.
Vasquez.
My father.
Eleven years.
Eleven years since I had seen that profile.
Eleven years since the morning his supposed plane crash was reported.
Eleven years since I had been told he died.
I had been fifteen. Grieving. Confused.
Suddenly homeless when an estate lawyer arrived at our house with papers and ordered me removed from the property.
I remembered standing in the driveway as movers packed away furniture.
I remembered screaming that it wasn’t legal.
I remembered believing my father had left me nothing but abandonment.
