Jake leans in and drops his voice. I can smell the beer on his breath. “Good. I was hoping he wasn’t some boyfriend I’d have to steal you away from.”
My stomach churns, but I force a lighthearted laugh and flutter my eyelashes at him like I’m some flirty goddamn teenager. “No stealing necessary.”
He winks. “Need another drink?”
I pretend to think about it for a second. “Maybe a shot. But only if you’ll do one with me. Idoneed a proper welcome to town, after all.”
“In that case, are you down for a double?”
“Someone likes to party,” I tease. “But sure.”
His smile widens, and he pours us each a shot. I don’t miss the way his gaze flicks to the side, the way he mutters something to the other bartender who smirks and nods before walking over to Ambrose, who is holding up his empty glass in silent request for another drink.
I reach down and rummage through my purse, pretending to look for something and subtly palming thesmall bag of powder I’d hidden there earlier. My distraction gives Jake the opportunity he’s looking for. In my peripheral vision, I notice the sly slip of his hand as he drops a tablet into the shot glass.
He sets the shots down in front of us, pushing mine directly in front of me, but before I take it, I lift my empty can of cider.
“Could you grab me another cider too? I didn’t realize I finished this one, and I don’t think I can take a shot without a chaser.”
He glances down at the shot glasses, checking to make sure they’re clearly separated and on their respective sides of the bar.
As soon as his back is turned, I channel the energy from the necklace to obscure my actions as I dump the powder—one of my old Xanax pills I had crushed earlier in preparation for this very moment—into my shot glass before quickly swapping it with Jake’s.
But even with the obscurity I’m channeling, Ambrose’s eyes burn a hole in the side of my head.
That’s fine. Let the asshole watch. It’s not like he has any room to judge.
Jake returns with my cider, and I flash him a sweet smile as I lift my shot glass. The predatory gleam in his eyes makes my stomach churn, but my nausea is subdued by the fact that he’ll soon be getting a taste of his own medicine, so to speak.
And I’ll probably need the whiskey to deal with whatever comes next.
I clink glasses with Jake, and as I throw back the shot, I can’t help but think,this is it. This is where it begins. My descent into evil.
How do I do this without losing myself? Without becoming a monster like Ambrose?
You’re doing this for a good reason, I remind myself. He’s not only been drugging and sexually assaulting unsuspecting women, but getting away with it. And while I know that any one person being judge, jury, and executioner isn’t ideal when it comes to enacting justice, my options are limited.
As I watch him and note the satisfied, predatory gleam in his eyes, I know that this is the right target. This is a man with malevolence in his heart.
Who’s to say he won’t change? The voice in the back of my head asks. What if he becomes a good person in the future and expresses guilt and remorse for what he’s done?
I shake the thought away. I can ask myself “what if” questions all night, but the truth of the matter is, men like him have already caused more harm than they could possibly atone for in the future. Becoming a better person in the future doesn’t erase one’s past transgressions no matter how much regret they might have.
“I’ll be right back,” Jake says when a woman at the end of the bar calls him over. “Don’t go anywhere,” he adds with a wink. “I still want to get to know you better.”
Yeah, I bet you do.
I don’t know how long it’ll take the combination of drugs to kick in alongside the alcohol, but I don’t figure it’ll be too long. Maybe half an hour. My Xanax prescription was a high dose, meant to be taken as needed for the occasional panic attacks. That, combined with whatever he spiked the drink with alongside the alcohol will make for a pretty potent cocktail.
As I let my gaze wander around the bar, I accidentally lock eyes with Ambrose. He’s staring at me.
I narrow my eyes at him, but his expression doesn’t change. He simply raises a glass toward me in mock salute then takes a sip.
Jake returns to me a couple minutes after closing some tabs. He props his elbows on the bar and leans in too close.
“So, how are you getting home?” he asks. “I don’t think you should be driving after drinking this much.”
“I don’t know. I didn’t plan on drinking this much.” In reality, I’ve had two ciders and a shot over the course of a couple hours, but that’s not really what he cares about anyway. He’s anticipating that, at any minute, I’ll be feeling a lot less sober than I expected to. That’s when he’ll swoop in and save the day.
