“Everybody around here knows him,” I say. “Half the town is terrified of the Iron Reapers and the other half pretends they’re not.”
“And you?”
I grin. “I work in a bar, Cole. I stopped being easily intimidated a long time ago.”
He studies me again, quieter this time. “You weren’t scared earlier either.”
I shrug. “I had a feeling you had it handled.”
“And if I didn’t?”
“Then I would’ve grabbed a baseball bat.”
His brow lifts slightly. “You keep one behind the bar?”
“Two,” I correct.
For a second he just looks at me. Then he shakes his head slightly, almost like he’s impressed even though he probably doesn’t want to admit it. “You’re something else,” he mutters.
I grin again. “Yeah,” I say. “I hear that a lot.”
FIVE
GHOST
For a momentneither of us says anything else. The bar has settled back into its usual rhythm around us like the small storm that rolled through earlier never happened. The jukebox hums through another old rock song. Pool balls crack against each other in the back corner. A couple guys at the far end of the counter are arguing about truck routes like their lives depend on it.
Rae moves behind the bar again when someone waves for another round, sliding a couple bottles across the counter and popping the cap off one with the edge of the sink. She does everything quickly, efficiently, like she’s done the same motions so many times her hands don’t even need instructions anymore.
But every so often she glances back at me.
Like she’s making sure I didn’t vanish.
That thought irritates me enough that I finish the rest of my beer in one slow swallow and set the bottle down on the bar.
I shouldn’t still be here.
The job Mason asked me to do is finished. The three guys who thought they could lean on Wayne won’t be back anytime soon, and hanging around a bar making small talk with an interesting bartender isn’t exactly part of the assignment.
Still.
I find myself watching her one more minute before I finally stand.
The stool legs scrape softly against the floor and Rae looks up immediately.
“Already leaving?” she asks.
I nod once, resting my hand briefly on the bar. “Yeah.”
She studies me for a second like she’s trying to decide whether to argue with that decision. Then she reaches out and grabs the empty bottle, sliding it away with a soft clink.
“Well,” she says, shrugging one shoulder, “thanks again for the pest control.”
“You’re welcome.”
Her eyes flick briefly to the Iron Reapers cut on my back and then back to my face again, that curious expression returning for a moment.
“You’re not going to disappear forever, are you?”
