“What were they wearing, and one other detail?”
“Black dresses. Lena had gold hoop earrings and Marci wore diamond studs.”
“How many were waiting to be seated when we came in?”
“Seven.”
“Break it down.”
“Four men. Three women.”
“Bartender’s dominant hand.”
Scar paused a beat, closed his eyes, and pictured the sexy bartender who’d just poured the man at the bar more dark liquor.
Dammit.
That was a hard one. But he had a fifty/fifty chance of getting it right.
“Right.”
“Next time, don’t guess.”
Shit.
“Which table has the server been to three times, but they still haven’t ordered?”
“Corner booth. The guy with a military posture whose date looks like a yoga instructor and can’t decide on the watercress salad or the tofu paturi— Whatever the fuck that vegan meal was.”
Meridian’s mouth didn’t curve, but something in his eyes reflected approval.
“Not bad, but you’re still not one hundred percent focused.”
Scar’s huffed.
Meridian was right. Part of his mind kept pulling toward Gage like a magnet. Wondering where he was. What he was doing. Whether Adrian had touched him again.
Meridian’s lowered his voice to that harsh grit.
“Disassociate, Scar. Care for your partner can sharpen your instincts, but fixation will dull them, and that’s when you’re either made or dead.”
Scar exhaled roughly. “I’m trying.”
“Fuckin’ try harder.”
Scar pushed Gage as far back as his mind would allow.
“I want you to go to the bar and get the bartender’s first and last name, how long she’s worked here, what she does in her spare time, her birthday, where she grew up, if she has any siblings, if she lives alone or with someone, and if she has pets.”
Scar hummed under his breath, looking at the mostly empty bar. “I can do that.”
“You got ten minutes,” Meridian added.
“What the hell?” he gaped. “How am I supposed to—”
Meridian looked at his expensive watch. “Now you have nine minutes and fifty-four seconds.”
Scar hurried and pushed out of the booth.
