Not long after six, I notice the place filling up a little more, and when a second bartender joins the man my waitress addressed as Rooster, I decide it’s about time for me to leave because the evening staff seems to be rolling in.
I raise my hand to get the attention of my waitress so I can square my bill, but before she can make it over, there’s a slight commotion near the entrance, drawing my and several others’ attention.
My mark stalks in. I almost look away to avoid him seeing me, but I notice his skin is sallow, and it’s not from the lighting. He looks sick, and there’s a cut on his forehead. Scanning his face, I notice the skin of his jaw looks rough and scarred. It may not be as noticeable if he were clean shaven, but the lack of stubble in some areas makes it easy to spot.
A sense of misplaced envy has me tightening my fingers around my empty glass. I’m not necessarily jealous of the evidence of his pain left on his skin, it’s more about not understanding how I could hurt so deeply on the inside while all my scars remain invisible.
His dark brown hair takes on a purple hue as he passes under the stage lights, concealing his features from me.
He’s given a wide berth as he heads straight for the back of the club, passing through without even glancing in anyone’s direction.
“Here you go.” The words startle me, but I pretend to shift in my seat to cover the fact that I was so engrossed in my mark that I let my waitress sneak up on me.
“I wanted the bill,” I tell her, but trade out my empty glass for the new one.
“Oh, sorry. I thought you wanted another drink. I can take it off the tab,” she offers while reaching as if to take the drink back.
“It’s fine.” I lift it to my lips and take a tiny sip, but I won’t be finishing it. I know my limits, which this job already seems to be pushing.This isn’t a job, I remind myself. This is a slight distraction to take my mind off the seemingly endless list of names I need to snuff out.
Before she can walk away again, I peel two twenties off my small wad of cash and push them toward her. “You need any change?” She gives me doe eyes.
“No thanks.”
I give it five more minutes before rising from my seat. The moment I stand, my bladder tells me I won’t make the ride home, so I may as well pee here. I head toward the restroom sign, happy to find two doors in the short hall.
“Have a good night,” my waitress says loudly as I head for the exit after relieving my bladder. I nod, choosing not to ignore her, but I hate that she called me out again. I get a double take from the beefy guy at the door, but I just shove my hands in my pockets and keep walking.
I reach the alley just in time to hear someone retching. I peer down and see my mark, bent over with a stream of liquid pouring from his mouth. A pang of something, maybe sympathy, has me confused. I watch the door behind him from the cover of the building to see if anyone is going to come out and help him, but as he heaves again, not getting anything out this time, he lets the heavy door slam closed behind him to hold his stomach.
The urge to approach him is what gets my ass in gear. I have no business being here, let alone going over to see if he’s okay. I hustle past the alley with my eyes straight forward. I look over my shoulder once or twice on the short walk to my car, but I don’t see my mark, which is for the best. I think the alcohol in my system is fucking with me, at least that’s what I’m telling myself anyway.
CHAPTER8
WINGER
The next three days were a fog. There were times I forgot about the girl entirely, and others when she was all I could think about, just so I would have something else to dwell on other than how I felt like death.
The one shining light was Lucy showing up with soup and freshly baked bread. Thankfully, she waited until I was feeling a little more human and didn’t see me at my worst—when I was shaking uncontrollably and had the shits. Seeing Rex pissed off that she was worried about me might have been more satisfying than the homemade food.
I’m heading into work for the first time in over a week, and I’m not exactly stoked to visit the club, which tells me a lot. Maybe it’s time to hand the place over to Saddle. Hell, Rex has offices in a high rise, so it’s not like we need The Dollhouse for cover anymore.
I don’t know the guy working the door by name, but his face is familiar. He opens the entrance as I’m walking up and greets, “Good to see ya, boss.”
I grunt instead of admitting I’d rather not be here and head inside. The heavy scent of bud has me scanning the room for Rex, but he’s nowhere to be seen, so I step over to the bar. “When was Rex here?”
Saddle’s eyes meet mine without reservation. “He stopped by a few times while you were out.”
“Was Luc—Fel with him?” I sound doubtful, even to my own ears.
“Nah, just him.”
I snort. “It’s like he cares or something.”
“Everybody cares, Winger, even his crazy ass. You doing okay?” He wipes down the bar, no longer looking at me. We went and made shit uncomfortable.
“Better than I was,” I reply. He doesn’t need to know I still feel like shit and being here is making me want to drain a bottle.
“The girls will be happy. They have been worried.”
