“What can I get you?” the middle-aged bartender asks, sliding two bar napkins across the lacquered top.
“Two gin and tonics,” I say, and Nina makes a face.
I shrug. “I’m going to need it, and Jill is getting the same thing.”
Nina smirks. “Make that three. I guess it’s that kind of night.”
We grab our drinks and head back toward the parlor, finding Jill still in the same seat we left her in, sweeping the table of what appears to be well over one hundred dollars.
“I’m on a roll, bitches. Please tell me you brought me a…” She looks over her shoulder, smiling wide when she sees the drink in my hand. “That’s my girl.”
She reaches out her hands, waggling her fingers, signaling she wants the drink. I hand it over, rolling my eyes at Jill, who goes right back to the next hand of whatever they’re playing.
Nina and I find a seat, sipping quietly as we watch the game. My mind lingers on the tattoo. It’s a puzzle waiting to be solved, and I’m itching to get started.
I pull out my phone and start a search for tattoos with triangles and an eye. I get a bunch of hits, but nothing close to what I saw. Grabbing a pen from my purse, I make quick work of sketching out the symbol on my napkin, staring at it for far too long.
My glass is empty, and the girls have started yet another game. This time, Nina joined, and they’re working to explain the rules to her. I take the opportunity to head for another drink and see if I can find out any information on Harlan.
“Another gin and tonic?” the bartender asks, and I nod. “Tad’s the name,” he says. “And yours?”
“Alyssa.” I greet him with a smile, settling into the seat beside a woman bedizened in diamonds. Her left arm boasts a bracelet outshining even my engagement ring, gleaming under the golden lights. She glances my way, a forced smile spreading over her lips before she dismisses me, flipping her bleached blond hair over her shoulder. However, I can’t ignore the symbol that currently haunts my thoughts—it’s right there, tattooed behind her ear.
What in the world is happening?
Leaning in slightly, I lock eyes with Tad. His gaze flickers open just a fraction, his head subtly shaking as if warning me not to start up a conversation with the rude woman.
My curiosity is beyond piqued. My head is screaming at me to pay attention. There’s no such thing as coincidences these days. I saw that symbol in a dream, and here it is, right in front of my face, and more than once. It means something, and I have to uncover what.
I scan the room, searching for more clues, but I don’t find any. I’m not sure what I was expecting. A roomful of people sporting triangle tattoos?
Exhaling a frustrated sigh, I let my head slump back against my shoulder. The woman glances in my direction, her nose wrinkled in disdain. She then pivots toward her companion, uttering something that prompts him to cast a similarly disdainful glance my way before they stand, vacating their seats without so much as a backward glance.
“Good riddance to you too, assholes.”
“You know, you really should be more careful,” he says, wiping the bar down with a white towel. “You don’t want to make enemies of that woman.” He motions toward the blonde, who’s now across the room, with a slight tip of his head. “She has a lot of pull around these parts.”
I take a sip of my drink, sighing heavily. “Lucky for me, I’m not from these parts, and I don’t care who she is.”
He smashes his lips together, leaning closer to me. “She has pull in many places.” He stresses the wordmany, lifting both eyebrows as if he’s imparting something very important to me.
“Who is she?” I ask, voice equally low.
“A socialite from New York. Moved here about two years ago. She frequents this place often.”
I clear my throat. “What’s with the tattoo behind her ear? It’s the same one that Harlan had on his forearm,” I say, recognizing a little too late that I’m walking a very dangerous path.
Tad freezes in place, arm suspended in midair. He blinks several times, and I know that bringing up the tattoo here was not in my best interest.
He gets right in my space, placing his hand over mine. “Why are you here?” he asks, glancing around as if to see if anyone is paying attention. “Who are you?”
I pull my hand out from under his, eyebrows tilted inward. “I told you, I’m Alyssa, and I’m not from here.”
“Are you with the police?” The words are just above a whisper.
I make a face. “No. I’m not.”
His face appears to relax, and he nods, signaling he believes me for some reason. He goes about making my drink, sliding it toward me when it’s ready.
