I just stare at him. Rourke studies my face for a long moment, his eyes searching for a crack in the facade. Finding none, he takes another sip. “Gotta feel bad for the man,” he mutters, shaking his head. “He’s losing it. Can’t blame him though. After everything that happened to his son.”
“You got a fucking point somewhere in there?” I ask.
Matt runs a hand down his face. “Rourke…”
“What?” Rourke snaps. “Pitfire, just making small talk. I know this shit was a long time ago, okay? Didn’t come here to push anyone.”
“Been ten years, Rourke,” Matt says, his voice pleading now. “Time to drop this, alright?”
Rourke lifts his glass in a shrug, a gesture that says everything and nothing at all.
I grab another shot glass and pour one for myself. Matt notices immediately. His eyes flick to the bottle, then to me. I knock the drink back.
“You know,” Rourke says, leaning on the bar, voice lowering a notch, “he still blames you.”
Matt stiffens.
“Some things never change,” I say, hoping it’s enough to shut him down.
“Got it in his head he’ll get revenge one way or another.”
I refill his glass without looking at him, the whiskey splashing against the sides.
Rourke studies me again. “I talked him out of it though,” he adds, a little too proudly. “Man’s seeing ghosts now too. I’m telling you, losing it. This place will get you one way or another—that’s the truth.”
I try to distract myself by grabbing a knife and hacking at a lemon.
“I’m just getting old,” he grumbles suddenly, rubbing the side of his neck. “Back’s shot, knee’s worse. Everything hurts.”
Rourke ignores the silence and keeps talking, like the whiskey loosened a thought he can’t stop now—a bout of verbal diarrhea he has to expel.
“Can you imagine that though,” he says, staring into his glass, “seeing a ghost of your own son?”
I swallow.
“You aren’t so young yourself, St. Clair.”
I don’t answer and keep slicing the fruit.
“No children yet?” he asks casually.
Matt drops a glass.
“Don’t wait too long,” he continues unbothered. “Kids need young bones to run around after them.”
In one sharp, angry motion, I flick the knife into the air. It spins end over end and hangs for a second above my head.
Matt slams his hand on the bar. “Shut the fuck up, Rourke.”
Rourke blinks at him, confused. “What? I’m just?—”
I grab the cigarette pack from under the counter and shove a cigarette between my teeth as I walk, not looking back. I hear it a second later—the sharp, definitive thump of the knife burying itself in the cutting board right in front of Rourke. I know it’s standing there, quivering, its tip pressed hard into the wood.
“Bar’s yours,” I tell Matt, turning for the door.
Rourke’s words keep circling back whether I want them to or not.Kids need young bones to run around after them.I flick ash into the gutter.Yeah. Good fucking joke.
* * *
