Page 17 of East

So after I spent several years floundering in Vegas, Nora filled a much-needed space in my life.

I get along okay with Gloriana. I just don’t buy her Southern-belle act. She’s always been perfectly polite to me, but she has one of those personalities that doesn’t mesh with mine. She does a great job, so I’ve kept her on as barkeep of the South.

Kin is fine, just a little awkward. His nervous stumbles over words get old after a while, but he’s harmless.

And then there’s Wick.

Ugh.

I truly can’t tell you why I don’t like the guy.

He’s done nothing to me. Nothing at all.

I just get a feeling.

But I can’t fire a guy over a feeling. Especially not when his brother works here, too. I’d have a lawsuit on my hands faster than you can say “abracadabra.” I’m not sure if he’d win it, but it would still be a headache and a waste of time. And I wouldn’t be able to afford the negative publicity or the legal fees if that happened.

Huh. Maybe I should have become a lawyer.

But that doesn’t mean I have to spend any time in Wick’s presence. So I won’t be taking Thea to get a drink in the West, which I’ll admit is a shame, because my drink of choice is a whiskey sour. And Wick makes the best whiskey sour—some of the patrons call it a “Wick-sy Sour”—in the city. He makes it the old-fashioned way, egg whites and everything, and then garnishes it with a pinch of chili powder, which gives it a little kick. People love it. Another reason I can’t fire the fucker.

I glance over toward West. Looks like Wick’s making one of his specialties now for a gaggle of sorority girls wearing dresses that barely conceal their privates.

But my whole body steels when I realize Wick’s focus isn’t on the tumbler he’s mixing his drink in, nor on the girls surrounding his bar.

He’s not even staring at Jackie.

No. He’s staring right through her, across the club.

Directly at Thea.

7

THEA

I check my watch again.

Eight thirty.

Five minutes past the deadline I set for myself.

But any deadline requires a five-minute grace period. He could just be running terribly late.

But I know in my bones that Bobby Q. isn’t showing up.

I’ve been stood up before. It never gets easy.

Well, in a way it does. I’m not sad like I was the first time.

Now I’m just pissed.

I put myself out on a limb, went into a rideshare with no idea where I was headed, and sat at this bar sipping an admittedly fantastic vodka soda for a half hour waiting for his dumb ass.

And he doesn’t even have the decency to reject me to my face?

Asshole.

Who would have the gall to stand me up, anyway?