4. Charlie
Ican’t fucking believe it.
It’s physically painful to rip my gaze from her, but I turn to make my way toward Sammy, calculating the odds of her showing up here. I feel almost euphoric.
Even though I never saw her face clearly, I know it’s her. The freckles, the hair, the same inexplicable pull in my gut toward her. It’s been months, but I think about the woman in the alley almost every day.
When I finally yank myself back to the present, Sammy’s staring at me like I’m a ghost, which, considering the month I’ve had, isn’t unreasonable. I haven’t felt like myself in weeks, but something settled in my chest the moment I laid eyes on her.
I wrap my arms around my friend, hugging him even though he’s still frozen with a bottle of tequila in his hand. Patrons are staring at me solely because of the state of shock Sammy’s in, and I laugh as I let him go.
“Da quanto tempo,” I say, shaking his shoulders. Something in him snaps, and he drops the bottle on the bartop to throw his arms around me.
“Carlo Costa, as I live and breathe!” He pulls away to grasp my face in his hands like my Nonna did when I was a kid running around Bari.
“I am going to kill my sister for telling you that,” I grumble, shaking him off. No one calls me Carlo in the States, not even my parents. I’ve been Charlie my whole life, save for time I spent with Clara and our cousins under our grandparents’ tutelage in Italy.
“Better stock up on silver bullets, or wooden stakes, or whatever kills something as terrifying as Clara,” Sammy responds, turning back to the bar to pour the shots he abandoned. “Speaking of terrifying things, you look at least seven times more menacing than the last time I saw you. What the hell happened?”
Hard question to answer. Sammy vaguely knows who I am, what I am. He knows my line of work creates monsters. It’s a testament to our friendship that I don’t bristle at the question. People have lost tongues for less.
“You mean the tattoos?” I ask, my hand automatically moving to the olive branches I had inked into my throat last fall. I glance over my shoulder to catch my redhead staring at my ass, and sparks light under my skin.
“Amica,” Sammy starts in a bad Italian accent, “your ink cannot surprise me at this point. No, you look more… serious?” He pours a mug of some local craft beer and reconsiders. “No, determined. And for a man of your inclinations, determination is worrisome.”
“Only for the other guy,” I say, trying to make a joke of it. But he’s right. The last few weeks have changed the way I see myself, my future, and the fate of the family.
Sammy slips down the bar to take a few more orders, and I take the opportunity to look back at her again. She’s turned on her seat and propped her elbows on the bar to watch the crowd, and the neon lights flash against her skin like watercolors. I grab her book out of my back pocket and raise my eyebrows at the cover. Two lingerie-clad women, covered in blood, their bodies pressed against one another, sharp teeth exposed. Intriguing, but not really what I’m here for. I flip open the back page.
The list is a little depressing. Whatever the situation she’s contemplating, it’s clear she’s got strong feelings about both Ana and Ben. It’s also obvious she’s backed into a corner. And that she’s already made up her mind.
I’ve spent my entire life reading body language, unintentional signals, truths and lies we can’t help but reveal. When I watched her from my post behind the bar—and I had been watching her for far longer than she realized—I couldn’t see indecision. She wasn’t considering; she was confirming. It was in the set of her shoulders, and the way her eyes narrowed at the page instead of wandering or closing in thought.
I want to slither into her mind. To lay my head in her lap and listen to her tell me about every decision she’s ever made. To know if she made a similar list before she killed the man in that strip club alley.
“Reading Baby Red’s book?” I nearly jump out of my skin at the sound of Sammy’s voice.
Gesù Cristo, I’m distracted. Even in this busy bar, I should be able to sense someone approaching me from behind. I recenter myself, concentrating on the way the air feels against my skin, and the energy of the room pulsing against me, before slipping the book back into my pocket.
“I’m expanding my taste in literature.” I reach for a champagne flute among the clean glasses at the back of the bar and hold it up to my friend. “Teach me how to make a French 75?”
His shit-eating grin has a wattage that could light up the fucking Washington Monument.
“Reading her books and making her favorite drink? Just propose, why don’t you?” he jabs, grabbing the glass and pulling ingredients. Without giving me time to react, he recites instructions as he pours and shakes. When the drink is done, he places the flute in my hand, turns my shoulder, and smacks my ass to get me moving toward her.
She’s facing the bar again when I reach her, but refuses to look at me. Which is fine. I place the drink on the napkin in front of her and wait to release it until she drags her eyes from my hand and finds my eyes.
I lied—it’s not fine. I would prefer it if she didn’t stop looking at me for the rest of the night. Maybe longer. Definitely longer.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, ducking her head to hide a small smile. I think she’s grateful, if not a little embarrassed, and I find some kind of strange pride in the fact that I navigated her correctly.
She’s contemplative as she drinks this time. The anger she had while writing in her book and the humor she had while chastising me are both absent. Her eyes are dull, glazed over, and lined with repressed tears. My instincts—the same ones that tell me when crosshairs are aimed at me and when a friendly face has become a foe—warn me to push, but gently.
“How’d you hear about Catalina’s?” I ask, finding safe ground to get her talking. She looks a little surprised by the question, but a tiny grin pulls at the corners of her mouth.
“Actually, Catalina’s found me,” she answers, propping her chin on her hand and taking a long drink. Being a gentleman and not a fucking creep, I look away as she darts her tongue out over her bottom lip. “I was wandering around, trying to find a distraction, and the glorious choir of drunk college kids answered my prayers.”
I can’t believe I’m about to give thanks for Dollar Shots for Seniors Night. Sammy instituted the tradition of once-a-semester nights to, quote, reward those idiots for making it through another term without quitting. Never mind that the dates, in February and October, make absolutely no sense relative to the local universities” calendars. I’m about to sponsor a special summer session.
Because this can’t be a coincidence. Twice now fate has brought me to her, and I’m determined to find out why.
I’m drawn to her, and it’s not just because she’s gorgeous, though I’m not fucking blind. Smooth, long hair, like burnished metal. Full, dark lips tilted into a reluctant smile. Earth-brown eyes that I was so desperate to see. She reminds me of what I imagine sirens would look like. Seductive, alluring, and deadly.
“Well then, I’m glad the esteemed young men of Sigma Alpha Epsilon could help you find your way.” I reach across the bar and hold my hand out to her. “It’s wonderful to meet you…” I trail off, nearly calling her Baby Red, like Sammy did.
“Gwen,” she responds, placing her hand in mine.
“Short for anything?” I ask. It’s a simple question, but her face lights up as she nods.
“Actually, yes, it’s short for Guinevere,” she says, resting her chin back in her hand. “My mom had a weird Arthurian thing, so I’m Guinevere and my little sister is Morgana.” Her expression shudders a little, and I think back to the book. Ana lives.
“Doesn’t Morgana murder Guinevere?” That brings her smile back.
“Details, details, bartender man. Your turn.” Her voice is still a little slurred around the edges, but it feels like an equal mix of alcohol and entertainment.
“Charlie,” I reply, pushing myself forward against the bar as Sammy comes sprinting toward me, only to grab a bottle of grenadine, wink at me, and run back to the other end. Sammy seems to usher patrons toward him at the other end of the bar, keeping them far from me and Gwen. Meddlesome little fuck, I missed him.
“Short for anything?” When I glance back at Gwen, she’s got a grin on her face almost as genuine as when she was laughing with Sammy. She thinks she’s teasing me, and although I rarely give the information out freely, I want to upend her expectations of Charles.
“Actually, yes, it’s short for Carlo.” Spinning her words back at her feels intimate in a way that makes my skin flush. That pretty mouth pops open a little.
“I actually think that’s long for Carlo, not short, but nice to meet you, Charlie.”
Before I can say anything, she glances at her bag and then hauls it into her lap. An excavation that would rival archaeological digs occurs in front of me as she scrambles through her belongings and finally pulls out her phone. Her brow furrows as she swipes across the screen, taps away, and then places the phone with the screen face up on the bartop.
I’m not even going to pretend I don’t want to pry.
“Everything okay?” I ask. Gwen runs her fingers through her hair and then shakes it out before tapping the screen of her phone to life, and then immediately clicking it off again.
“Yeah, just my sister, Ana.” She glances up at me and back at her phone. “Morgana. She’s at a sleepover at a friend’s and is almost out of antibiotics.”
Her face flashes like she’s caught herself saying something she shouldn’t.
“She okay?” I ask.
Gwen’s phone lights up, and she swipes at it quickly, cracking a smile at the screen that loosens the weird feeling in my chest.
“Yeah, she’ll be good through the weekend. She’s just wondering why my current location is a fantasy card game store called The Jade Salamander.”
I had completely forgotten what this building was before Sammy bought it. She tips her head back and looks at the god-awful painted ceiling again before turning back toward me.
“Why is this place called Catalina’s, anyway?” she asks, sipping her drink. Before I can respond, Sammy materializes like she literally summoned him with her question.
“Because I own this bar, and Catalina owns my heart, and so everything I have and am is in honor of her.” Sammy is yelling in this lyrical way he does when he talks about Catalina, slipping under the bar to sit next to next to Gwen on the faded blue stools. He sighs deeply and slings his arm around her shoulder, making her giggle.
“Shouldn’t you get back here and serve your customers?” I rib, grabbing a bar towel and whipping it toward him. He only scoots closer to Gwen, laying his head on her shoulder and rolling his eyes at me.
“You’ve got it covered.”
“I do not work here.” But he doesn’t hear me, because he’s already launched into his Catalina Monologue.
A plotless and over-exaggerated story of unrequited love that was not at all unrequited, seeing as Catalina has been enamored with him from the moment they met. Gwen seems entertained, so I lean into my new bartender career and hurry down the walkway, praying that people order beer on tap and pouring what have to be terrible drinks when they don’t. I recognize Gwen’s laugh over the music and I think about stealing her away to somewhere I would be the only person who could hear it. She’s only known me for twenty goddamn minutes. Pull yourself together.
It’s another half hour before I finally make my way back down to where Sammy and Gwen are chatting, Catalina having joined them at some point. She’s nestled between Sammy’s legs, leaning toward Gwen with four different tubes of lipstick trapped between her fingers like joints. Gwen’s cheeks are flaming red. Actually, her chest and neck are too, and I have to physically force myself not to reach for her, desperate to feel the heat beneath her skin.
“Are you sexually harassing your own customers again, Catalina?” I ask, pressing my hands against the bar top and ignoring the dude waving two entire dollar bills at me halfway down the bar. Gwen’s eyes sweep over my hands and arms before halting and turning back to Cat.
“I’m not sexually harassing anyone, and she’s not my customer. She’s Sammy’s.” Cat keeps her focus on Gwen’s lips, which coincidentally are now what I’m focused on too. They’re parted and a little pouted as Cat opens one tube with her teeth, swirls the little wand around, and paints the tiniest dot of bright purple.
“No, it’s too blue!” Cat declares, running her finger across Gwen’s lip to remove the paint. She blushes even harder. “I know people say redheads shouldn’t wear orange, but I think a terracotta color would look really pretty on you. Oh!” Cat snaps, shoving the makeup into Sammy’s hands before turning back to her prey. “What color are your nipples?”
It takes me a solid minute of coughing to right myself. Every inch of Gwen’s skin is lit up, and Sammy is pulling Cat backward to nuzzle into her neck.
“My love, people find it rude when you ask them to expose their nipples in public, remember?”
She grips him by the hair and lifts his face from her body.
“I didn’t ask her to flash us, I wanted her to describe her nipples. They say the shade of your nipples is the best color for your lipstick.”
“Is there any amount of money I could give you to get you to stop saying nipples in my presence?” I ask, trying to take the attention off Gwen as she pulls herself together. Catalina turns her sharp eyes on me and gives me a smile she could have only learned from Sammy.
“I’m sure I can find a dollar amount that can convince me…” she starts as Sammy leans forward and whispers something in her ear that makes her cackle. Unabashed glee shines from her eyes, and I realize I may have made a mistake turning her attention on me. “My lovely Sam has also reminded me that we take payment in the form of sexual favors. Remember that thing you did last time with the silk and the?—”
“Okay, yes, Catalina, thank you for the very explicit reminder. I think I’ll just deal with the nipple thing.” I’m trying not to look at Gwen, but I can feel her eyes on me. I’m not ashamed of my sexual history, especially not where Sammy and Catalina are concerned, but it is something I like to ease strangers into. “You two would do well as carnies.”
I have no idea how that worked, but Cat twists in her seat and grabs Sam by the face.
“Charlie is so right, babe. We would be excellent circus performers.” She kisses him, and he kisses her back, and I roll my eyes at their ridiculous zeal for life, for each other. “Let’s go join the circus, my love.”
He slides her off the seat and stands, only to pick her up and wrap her legs around his waist. There is not enough room for this kind of behavior, so her ass ends up perched on the bar top right in front of me, and I back away with my hands in the air.
“Fuck that, baby, I’ll sell this bar and buy you a circus and name it after you.” He kisses her forehead, ducks under the bar flap, and pops up next to me so quickly I’d have whiplash if I hadn’t done this song and dance with the pair of them a thousand times before.
“But not tonight, because Charlie is a shit bartender, and I need to fix the mess he’s made. Tomorrow I’ll buy you a circus.”
Once Cat disappears back into the crowd, I turn back to Gwen. She looks like she’s just been electrocuted, which honestly isn’t an unfair reaction to spending that much time with my friends. Her mouth is open in shock, punched up into a crazed little smile. Her eyes are wide and don’t know where to settle until she sees me looking at her.
“I won’t apologize for Sammy and Cat, but I will for not warning you before they got going.” I run my hand through my hair, for some reason worried about her reaction.
“I think I might be in love with Catalina,” she mouths at me.
“Don’t tell either of them that, or you’ll end up learning the finer mechanics of erotic aerial suspension,” I wink at her, and she blushes deeply again.
“They seem like the kind of people who could convince me.”
My brain does whatever the human equivalent of skipping a record is at her words. I can’t tell if that’s an admission of a kink, her flirting, or just the last lingering bits of champagne bubbling up to the surface, but all I can think is I want to find out.
Bleeding through the brain freeze is the realization that Gwen’s not annoyed or overwhelmed by my friends, nor does she seem to be affected by their relationship structure and the part I’ve played in it.
I don’t know what makes me do it. This is the wrong place in the conversation to change the subject, but something forces me to reach into my pocket and slide her book back across the bar. She looks down, but doesn’t reach for it. Despite the fact that we’re both looking at ostensibly one of the least safe for work novel covers I’ve ever seen, I can tell by the way she sighs that we both know what I’m about to ask.
“Ready to talk?”