Chapter 3 #2
She shrugs again, completely unapologetic.
“Call it curiosity.” Her eyes slide over me again, slower this time, and there’s no attempt to hide the fact that she’s looking.
“And maybe a little quality control,” she adds.
“Those guys have been coming around bothering Wayne.” The faintest hint of irritation creeps into her voice when she says that, and suddenly the whole situation makes a little more sense.
“You’re protective of the place,” I say.
Her expression changes slightly at that, the sarcasm fading just enough for something more serious to show through.
“That bar kept me alive when I didn’t have anywhere else to go,” she says.
“So yeah. I’m a little protective.” The quiet conviction in her voice lands somewhere in the middle of my chest in a way I wasn’t expecting.
For a moment neither of us says anything. Then she tips her head again and studies me like she’s returned to the original question she’s been asking herself since I walked into the bar earlier.
“So,” she says, her voice slipping back toward playful. “Are you going to tell me your name, or should I just keep calling you Pest Control?”
What the fuck am I doing?
That thought runs through my head about half a second before my mouth opens, but it doesn’t stop the word from coming out anyway.
“Ghost.”
I don’t usually tell people that. Most of the time I don’t tell them anything at all.
If someone asks my name, they get a shrug or silence or a look that makes them decide the question wasn’t that important after all.
But standing here in a gravel parking lot under a flickering streetlight with this woman staring up at me like she already knows more about me than she should, the answer slips out before I can stop it.
She doesn’t laugh at it. Doesn’t question it either.
Instead, she just nods once like it makes perfect sense, like she’s filing the information away for later. Then she tips her head slightly to the side, studying me for another second like she’s deciding something.
“Ghost,” she repeats, testing the word quietly.
Her mouth curves again.
“Yeah,” she says. “That tracks.”
I raise an eyebrow slightly. “Does it?”
She gestures vaguely in my direction, taking in the cut, the boots, the general shape of me standing there in the parking lot.
“You walk like you don’t want people noticing you,” she says casually. “Except you’re about six foot something and built like you bench press pickup trucks, so that plan is already questionable.”
I don’t answer that.
Mostly because she’s not wrong.
She uncrosses her arms then, pushing away from the wall of the building like she’s finished inspecting me. When she straightens up fully she still has to tilt her chin up to meet my eyes, but there’s no hesitation in the movement.
“Let me buy you a drink,” she says.
The offer is casual, almost offhand, but there’s something underneath it that catches my attention. Gratitude, maybe. Or curiosity. Possibly both.
“To say thanks,” she adds. “For the free pest control service.”
My first instinct is to say no.
That’s the smart answer. The practical one. I already handled the job I came here to do, and lingering around small-town bars talking to interesting women isn’t exactly part of the plan Mason had in mind when he sent me out here tonight.
But the problem is I’m still standing here and she’s still looking at me.
The bar door behind her glows faintly with warm light leaking out through the cracks, and I can hear the muffled thump of music from inside. She smells faintly like citrus and beer and something softer underneath that I can’t quite place.
I should get on my bike, instead I hear myself say, “One drink.”
Her grin widens instantly like she knew that’s exactly how this was going to go. “Perfect,” she says, turning toward the door. “Try not to break anything else in my parking lot while we’re inside.”
Then she glances back over her shoulder at me as she pushes the door open. “And Ghost?”
I stop a step behind her. “Yeah?”
“That whole mysterious silent biker thing you’ve got going on?” she says. Her eyes flick briefly over my shoulder where the three men had been standing a few minutes ago. “It’s working.”
Fucking hell, she’s got a set of balls on her.
The back door swings open and the warm noise of the bar spills out into the night.
Music, laughter, the dull crack of pool balls hitting each other.
It’s a sharp contrast to the quiet that had settled over the parking lot after the three men peeled out of it a few minutes ago.
Rae steps inside like she owns the place.
Which, from the way she moves behind the bar, she kind of does.
I follow her through the doorway, ducking slightly out of habit as I cross the threshold.
The smell of beer, fried food, and old wood wraps around me again, familiar and comfortable in a way bars always are.
A couple people glance up when we come back in, their eyes drifting toward the door like they’re trying to figure out whether something interesting just happened outside.
Rae doesn’t give them time to ask.
She slides behind the bar with practiced ease, grabbing two bottles from the cooler without even looking down.
“Sit,” she says, nodding toward a stool near the end of the counter.
It’s not really a request.
I take the seat anyway, resting my forearms loosely on the bar while she pops the caps off both bottles with the edge of the counter. One slides across the wood toward me, stopping neatly under my hand.
She keeps the other one for herself.
“That’s on the house,” she says, taking a sip. “Wayne will complain about it later, but he’ll get over it.”
I glance down at the beer before lifting my eyes back to her.
“You always buy drinks for strangers who fight in your parking lot?”
She leans one hip against the counter and studies me again, the same curious look from outside settling back into place.
“Only the useful ones.”
My mouth twitches slightly.
Around us the bar has returned to normal. The truckers at the far end are arguing about something involving highway construction, and the guys at the pool table have started another game like nothing unusual happened tonight.
But Rae’s attention stays on me.
“So,” she says after a moment, taking another drink. “You just wander around small towns solving people’s problems for fun, Ghost?”
“Something like that.”
She snorts softly. “That’s the most non-answer I’ve heard all week.”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“I run a bar,” she says. “It’s practically a job requirement.”
She taps her bottle lightly against the wood and tilts her head again, the same thoughtful gesture she keeps making when she’s studying me. “You from around here?”
“No.”
“Passing through?” She asks.
“For now.”
Her eyes narrow slightly. “That sounds suspicious.”
“It should.”
That answer seems to satisfy her more than a real explanation would have. Her mouth curves again, the expression part amusement and part approval.
“Well,” she says, lifting her bottle slightly in my direction, “whoever you are, Wayne’s going to sleep a lot easier tonight.”
I take a slow drink before answering. “They won’t be back.”
She watches me over the rim of her bottle. “Confident.”
“They’re not that stupid.”
“People surprise me all the time.”
“Not those three.”
She considers that for a second before nodding once like she believes me.
The moment stretches between us quietly, the noise of the bar fading into the background while we sit there across the counter from each other.
Then Rae leans forward slightly, resting her elbows on the bar as she studies my face like she’s returning to the original mystery.
“So,” she says. Her eyes flick briefly over my cut again.
“Ghost.” She taps her bottle against the bar once.
“That a nickname, or are you actually this weird all the time?”