Chapter 3
NICK
Imade my way through the sea of bar patrons dressed in eighties’-themed outfits and sporting big hair and too much eyeliner.
Several of the regulars greeted me by name.
I fought against the bubble of unease that rose in the back of my throat.
While some people would love to have a local hangout where everybody knows their name, I wasn’t one of them.
My years in special forces and occasional work with Lang had left me with a distinct preference for anonymity.
And my years of studying, detonating, and disarming explosive devices had instilled in me an instinct to abhor unchecked crowds.
A man walks into a bar with an armed device. .. Yeah, there’s no punchline to that.
But despite my discomfort, there was plenty to love about the Dirty Diamond Dogs Bar and Grill, affectionately known by the regulars as the Triple D.
My third favorite thing about the bar was its location halfway between the ATF office and the three-bedroom condo I owned in the San Fernando Valley.
My second favorite aspect of it was the ambience of the place.
It was hip enough to draw the younger crowd necessary to sustain the business, but laid-back enough for old vets like me to linger over a quiet drink and shoot the shit at the bar.
But hands down, my favorite thing about the place was Mason Filcher, the establishment’s owner and one damn fine human being.
Henry had introduced me to many of the local vets when I’d left the army and settled at the Glendale ATF branch, but Mason had folded me into their community like it was his job to give me a place to belong.
Which was why when he’d called me last month to ask a favor, I’d jumped at the chance.
While hosting trivia night in a hipster bar had never been on my bucket list, it had proved to be more fun than I’d expected.
And the pay scale was just right: good whiskey and cold beer anytime I liked.
As I approached the bar, Mason grinned and slid a whiskey in my direction. “You have your eighties’ trivia questions ready?”
I patted my pocket. “Yes, and they’re totally rad, dude.” I sipped the whiskey and enjoyed the sharp burn followed by a smooth finish. “Giving me the good stuff tonight.” I raised my glass to him. “Thanks.”
“I heard you might be taking a trip during the holidays, so thought I’d give you an early gift.”
“Henry told you?”
Mason nodded.
“Speaking of my impending trip, I have a favor to ask.”
“If you need it and I have it, I will provide it.” He tilted his head and waited for me to state my request. The colored backlights of the bar reflected off his graying hair, making him glow like an angel. And that’s what he had been for me more than once over the years.
“I need to borrow your car.”
He frowned. “I don’t have it, so I can’t provide it. Had to take it in to the dealer yesterday for a recall on the transmission.”
“The transmission? That sucks.”
He shrugged. “Could’ve been worse. I could’ve been one of the people who found out the hard way that it needed to be recalled. But that leaves us with a dilemma, because Nicky needs a car.”
One of the waitresses called out an order across the bar, then smiled at me. “Where’s your eighties’ outfit, Nick?”
I grinned and inclined my head toward Mason. “He doesn’t pay me enough to dress like the hipsters.”
She laughed. “You know just being younger than we are doesn’t make them hipsters, right?” She waved and hurried off to take another order while Mason prepared the drinks.
“Back to your problem,” he glanced sideways at me while he pulled a beer, “if you happen to be heading northeast, I might know someone who can give you a ride.”
“I love your optimism, but it’s a big country, buddy. What are the odds?”
“Well, she’s headed to Bucks County, north of Philly. Not sure what route she’s taking, but if that sounds helpful, I could introduce you. She’s a regular. Not so much lately, since she broke up with her dirtbag boyfriend. But she’s here tonight.”
That sounded more than helpful. It sounded perfect. Which would have made me suspicious of nearly anyone else in the world besides Mason.
“An introduction would be great.” I glanced behind me at the crowd. “Where is she?”
“That way,” Mason said, pointing his chin toward the opposite end of the bar.
My heart sank when I spotted the attractive but way-too-young blonde who was named after a season. She’d hit on me on my first night of hosting trivia. Maybe if I was lucky, he meant her quieter friend, Gabi.
“Not Summer. Her friend, Cara Spencer,” Mason said, and I breathed a sigh of relief. “The one with long, dark hair.”
As if on cue, Gabi and Summer shifted to reveal their third friend.
My heart—and other body parts—jumped to attention.
Her long, dark hair was wavy and hung loose halfway down her back.
She smiled at something Summer was saying, but the joy didn’t quite reach her sad blue eyes.
While Summer was dressed for the eighties theme and the Gabi wore a business skirt and blouse and low heels, Cara was casual-chic in her pure white tee shirt, faded and great-fitting blue jeans, and leather sandals.
“Christ, put your tongue back in your mouth,” Mason chastised.
“What? I wasn’t...” Except, shit, I was. I was lusting after a woman I had yet to meet, a woman who didn’t look any older than her friends. “Doesn’t matter. She’s a kid,” I said, putting my dirty-old-man moment behind me.
I didn’t relish the thought of riding cross-country with a woman who’d sent a jolt of lust-at-first sight through me. But I didn’t have the luxury of behaving like a horny teenager who was afraid to be alone with the hot girl from math class. I needed to man the hell up.
Lyle, one of the young bartenders, walked over to us and stood beside Mason. He pushed his overgrown bangs out of his eyes and stared at me with a too-big grin. “I see Cara caught your attention. She’s newly single.”
“Lucky for you, since she’s about your age,” I said.
“I have a thing for blondes. And I’m kind of dating someone.” Lyle glanced at Cara, then back at me. “But you’re famously single and, what, thirty-five?”
“He’s forty-one,” Mason answered, being so damn helpful.
“You’re well-preserved,” Lyle said, and I wanted to punch him with my old-man fist. “Let’s see, half of forty-one, rounding down to twenty, plus seven, equals twenty-seven.”
I glanced at Mason. “Is he taking a remedial math class or something?”
“It’s the half plus seven rule,” Lyle said. “You know, you can date someone who’s half your age plus seven years, but any younger than that and it’s creepy.”
“I’m not going to date a twenty-seven-year-old because someone on TikTok told you it’s not creepy.”
“You’re also not going to date Cara because she’s twenty-six. Although,” Lyle looked at me again and narrowed his eyes, “you could totally pass for thirty-five, so you could tell her that’s your age.”
I stared him down with the look I normally reserved for law-enforcement trainees who tried to tell me stupid things about weapons they didn’t understand. “Not trying to date her, not about to lie to her.”
He held up his hands and said, “Whatever, I’m sure you won’t,” in a tone that indicated he hadn’t believed a word I’d said, then walked away to take the order of a couple who’d just sat down at the bar.
“Now that that’s settled,” Mason said, “how about I introduce you to see if you two can make a deal?”
Yes, it was settled. Not that it had ever been unsettled, even though it had responded so passionately to the beautiful and very young woman.
A woman I knew nothing about. “I should probably ask you a few questions about her, like what she does for a living, why she’s driving east, whether she associates with unsavory types. You mentioned a dirtbag ex.”
Mason crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his hip against the bar. “The third degree? I assume that means you’re skipping the holidays to do a job for Lang. Henry didn’t mention that. I thought it was a personal thing. Because of...you know.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s not that. I can’t give you any details about what it is, but I do need to know something about Cara before I drive across the country with her.”
“I’m sure Lang will run a full background check on her for you.”
He would, but that would take a few days. “Mason, I can see you feel protective toward her, but I don’t plan to pull her into any bullshit.”
He glared at me for a full thirty seconds, then let out a long, annoyed-sounding sigh.
“She’s an artist, has an MFA, teaches kids’ classes on the side.
Oh, and she does some kind of online thing with posting her work and too much information about her personal life, which is more risk than I think she should take.
But not my business. Summer recently mentioned she’s monetized that, whatever that means. ”
Monetizing online, I understood. And it wasn’t good news for my purposes. “Sounds like she’s an influencer, or trying to be.” I backtracked to the previous part of his description. “You said she’s an artist. What does that mean, exactly?”
That earned me another exasperated sigh.
“It means art, Nick. The fuck do you think it means? You know that mixed-media piece I have mounted on the wall in the billiards room? She made that. I saw it at one of her gallery showings and thought it was amazing, so I bought it. She oversaw the installation as a personal favor.”
I remembered the big hunk of acrylic, painted in a mosaic pattern, with twisted pieces of metal from an old car jutting out of it. I’d seen it once and had avoided the billiards room ever since because the piece had given me nightmares. But that was a “me” problem, not the artist’s fault.
“As for the trip east, her family is there and she always goes home for Christmas. She’s driving this year instead of flying. Don’t ask me why because it’s not my business so I didn’t ask.”
His patience with my curiosity was wearing thin, so I asked one last, important question. “And the ex? You said dirtbag.”
“Not shady, though. Well, not in the way that would worry you. His dad started a successful car dealership and expanded it to a whole chain, then handed it over to his kid after he got his MBA. So, he’s a spoiled shit who led Cara on for years, but I doubt he has criminal ties.”
“Years?” I glanced at her, understanding the sadness lurking behind her smile. “Tough break.” I threw back the rest of my whiskey and gave Mason a thumbs up. “Okay, let’s do this.”
He took a few deep breaths to cleanse my negative energy, something he’d explained to me shortly after meeting me.
For a retired military guy, he was into a lot of woo-woo and, apparently, I had a dusky aura or something equally problematic.
He and I both knew where the negativity came from, but as a true, if annoyed, friend, he was kind enough not to talk about it.
“Remember, best behavior,” Mason said. “She’s a nice kid.”
Kid being the operative word. But damn it, when I glanced in her direction again, she sure as hell looked like a full-grown woman. And as a full-grown man, I wanted to misbehave very, very badly.