Chapter 6
Six
Lane
I sit alone at the bar, nursing another beer.
While we were playing pool, one of the women that Brock occasionally hooks up with came over to chat him up, and they left together.
I should have taken that as my sign to go home, but I wasn’t ready to leave yet.
Not only because the case is still on my mind, but because I don’t want to be alone.
I don’t want to see if someone else was in my apartment, moving my shit around.
After what happened today, I don’t think I can handle that.
I should have told Brock about the thing with my sheets. He might have given me a weird look, but he’s my partner. I trust him with my life. So why didn’t I trust him with my suspicions that someone was in my bedroom?
Scoffing, I take a few sips of my beer, then grab a handful of peanuts in the bowl in front of me.
As I’m tossing them into my mouth, a man sits down beside me, letting out a long, exhausted breath.
I glance over at him and almost do a double take. He’s fucking hot. Probably the same height as me, with olive skin, gray eyes, and brown hair. He has one of those jawlines that heartthrobs in movies and on magazine covers and shit have.
Before he catches me staring, I look away. I don’t want to make someone uncomfortable when they’ve obviously had a long day. And who knows if this guy is into men? I don’t want any trouble because I appreciate a pretty face.
Emmy comes over to take his order and he says, “Double vodka, straight up.”
I chuckle, and I feel his eyes land on me. I ask, “Long day?” repeating Emmy’s usual question to me.
He grunts, but a small smile tips up his lips. “You could say that. Didn’t land the contract I bid on, beat out by a competitor that seems to have a knack for taking what I want.”
I nod in understanding, though I can’t relate. He and I had a long day for entirely different reasons.
“What’s the next step?” I ask.
He glances over at me, his eyes bouncing around my face.
Christ, he’s handsome. His gaze lands on my lips before he meets my eyes, his smile spreading more.
He has a chip in one of his front teeth, an imperfection that I find endearing.
There’s something…strange about his eyes, but I can’t place it.
Probably the way he’s looking at me, like he can see through me. It’s disconcerting.
With effort, I pull my gaze from his, not wanting to assume this guy desires more than conversation. We just met, for fucks sake.
I lift my beer to my lips to calm my nerves, though I still feel his eyes on the side of my face, almost searing through me. I don’t even know this guy, but his whole vibe radiates intensity.
After a brief chuckle, he looks away and says, “I’ll have to find another contract. There’s not much I can do other than that.” He sips from his drink slowly. “What about you? You look like you had a long day yourself.” His eyes roam my face again. “Or do you always frown?”
“I’m not frowning,” I say defensively and automatically smile, then chuckle at how he baited me into it. “I had a long day, but it’s not something I can get into.”
He hums, his eyes not leaving my face. I give him a what? look, and he grins and shakes his head. “I’m sorry, you just look familiar. Are you an actor? I feel like I’ve seen you in a movie or on TV or something.”
My stomach plummets to my feet, and my smile drops quickly. “No.” I don’t elaborate, just turn toward the flatscreen above the bar showing a basketball game.
Snapping his fingers and getting my attention, I swing my eyes to him as he says, “Oh yeah, I remember, you’re that FBI agent from…” His words trail off, and his eyes widen. “Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t…you shouldn’t be reminded of work while you’re trying to unwind.”
I turn away and tip my beer back up to my lips.
“I didn’t mean to bring it up. I heard about that case and what happened to that woman. And you were at the crime scene? Had to be terrible.”
I still don’t say anything.
He takes the hint, grabbing his drink and leaving the bar area.
I curse to myself for my reaction, but I couldn’t help it.
Any reminder of why I was on TV fucking sucks.
I got a man killed today. I don’t want to remember the message left to me or how it feels to be sidelined. I came here so I could forget that.
A few minutes later, I head to the restroom, using the stall so I can have a measure of privacy. After I relieve myself, I tuck myself away and lean back against the stall door.
Before the conversation went left, it seemed like me and that guy could have at least cheered each other up from our shit days.
He might have an intense presence I haven’t felt from anyone in years, but I thought we were getting off on the right foot.
Even if he’s not into taking me home like I wanted him to, we could have at least talked more.
For those brief few minutes, I didn’t think about work.
Maybe…maybe if he’s still here, I can…I don’t know, strike up a conversation with him, try to bury what happened at the bar.
If for no other reason than I don’t want to be alone right now.
I just want someone to talk to that’s not close to the case to get me out of my head for a little while, at least until I have to go home and flashes of the crime scene keep me up until the late hours of the morning.
Exiting the stall, I wash my hands and leave the restroom.
While I head to the bar, I try to see if the man is still here.
My heart thumps when I spot him sitting alone in a booth.
A woman keeps looking his way, but she doesn’t seem to have gathered the courage to approach him yet, which is perfect for me.
When I get to the bar, I order a Jack and coke. Emmy nods and says, “Last one?”
“Yep. I’m sobering up.”
She nods and fishes inside the bowl and grabs my keys. “If you order another—”
“Give you back my keys, got it.”
She nods and drops them in my hand.
Turning back around, I see the woman has approached the man, twisting her fingers through her hair.
Fuck, I’m too late.
Just as I’m ready to detour to the pool tables to pick up a game, the woman’s shoulders slump, but she nods and walks back to her table, a dejected look on her face.
Fighting to keep my smile to myself, I meander over to his table and stand across from the stranger. “Not your type?”
His eyes roam my body, a smile crossing his face before he meets my gaze. “Not in the least.” His smile drops. “Listen, I’m—”
I hold my hand up and slide into the booth opposite him. A bit presumptuous, but he doesn’t ask me to leave, so I relax. “No big deal. I don’t…I don’t want to talk about my job. I came here to drink my troubles away.”
He holds his glass up in a salute. “Me too. We can drink together.”
“This is my last. I don’t want to be hungover at work tomorrow.”
“How many have you had?” he asks, a teasing grin on his lips.
“Too fucking many.” I sip my Jack. “You want another round?”
He shakes his head. “No. I’m not much of a drinker. I only drink when I’ve had a really bad day.” After he sips from his glass, he holds his hand out to me. “I’m Ryell.”
I clasp it. “Ryell, that’s a nice name.”
“Thank you.” He pauses for a second, looking at our joined hands. “Do you have one?”
“Shit, I’m sorry. It’s Lane. Pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise.” Ryell lets my hand go slowly, his fingers brushing against mine. I have to fight to suppress a full-body shiver.
We sit in silence for a few moments, our eyes glancing away when they meet over the rims of our glasses.
It’s been a while since I’ve talked to someone at the bar like this. Queer people do drink here, but most of them are badge chasers, only wanting to fuck a cop to say they did. I’m not into that. I don’t mind hookups, but not if it means someone is only interested in fucking me because of my job.
I’m not sure if Ryell is gay or bi or what, but if he keeps looking at me the way he is, I might assume he’s interested in doing more than talking.
“So,” he says after draining his glass. “You’re an FBI agent. Is that what you always wanted to do?”
“No. I wanted to be a teacher.” He lifts an eyebrow, and I laugh. “I know. Different career paths, but I kinda teach as an agent. I give seminars to new grads once a month, so I didn’t completely give up my dream. What do you do for work?”
“I’m an architect. My firm has been working on the brand-new skyscraper downtown.”
I nod, though I don’t spend much time downtown to know where he means. “Was being an architect your dream job as a kid?”
He shakes his head slowly. “I wanted to be a doctor. Cliche, I know, but my father was a pediatrician. Wanted to follow in his footsteps.”
That niggles something in the back of my mind, but I push it away. I can think about whatever it is later, when I’m not enjoying a conversation with a good-looking man.
“Why didn’t you?” I ask.
“Don’t like the sight of blood.” He shivers as if disgusted, and I laugh. “No matter what kind of doctor you become, you always have to see blood.”
If he knew what I saw today—and pretty much every day since I’ve been a federal agent—he would probably soil himself.
We chat about our jobs for a while longer—though I don’t bring up the amount of blood I see.
“Are you kidding me?” I say when he tells me about his meeting today.
“Nope. He really said he was better than me to my face. And the clients bought it. It’s all good, though. My competitor cuts corners, and his company has a terrible reputation, so they’ll find out soon enough.”
I shake my head. “The audacity of some people.”
Ryell shrugs. “It is what it is.” He leans back in the booth, searching me with his gaze. “So, you come here often?” When I give him a look, he barks a laugh. “Shit, that sounded like a come-on. I really am wondering if this is your hangout spot. I’ve never noticed this place before.”