Epilogue #2
“Weekly.” Ethan’s mouth twisted. “The theater district attracts a specific clientele. Wealthy, entitled, and used to getting what they want. They think buying expensive tickets and overpriced cocktails means I owe them something beyond competent service.”
“That’s not how transactions work.”
“I know that. You apparently know that. They don’t know that.
” Ethan rubbed his temple. “And now Brad - that’s his name, Brad Hutchins, hedge fund manager, season ticket holder, drinks gin and tonics with extra lime - is going to be insufferable next weekend.
He’ll either try to ‘protect’ me from you, or he’ll escalate to prove he’s not intimidated, and either way, I’ll have to deal with it while maintaining professional courtesy because my manager’s entire personality is ‘the customer is always right’. ”
The sheer precision of that observation made something in Rook’s chest tighten strangely.
This intriguing human had cataloged his harasser’s name, occupation, drink order, and behavioral patterns.
He’d analyzed the situation with clinical accuracy while actively being harassed.
And now he was explaining social dynamics to a creature who’d spent nine centuries studying human behavior like he was the one who didn’t understand.
It was possibly the most attractive thing Rook had ever witnessed.
“I could come back,” Rook offered. “Next weekend. Make sure Brad behaves.”
Ethan’s eyes narrowed. “That’s the opposite of helpful. That’s escalation.”
“Not if I’m just a customer, having drinks, completely coincidentally.”
“You don’t look like the theater type.”
“I could be. I could develop a sudden passionate interest in” - Rook glanced at the marquee - “experimental modern dance interpretations of Greek tragedy.”
“It’s Shakespeare this month. The Tempest.”
“Even better. Love Shakespeare. Big fan of” - what was in The Tempest again? - “storms. And that island situation.”
Ethan stared at him for a long moment. Then, incredibly, his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close.
“You don’t know anything about The Tempest.”
“Not one single thing,” Rook admitted cheerfully. “But I could learn. I’m extremely teachable. I’m also very good at making pushy hedge fund managers reconsider their life choices.”
“By threatening them?”
“By existing near them with aggressive body language. Totally different.”
That got an actual huff of laughter. Small, quickly suppressed, but real.
Ethan shook his head. “This is a terrible idea.”
“Probably,” Rook agreed. “But consider this. I actually understand that ‘serving drinks’ and ‘personal interest’ are different concepts. I will never corner you against walls. And if Brad gets handsy again, I can make him deeply regret his choices without you having to lift a finger.”
“You’re serious.”
“Completely.”
Ethan studied him - really looked, cataloging details the way Rook had seen Julian examine Cillian. Taking in the leather jacket, the careful posture, the edges where Rook’s human disguise didn’t quite fit right.
“You’re not normal,” Ethan said slowly.
“No.”
“You’re dangerous.”
“Yes.”
“But not to me.”
“Never to you.”
Another long pause. Then Ethan pulled out his phone again and held it out. “Contact information. So, you can check the show schedule. The Tempest runs Thursday through Saturday, 8 p.m. curtain, last drinks served at intermission.”
Rook stared at the phone like it might bite him. “You’re giving me your number?”
“I’m giving you the theater’s booking information so you can buy tickets like a normal patron instead of lurking outside the employee entrance like Brad.
” Ethan’s expression remained carefully neutral.
“If you happen to message that number with questions about showtimes or concessions, I might respond. In a professional capacity.”
“Professional capacity. Right.” Rook fumbled his own phone out and added the contact. “I’m Rook, by the way.”
“I gathered. From the jacket. You seem to collect shiny things.” Ethan gestured at the truly inadvisable number of buckles. “Ethan Park. Theater bartender, apparently damsel-in-distress according to strangers, actually perfectly capable of handling my own problems.”
“Noted. Filed. Will never rescue you again without explicit permission.”
“Good.” Ethan headed toward the street, then paused and looked back. “The bar opens at seven-thirty. If you’re coming on Thursday, arrive early. I can explain the plot before curtain, so you don’t embarrass yourself.”
Then he walked away, leaving Rook standing in the theater district with a phone number and the dawning realization that maybe - possibly - he’d just experienced his own alley moment.
Just without the alley.
Or the active murder.
His phone buzzed.
Cillian: Are you coming to dinner?
Rook: Yes. Also, I think I just met someone.
Cillian: In an alley?
Rook: Outside a theater. He yelled at me for trying to help him.
Cillian: ...I don’t understand.
Rook: Neither do I. It was perfect.
Rook pocketed his phone and headed toward Shadow House, grinning like an idiot.
Maybe he’d been doing it wrong this whole time.
Maybe his mate wasn’t going to stumble into an alley during active body disposal.
Maybe his mate was going to yell at him outside a theater for having terrible intervention tactics while wearing a bow tie and explaining social dynamics like Rook was the disaster.
He could work with that.