9. Esperr
ESPERR
The bar smells like stale beer and citrus cleaner that hasn’t quite done its job. It’s early enough that the crowd hasn’t become sloppy yet.Loud, but not too unbearable, while the music thumps low through the floor, vibrating up through my boots as I move behind the bar.
Glasses clink while the ice rattles, and someone laughs too loud at something that wasn’t funny.
My hands stay busy, pouring and sliding drinks across the polished wood. Taking cash, running cards, keeping count without truly thinking about it. I try to keep my mind off Oliver asking me if anything is out of sorts.
I should’ve told him about the stalker, but it didn’t feel like anyone from my past—this felt like him. And I couldn’t explain that to Oliver; I couldn’t explain how this felt like the stranger that got coffee from me every day for almost a year.
The thought lingers longer than it should—all the way from the moment I hung up to six hours later while I stand here, cleaning the glass on the bar a little harder than necessary.
“Hey.” The voice pulls me back, and I turn, seeing a guy lean against the bar, close enough that I can smell the whiskey already wafting off his breath.
“What can I get you?” I ask, keeping my voice steady and neutral.
“Whiskey sour. Heavy on the whiskey.”
“Sure.”
I turn, rolling my eyes at the terrible manners, and grab the bottle, making sure to measure clean and exact—no heavy pour. He watches me the entire time, a smile plastered to his face, waiting for me to keep pouring, and when I stop, sliding the glass back across the bar, his smile drops.
“Enjoy,” I flatly say.
He clears his throat and retreats half a step, suddenly more interested in his drink than failing at flirting with me.
Moving along, I wipe down the counter, letting the noise of the bar swell around me, letting it distract me. The rag drags over a sticky patch near the edge, so I scrub until my knuckles ache. Letting the smell of citrus cleaner cut through the beer and invade my nostrils.
“Two IPAs,” someone shouts.
I nod without looking, reaching for the tap and filling the glasses until foam crests just right. My eyes flick up only long enough to slide them over and collect the cash they toss at me.
The music shifts, the bass dipping low before thudding back in, while more people shuffle inside.
I don’t know if i’m on edge or if that little voice in the back of my head is telling me that something is about to happen.
But I glance around the bar, tension pressing against my shoulder blades.
And just when I think I’m the one going crazy, I catch a reflection in the back mirror.
Two dark shapes in uniforms move through the crowd, scanning the area.
I don’t turn right away, eyeing a guy at the bar who begins to fumble with his wallet, dropping cards onto the counter. I wait for him to gather them up before I finally glance over my shoulder.
The two cops don’t stop until they reach the bar, standing in front of me.
“We’re looking for the manager,” he says, raising his voice slightly over the music.
I point my chin toward the back of the hallway, already reaching to grab another glass just to keep my hands busy. “Office, end of the hall, door on the left.”
“Thank you.”
They move, heading down the halls, but I don’t watch them for long.
“Hey.” I know that voice without having to even look up.
Dean is there, leaning against the bar railing, cheeks flushed and eyes a little glossy while his smile is loose around the edges.
“What’ll it be?” I ask.
“Another round,” he frowns, tapping the counter. “Same as always.”
I glance at his glass, the one that’s still full, and then meet his gaze. “I think you should finish that one first.”
He chuckles like I’m joking, like he can try and flirt his way out of this. “C’mon. Don’t be like that.”
I turn away, getting another beer for a guy two feet down, and Dean must realize I’m not because he mutters something under his breath and backs off just enough to start sipping his drink.
The entire time I move behind the bar, I can feel his eyes on me, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of reacting.
Behind me, the hallway door opens, and the manager steps out, her smile fixed a little too tight while one hand smoothes down the front of her shirt, almost like she’s bracing herself, and her eyes find me immediately.
She lifts a finger and curls it toward herself, motioning for me to come here.
Blowing out a breath, I wipe my hands on the rag and drop it onto the back counter before peering over at Dean. “Drink your water,” I tell him.
He scoffs, but I’m already moving, the hallway feeling narrower than it did before. I follow Stacey back into the office, the door swinging shut behind us with a soft click that barely registers over the music bleeding through the walls.
The space smells like old coffee and melon cleaner, definitely not a good mix.
There’s a metal desk shoved against the wall, stacks of invoices clipped together, and a corkboard cluttered with schedules and handwritten notes just about everywhere.
Stacy gestures to the chair across from the desk, lingering by the door like she’s not sure if she should stay or give us some privacy.
The two officers stand along the wall—one of them is older, graying at his temples, with crow’s-feet that suggest he smiles more than he frowns, unlike his partner. That one has a permanent frown, though he’s younger; his eyes are already moving, cataloging me.
“Thanks for coming back,” the older one starts, his voice calm. “You don’t mind answering a few questions?”
I shake my head and sit, folding my hands in my lap while the chair creaks under my weight.
“No, what’s up?”
The younger officer pulls out a notebook and pen, while the older one takes a seat next to me. “Does the name Jackson ring a bell?”
“Vaguely,” I mutter.
The older cop nods. “You were working the night he was here, correct?”
“Yes.”
“How long did he stay?”
I tilt my head, thinking back to over a week ago when he had asked me out, only to be very upset when I turned him down.
“A few hours, maybe around two-ish. He came in around nine.”
From the corner of my eye, I watch the younger cop start scribbling notes down.
“And was he alone?”
I shake my head, “no.”
The older one frowns for a split second before cooling his expression.
“He came in by himself,” I clarified before they could ask me to, “but he left with two other guys. Friends, I think, they seemed to know each other. They showed up a few minutes after him.”
The younger one hums before clearing his throat and talking for the first time. “You know their names?”
“I don’t, sorry.”
“That’s okay,” the older one says quickly. “Can you describe them?”
“The tallest one had dark brown hair, blue eyes and was medium built. The other wore a ball cap. I’m not clear on hair color; he didn’t talk much from what I remember. They were all drinking beer.”
The older one nods, shifting in his seat. “And did Jackson seem upset when they arrived?”
“No, not at all.”
“Angry or nervous?”
I shrug lightly. “No, he seemed normal; they talked, laughed, and watched the game that was playing.”
The younger officer leans back against the file cabinet, pen tapping against the pad of paper. “You notice any arguing before they left?”
I frown and shake my head.
“Did they leave together?”
“Yes.”
“What time?”
“Uh, I’m not sure, maybe a little after eleven.”
The cops glance at each other before the older one turns back towards me. “You ever see Jackson before that night?”
“No.”
The questions circle after that, asking about times, dates, and faces, asking things just in different words.
But I’ve done this before, not necessarily in a bar office with bad lighting and a crooked desk, but in kitchens with blood that had been cleaned up. In living rooms that smelled like iron and bleach, and across tables from men who asked questions that mattered more than this.
Finally, the older officer stands, clearing his throat. “Alright, well, I think that’s all we have for now. If you remember anything else,” he says, reaching into his chest pocket and handing a card to me and Stacey, “anything at all, give us a call.”
I take it, the card feeling thick and heavy between my fingers. “Okay.”
The younger officer watches me for a second longer, like he’s weighing something he wants to say, but decides not to and turns, following his partner out. The door opens, noise spilling in from the bar before it’s cut off again when the door shuts.
Stacy blows out a long breath, scrubbing a hand over her face. “Well, that was fun.”
I side-eye her, smirking.
“You’re off at eleven, right?”
I nod.
“Alright, well, it’s close enough; why don’t you go ahead and get out of here?”
I blink, a tad bit surprised. “You sure?”
She waves me off, smiling. “Yeah, Jason’s got it; you’ve done enough tonight.”
I nod, because it’s easier than questioning it, easier than wondering how a missing guy had somehow turned into my problem.
Not having to be told twice, I open the office door and grab my jacket from behind the bar. Jason catches my eye and lifts a brow in silent questions. I shake my head once, to which he just shrugs and turns back to pouring drinks.
Outside, the air is cold and sharp, sinking into my lungs, somehow grounding in a way that I needed. I pause on the sidewalk, tugging my hood over my head.
That’s when the feeling of being watched hits me again. My shoulders tighten, skin prickling like I’ve stepped too close to an open flame. I take a deep breath, eyes flickering across the parking lot—nothing looks wrong. And I think that’s what makes it worse.
The feeling doesn’t fade as I start walking, not even when I’m halfway down the block or when I break into a run.
I don’t stop until my apartment building is in sight, and only then do I slow, keys already threaded between my fingers.
But the feeling is still there… watching and waiting.
Eli shakes his head the next morning when he lets me in, annoyed with me running to work yet again.