Chapter 7 – Camille #2
The bartender raised one eyebrow, a mug in one hand and a rag in the other.
He was an older man with a round belly and a patchy beard and mustache.
In my head, I assigned him the backstory of a former prisoner turned bartender.
There was an uncomfortable pause between us as I tried to decide what to order.
I had never really drunk alcohol before—just the occasional sip of champagne or wine at church or gatherings.
I had missed my first real opportunity during the… “ritual.”
I panicked. The insecurity bubbled up in my stomach, threatening to undo my earlier donut. “Um… brandy, please. With ice?”
The bartender raised both eyebrows—not suspicious, but surprised—and turned to get it.
Did he see through me? What if he realized I was underage? What if my makeup wasn’t right? I didn’t even have cash. The realization sent my thoughts spiraling as I tried to figure out how I would get through this.
He returned with a glass of brandy—mostly ice. That told me everything I needed to know. He assumed I didn’t know what I was ordering and decided to make it easier on me. He set it down and went back to serving the rest of the bar.
I didn’t notice Erich come in. It wasn’t until I heard a drunk man’s loud laughter from the pool table that I turned and saw him—his back to me as he chalked a cue stick and slipped into the crowd. The voices over there were muffled by the music and chatter.
He was quieter than most, and my lip-reading skills were nonexistent. I was curious about what he was doing, but I forced myself to stay focused. I had my own role to play.
I picked up my glass and sniffed it. It didn’t smell bad, so I took a small sip—and immediately felt my throat burn like hellfire.
I nearly choked, convinced it would come back up through my nose, but I forced it down.
Thankfully, no one was watching. I set the glass back down and let it sit until I could work up the nerve to try again.
There was a baseball game on TV. I wasn’t following it, but it made for good background noise—and a convenient way to use our code word if needed. I avoided peeking at Erich too often, worried someone might notice and connect us. I couldn’t afford to ruin either of our chances tonight.
With all these thoughts racing through my head, I didn’t notice when a man sat down next to me and ordered a beer.
He cleared his throat, and I nearly fell off the stool in surprise.
“Are you waiting on anyone?” he asked. The bartender popped the cap off his beer and set it down. The man nodded in thanks. “Nice jacket. Who’s the lucky man it belongs to?”
Oh no. I forgot to take it off.
I didn’t know how to improvise. My hand came up to brush loose strands of hair from my face, careful not to disturb my makeup. “It’s mine, actually. And I’m not waiting on anyone.”
I forced myself to meet his eyes.
He was middle-aged, a little heavy around the waist, with thinning brown hair.
Not creepy—more like a sitcom dad with a steady job and kids at home.
Not what I had pictured when I thought of what kind of man would try to approach me first—Erich made it sound like it would be an old pervert looking for an easy lay.
Especially if the easy lay was much younger than he was.
He frowned slightly at my outfit but didn’t question it.
He took a long swig of his beer, barely letting himself enjoy it as if he believed it would start to disappear on him or someone would take it.
Maybe it was some kind of awkward tick where he needed to do something with his hands? It was a lucky break for me.
“So a pretty young lady wears a man’s jacket and hangs out at a bar on a weeknight. You must be crazy fun in bed.”
There it was. Exactly what Erich predicted.
It took everything in me not to run. Either he’d already been drinking, or something wasn’t right with him to say that so quickly.
I forced the smallest smile I could manage and let out a light, fake laugh. “After a few drinks, I’m fun anywhere.”
He set his beer down. I had his full attention.
He hesitated, then picked it back up and took an even longer drink, nearly finishing it.
How many had he already had? Was I doing this right? Did I say what he wanted to hear?
He seemed nervous—fidgety.
So how was I supposed to keep this going?
I picked up the brandy I had set aside earlier, holding it gracefully and with poise, like I learned to do with sparkling grape juice more than ten years ago. I brought it to my lips and sipped gently, careful not to smear my lipstick, yet fighting the urge to flinch or hiss from the sting.
The last thing I needed was for my somewhat scabbed lip to burst open and for red lipstick and blood to start gushing over the bar. I set the glass back down quietly, saying nothing. The ball was in his court, and I didn’t want to ruin my advantage with my last comment.
“Well… those are my favorite kinds of ladies.” He waved over the bartender, who seemed to already expect he was waiting for round two and grabbed another long-neck bottle.
He repeated the process of popping off the cap and sliding it over to the dad-gone-bad before returning to what he had been doing—avoiding the situation altogether.
I fingered the rim of my glass, watching the tip of my pointer finger slide over the smooth edge as he shakily grabbed his new bottle.
I flashed another smile in his direction.
I had to be careful not to let this get out of control.
I could easily become the type who lets newly found confidence go to my head.
“Do you say that to all the lonely girls you find at the bar?” I asked, trying to keep a hint of interest in my voice. I never knew if I was good at acting or not. I hoped I was—and that he didn’t see through my facade and realize how sickened I actually was.
He shook his head, sweat glistening on his brow—not from the heat of the room. I worried he might drop dead from a heart attack with how much his forehead shone every time I glanced at him.
I kept my expression steady, focusing on him while pretending I was speaking to someone else. Keeping him engaged took effort, and one of the scenarios I clung to was imagining I was Marilyn Monroe and he was John F. Kennedy.
Across the room, Erich’s eyes felt like they could burn through my disguise as he leaned on a pool stick, waiting his turn.
I didn’t move my gaze to meet his. It would be a shame to lose focus and have the man next to me see me glancing across the room to my actual “date”.
That could break whatever hold I currently have over him.
I sighed and flipped my hair back, mimicking what I’d seen on TV—women pretending boredom to draw men in. I had never tried anything like it before and wasn’t sure if I could pull it off. Fortunately, it seemed to work. He leaned forward, suddenly anxious about losing my attention.
“So… um… are you from here?” he asked, trying to keep the conversation alive.
“No,” I answered shortly. “I’m just in town for the night. Trying to make my way to New York City…” I trailed off, unsure how to finish the thought.
“To be an actress?” he offered.
“Yes.” I let out a small, accidental giggle. “It’s been my dream since I was little… get rich, see the world, be famous.”
He continued drinking at an alarming pace, his face flushed but not quite slurring yet. “You’re definitely pretty enough.”
I plastered a sad smile, lifting my glass delicately and swirling the ice. “Prettiness doesn’t get you far when you’re broke.” I wasn’t sure where that came from, but it worked.
His eyes widened. “Well… that’s too bad.” The bartender placed another open bottle in front of him without being called, taking the empties away. “Are you… looking to make money?”
A loud curse rang out near the pool tables, followed by a fist slamming down.
I knew where this was going—Erich had warned me. Steal when they don’t know what hit them. He didn’t think I was ready for anything more dangerous. But it felt easy. Too easy. Go home with a drunk man, take what I could, leave.
What did I really have left to lose?
I pushed the thought aside and leaned in slightly. “Sir, would you really pay me for something like that?” I covered my mouth, feigning shock. “Even if I didn’t enjoy it?”
His face turned red—whether from embarrassment or alcohol, I couldn’t tell. I was winning, and it was my first time playing. It was almost thrilling.
He stumbled over his words. “Well… yeah… anything to help you get there…”
My drink had turned mostly to water by then. I finished it in one go, forcing it down, and set the glass down harder than intended. “Let’s get a few more drinks, and I’m yours,” I whispered, adding a small smile at the end.
Was that what they liked?
Without hesitation, he called the bartender over again and ordered two drinks. The bartender set them down, giving me a brief side-eye but saying nothing. Not his problem.
The beer was much easier to drink than the brandy. Bitter at first, but it grew on me. I forced myself to slow down. Things were starting to feel… lighter. Funnier. My focus slipping.
So I pretended to drink, secretly spitting it back into the bottle.
He was too trusting. For a moment, I almost felt sorry for him. He was close to falling off the stool, rambling about his life—his job as a mechanic, his wife thinking he was working late, his son Timothy playing soccer and scoring a goal, his dog Brutus.
I was running out of time.
I didn’t feel the need to hide my reactions anymore. He couldn’t tell. My face twisted at the mention of his family, unseen.
My thoughts swung wildly—I can do this. I can’t do this.
Back and forth, like a pendulum I couldn’t stop.