17. The First Glimpse
The First Glimpse
The bar was alive tonight.
I hadn't noticed it at first—the way the light caught the bottles, the way the glasses sparkled, the way the voices of the customers blurred into a hum that felt almost like music.
I'd been working for three hours, moving between the taps and the register and the rows of gleaming glassware, and somewhere along the way, I'd stopped counting the minutes.
I was having fun.
The realization hit me like a wave, warm and unexpected.
I was having fun. Smiling at the regulars, joking with the college kids who ordered shots they couldn't handle, rolling my eyes at the old man who tried to flirt with every woman who walked through the door.
Matt was at the other end of the bar, polishing glasses and watching me with something that looked almost like pride.
"You're good at this."
He'd said it earlier, when the rush had finally slowed and I'd leaned against the counter to catch my breath.
"I'm not."
"You are. You've got the touch. People trust you."
"They don't know me."
"Doesn't matter. They trust you anyway. That's a gift."
I hadn't known what to say to that. So I'd just smiled and poured him a glass of water and gone back to work.
The dress was new.
Baby blue with ruffles along the hem, short sleeves that brushed my shoulders, a sash that tied in a bow at my waist. Matt had bought it for me last week, along with three others in different colors, when he'd noticed that I'd been wearing the same pale pink dress for five days straight.
"You need options."
"I don't care what I wear."
"I know. That's why I'm choosing for you."
He'd held up the blue dress and tilted his head.
"This one. It'll bring out your eyes."
"You don't know what color my eyes are."
"They're blue. Dark blue. Like the sky before a storm."
I'd blinked at him, surprised.
"How did you know that?"
"Because I pay attention. That's what people do when they care about someone."
I'd taken the dress and hung it in the back room, and I'd worn it the next day, and every day since.
My hair was in a braid.
I'd learned to do it myself—winding the strands together, tying the end with a ribbon, letting it fall over my shoulder.
It wasn't perfect. There were always pieces that escaped, wisps that curled around my face, but Matt said it looked pretty, and the customers seemed to like it, and for some reason, that mattered.
"Hey, Bunny. Another round when you get a chance."
Frank's voice, from the end of the bar.
"Coming right up."
I poured the beers—two IPAs, a lager, a stout—and carried them to his table. He was sitting with a woman I didn't recognize, her hand on his arm, her laugh low and warm.
"Thanks, kid."
"You're welcome."
I walked back to the bar, and Matt was waiting, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression amused.
"You're getting faster."
"Practice."
"And confidence. Don't forget confidence."
"I'm not confident."
"You're faking it. Same thing."
The door chimed.
I looked up, and he was there.
Tall. Dark hair. Green eyes that caught the light and held it. He was wearing a charcoal suit without a tie, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, and he moved with a kind of controlled grace that made me think of dancers, or soldiers, or something else entirely.
He walked to the end of the bar.
The end of the bar.
Where Matt had said the hypothetical man would sit.
Where Frank always sat.
Where no one sat except the regulars who'd been coming here for years.
"Welcome to The Lost Hours."
My voice came out steady.
"What can I get for you?"
He looked at me.
Not glanced. Not scanned. Looked. The way you look at something you're trying to understand. The way you look at a puzzle you're not sure you want to solve.
"Scotch. Neat."
"Any particular brand?"
"Surprise me."
I reached for the Macallan 18—the bottle Matt kept for special customers, the one that cost more than most people's rent. I poured it slowly, watching the amber liquid swirl into the glass, and set it in front of him.
"Interesting choice."
His voice was low. Rough. The kind of voice that would sound good saying terrible things.
"You said to surprise you."
"I did."
He picked up the glass and took a sip. His eyes never left my face.
"You're new here."
"I've been here a few weeks."
"I would have remembered you."
"Would you?"
"Yes."
He set the glass down and leaned back, his hands resting on the bar.
"How long have you been tending bar?"
"Long enough."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting."
He smiled—just a little, just enough to show that he was amused.
"Fair enough."
Something about him made my skin prickle.
Not the way the man in the alley had made my skin prickle—not fear, not threat, not the instinct to run or fight or hide. This was different. This was... recognition. The way you recognize a song you've heard before, even if you can't remember where.
"Do I know you?"
The question came out before I could stop it.
"I don't think so."
"You look familiar."
"Maybe you've seen me around. I come here sometimes."
"I would have remembered."
I echoed his words back at him, and his smile widened.
"Flattery will get you everywhere."
"I wasn't flattering you. I was stating a fact."
"A fact."
"Yes."
He picked up his glass and took another sip.
"What's your name?"
"Bunny."
"Bunny."
He said it like he was tasting it, rolling it around on his tongue.
"Is that your real name?"
"It's the only one I have."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I'm giving."
He laughed—soft, almost under his breath.
"Fair enough."
Matt was watching from the other end of the bar.
I could feel his eyes on me, the weight of his attention, the silent question in his stance. He didn't trust the man in the suit. I didn't either. But something kept me rooted to the spot, my hands resting on the bar, my eyes locked on his.
He set his glass down and reached into his jacket pocket. My hand moved to my waistband—the knife was there, always there—but he only pulled out a card. Black. Simple. A name and a phone number.
"In case you ever need someone who's good at finding things."
"I'm not looking for anything."
"Everyone's looking for something."
He set the card on the bar and stood up.
"Thanks for the scotch, Bunny. I'll be back."
"I'll be here."
He walked to the door, and the bell chimed, and he was gone.