Chapter 4 Regular #2
I poured him Macallan 18, watching him watch me work. Most men's gazes felt like oil spills, something to be cleaned up later. His felt like assessment. Calculation. Recognition of something kindred.
"Interesting name," he said when I set the glass down. "Your parents big Playboy fans, or is it a stage name?"
"Oh, it's definitely a stage name." I gave him my brightest smile, the one that made people unconsciously step back. "My parents called me something much less fun. But Bunny suits me better, don't you think?"
He took a sip, eyes never leaving mine. "I think you're whatever you need to be."
The words hit somewhere deep, somewhere that recognized truth even through layers of conditioning. I was whatever I needed to be. Had been since that morning on the highway, creating myself from fragments and necessities.
"That's very philosophical for," I glanced at the clock, "3:17 on a Thursday. Rough day at the office?"
"Something like that." He set the glass down with careful precision. Everything about him was careful, I realized. Controlled. Like he was constantly calculating three moves ahead. "You always work Thursdays?"
"Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays. Sometimes other days if we're short-staffed." I wiped down the already-clean bar, needing something to do with my hands. "Are you going to become one of my regulars? I should warn you, I remember everything about my regulars. It's a blessing and a curse."
"Everything?" That almost-smile again. "That must make for interesting conversations."
"You have no idea." I thought about Gregory in the basement, his secrets extracted and catalogued. About David-or-Daniel in the tunnels, teaching me about demonstrations even as he came apart. "I'm very good at getting people to talk about themselves."
"I bet you are." He took another sip. "Though something tells me you're better at deflecting than sharing."
Smart. Too smart. I felt that familiar tension between attraction and danger, the sweet spot where everything became sharp and clear.
"Sharing's overrated," I said. "People think they want to know each other, but really they just want to project their own stories onto blank screens. Much easier to stay mysterious."
"Spoken like someone with practice." He tilted his head, studying me like I was a puzzle with missing pieces. "How long have you been tending bar?"
"Six months, give or take." I glanced at the other customers, making sure no one needed immediate attention. The happy hour crowd was self-sustaining for now. "You? How long have you been whatever it is you do that requires day drinking in expensive suits?"
"Longer than six months." He didn't elaborate, which I respected. "You like it? The job?"
"Love it!" And I did, in a way. "I meet such interesting people. Learn all sorts of fascinating things. Plus Matt is a great boss. Very understanding about flexible scheduling."
Something shifted in his expression at Matt's name. Recognition? Calculation? He covered it by finishing his scotch, but I'd already catalogued the tell.
"Another?" I asked.
"Better not." He pulled out a black card, the kind without limits. "But I'll be back tomorrow."
"Same time, same seat?" I ran his card, noting the name: Nathan Cross. Generic enough to be fake, real enough to pass inspection.
"If it's available." He signed the receipt with a signature that looked practiced in its illegibility. "Wouldn't want to disrupt your regular evening plans."
There was weight to the words that made me wonder what he knew. What he suspected. But I kept my smile bright and my voice lighter.
"My evenings are very boring, I promise. Usually just me and my hobbies."
"Hobbies." He stood, and I realized he was taller than I'd thought. Six-two, maybe six-three. The kind of height that could make a girl feel small if she wasn't careful. "Let me guess - scrapbooking? Knitting? Volunteer work at the animal shelter?"
"Close!" I laughed, and it almost sounded real. "I collect patterns. You know, connecting dots, finding hidden pictures in random data. Very nerdy stuff."
"Patterns." He pocketed his card, and for just a moment, our fingers brushed. His skin was warm, callused in ways that suggested violence as a profession. "Be careful with those. Sometimes when you look too hard for patterns, you start seeing things that aren't there."
"And sometimes," I met his eyes directly, letting a little truth leak through, "the patterns are the only real things in a world full of pretty lies."
He went very still, and I knew I'd shown too much. But instead of pressing, he just nodded like I'd confirmed something.
"See you tomorrow, Bunny."
"Looking forward to it, Nathan."
He paused at the door, glancing back with an expression I couldn't read. Then he was gone, leaving only the ghost of expensive scotch and the lingering sense that everything had just become much more complicated.
I served the rest of my shift on autopilot, but my mind kept circling back to green eyes and careful hands. To the way he'd noticed my scars but hadn't stared. To how he'd said my fake name like he was already wondering about the real one.
Gregory Marsh was still in the basement, probably bleeding through his gag. The trafficking phone had three new messages about available "products." My apartment waited with its wall of patterns and connections, all possibly pointing to a dead man.
But for the first time in six months, something had disrupted my careful routine. Nathan Cross with his calculated movements and knowing looks. Nathan Cross who recognized something in me that might recognize something in him.
"Shit," I muttered, then immediately corrected myself. Good girls didn't swear. Good girls also didn't feel warm flutters when dangerous men looked at them with eyes that saw too much.
But I wasn't really a good girl anymore, was I? I was whatever I needed to be.
And tomorrow, apparently, I needed to be someone who could handle Nathan Cross coming back to my bar.
The thought shouldn't have made me smile.
But it did.