As I neared the other side of the room, I scanned the crush of people waiting for drinks. While the bartenders looked backed up, no one appeared hostile about it.
And even though they looked backed up, that didn’t stop Harlow from ignoring the masses as the two men working beside herpicked up the slack. Her attention was aimed my way, and even from a distance, I could see her worry.
Belatedly noticing she’d gotten caught staring, she gave an awkward little wave. I returned it with a smile. That must’ve been reassurance enough because she got back to work.
Mostly.
Just with multiple quick glances toward me again.
I pushed through the exit and exhaled at the rush of cool April air. Even the quick walk through the crowd had been enough to leave me flushed and overheated. It would be far worse if they let in the stretching line that waited on the sidewalk. I headed in the opposite direction of them.
Without looking back to confirm Mr. Walker was there—I knew he was—I kept going toward where my car was parked around the corner as I asked, “Are you over capacity?”
“No.”
Other than serving minors, the biggest thing bars and clubs in the area got dinged for was packing customers in like they were sardines. If they had room to move, there was room for more—safety be damned.
I slowed to a stop at the intersection before turning to face him. “Are you sure?”
“Keep it about thirty under capacity so my people don’t get burnout. Plus, two guys on the door who keep track and pace entry accordingly.”
That was thorough.
And thoughtful.
And possibly bullshit.
I’d bartended my way through two years of college and the academy—plus, the occasional shift during my patrol years. I’d never had a manager willing to forgo their bottom line in favor of their employees’ mental wellbeing. Since he was the owner of the bar, it seemed even more implausible that he would make that tradeoff.
Before I could voice my skepticism, he folded his arms across his broad chest. His words were quiet. Teasing. “Why? Disappointed there’s nothing to keep you here?”
“I’m making sure my next call out isn’t for an avoidable tragedy.”
“It won’t be. But if you want to check, you’re more than welcome to count for yourself, darlin’.”
“It’s Detective,” I corrected.
“Detective Darlin’,” he shot back.
His deep voice was gravel and whiskey and smoke, with just the barest hint of an accent. Like he’d been a rancher in a previous life or something. It was far too appealing, and that just added to my annoyance.
“Sir—” I started.
“Yeah. Don’t like that,” he muttered, more to himself than me. Even in the hazy glow from the flickering streetlight, I could see his lip twitch in a quick sneer.
Well, fuck you very much.
“Call me Rhys,” he demanded.
And I ignored said demand.
Instead, I repeated the word firmer out of spite. “Sir, if there’s nothing else…”
My words trailed off as the hairs at the back of my neck stood. I scanned around, trying to spot the cause as I cataloged the details I saw. Parked cars. Idling ones. Normal traffic. People. Long lines. Broken glass, darkened windows, neon signs.
Desperation. A rush of adrenaline. Concern.
My gut clenched.
