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."
