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I wasn’t sure where the cologne was coming from, but I knew the cigarette smoke culprit because he was here every night, or at least every night I worked. It was illegal to smoke in here, but Zero Crow didn’t seem to be big on following anyone’s rules except their own. And Brin, the bartender who pretty much ran the place, told me Darius was Callum’s right-hand man and could do whatever he wanted.
I wasn’t exactly sure what right-hand man meant. I mean, I knew it meant he was important to Callum and was like an assistant or something, but the guy didn’t look like an assistant. He looked more like a hardened criminal who dressed nice.
Darius, no last name because he hadn’t shared it with me, sat in his usual booth wearing his usual attire, which was a white dress shirt with the top two buttons undone. His black suit jacket was slung over the back of the booth, and his cell phone sat on the table facedown next to the salt and pepper shakers. And like how he was wearing his usual attire, he was also doing his usual activity—playing cards. Not on a cell phone, but the old-fashioned way, with a deck of cards.
A cloud of smoke drifted into the air from his cigarette. He never touched the cigarettes he lit—at least, not that I’d seen. They remained perched on the edge of an overflowing ashtray. When one burned out, he lit another one and set it in the same spot.
It was ironic that there was a “No Smoking” sign on the wall beside him. I wondered if it was pinned there just for him. Or had he put it there as a reminder to himself not to actually smoke the cigarette?
He glanced up and our eyes met. He didn’t acknowledge me, but then, the only people he spoke to were Brin, Jaeg when he came in, and on the odd occasion Cali, short for Calico, who worked with me on the floor Friday and Saturday nights. I also worked Wednesdays and Thursdays, but the day shift.
I smiled at him anyway, like I always did, and he gathered his cards into a pile and shuffled. It wasn’t my kind of shuffling where I jammed the cards into one another. This was like you’d see in a high-stakes poker game in the back room of a restaurant.
I walked toward the bar and noticed Sam and his friends playing pool in the alcove to the left where there were a dozen wine barrels stacked on shelves along the back wall. Sam was my age and had just graduated from the University of Toronto with a Bachelor of Business degree. He was staying here at his parents’ cottage, taking a few months off before he got locked into a job.
Sam had asked me out a couple months ago. I’d said no, to which he said, “I’m persistent.” To which I said, “I have a six-year-old.” But that didn’t deter him, and he’d grinned, saying, “I’m great with kids.” That got him a smile, but it was still a no.
A few other occupied tables were near the stage where the live music played later in the evening, and a couple regulars sat at the bar. One of them being Hunchback Dave, who worked on the mountain in the winter grooming the ski hills.
Zero Crow had an air of sophistication with a splash of rustic. The booths were tufted black leather, and the tables and chairs were a dark mahogany. The wall behind the bar was barnwood with glass shelves displaying the array of liquors. The white granite bar top ran the entire length of the back wall, giving it a modern feel.
I lifted the flap to go behind the bar, and a palm slapped the swinging door that led from the back room.
“Bollocks!” the smoky voice with a subtle English accent shouted. Brin. “Don’t need your fuckin’ excuses, you wanker.” She had her cell plastered to her ear. Tattoos were scrawled down her left arm to her wrist, and more peeked out from her black V-neck T-shirt, but she didn’t have any on her right arm. “You don’t show tonight, don’t bother showing your face in here again.”
She was silent a second before she said, “Yeah, well, he’s not here, and you’re not good enough for him to give a shit.”
She didn’t wait for a response and chucked her cell onto the back counter. “Tosser,” she mumbled.
I was pretty sure that was our live music gig just cancelling. I reached under the bar and pulled out a black apron and tied it around my waist. “Tommy?” I asked.
“Yep,” Brin replied as she tilted a pint glass under the beer tap and pulled the lever. “Wanker is too high to get his ass out of bed. Well, now I don’t have to listen to his pitchy voice anymore.”
Tommy had pitch issues, but only when he was fucked up, which was more times than not.
A few strands had escaped Brin’s low ponytail and curtained her face. She had graceful features that were soft, almost feathery, and they contradicted everything else about her. Her waist-length blonde hair was coiled in pieces like twisted ropes, and when I’d first met her, I thought they were dreads.
I didn’t know how old Brin was, and it was hard to tell. Sometimes she looked eighteen, and other times she looked twenty-five. I was guessing she was somewhere in between. She didn’t share much about herself except that she’d been bartending at Zero Crow for years and had never lost a game of pool. She could also make a killer margarita.
“What about Charlie?” Charlie’s band, the PeaPuffers, was a local cover band. They played covers of songs by bands like Maroon 5 and Coldplay. I’d heard them play a few times, and they reminded me of the band RyderEdge that played at the bar where I’d waitressed for a few years while attending Western University to obtain my Bachelor of Finance. I hated finance, but it had been a deal I’d made with my father.
But music was in my blood, and I’d wanted to be around it. Waitressing at the bar gave me that. It also gave me freedom by making my own money.
The lead singer of RyderEdge was Ryder, and he was good. Like a four-chair turn on The Voice good. He’d caught me writing lyrics on a napkin in the back one night and ripped it away from me. I’d never let anyone see the songs I’d written. Ryder read aloud while holding it out of my reach above his head as I jumped up and down, trying to get it back. When he handed it back, he’d looked at me and said, “Finish it. We’ll work out the sound and I’ll sing it.”
But we’d never had that chance.
It didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered except Jackson. I had Jackson, and he was safe.
“Later, Brin,” Sam called, raising his arm as he and his friends headed for the door.
I swallowed back the memories and shoved an invoice pad and a couple pens into the pocket of my apron.
Brin lifted her chin at him. “Sam.”
His gaze flicked to me and he grinned, dimples in full working order. “Mac.”
I smiled. Sam was definitely hot. Carved jaw, deep brown eyes that drooped in the outer corners, reminding me of a puppy dog. Tall, but not Vic tall. And muscled, but not Vic muscled. More agile and sleek.
