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I follow them in, not too closely, and smile politely at the hostess that greets me.
“Party of one?” She reaches for a menu.
“Actually,” I say. “I’ll sit at the bar, if that’s okay?”
“Of course.” She motions for me to help myself and turns her attention to the group that walked in after me.
My heels click against the floor with each step, drowning out the sound of my thundering heart. In all the time I’ve spent on my mission for revenge, I’ve never been quite this close to my target. That is, if my intel was correct and he’s here at all. There’s a significant possibility that I’m not as good at sleuthing as I think I am.
I guess I’ll know soon enough.
With my limited options, I settle into a seat as far as possible from the entrance, near the wall, where I can have a decent vantage point to keep an eye on things.
The barkeep, a sweet-faced older woman, approaches. She lays a napkin in front of me and asks, “What can I get for you, sweetheart?”
“Martini, dirty, please.” I could have probably chosen a drink with a little less punch, but I need something to calm my nerves quickly and a martini will do just the trick.
“Would you like to start a tab or put it on your room?”
I slide my debit card out of my clutch and hand it to her. “A tab will be fine.” There’s no telling how long I’ll be sitting here, and I can’t sip on one drink all night. I’ll have to pick something that’s not as potent next time, though.
She takes the piece of plastic and walks away, going to work on setting up my tab and making my drink. She holds out her finger to a tall, thin man that approaches. “I’ll be right with you.”
Another patron, a guy sitting two chairs to my left, keeps obnoxiously looking at me like he’s either trying to get my attention or is completely unaware that I have peripheral vision and can see him gawking at me.
I roll my eyes, sighing, and turn to him, an opening that I will no doubt regret.
He hops off his chair and slithers onto the one next to mine, sliding his drink along the top of the bar. He holds out his hand. “Colton.”
I glance down at his clammy palm, but don’t take it. “Banks.” I pause and add, “Mild germaphobe.” It’s not entirely a lie.
“Right, yeah.” Colton hesitates and then lowers his arm. He brings his mug to his lips, some of the condensation dripping onto his pants in the process. Does this guy realize that not a single thing he’s doing is attractive? “So, you like it dirty?”
I narrow my gaze at him, very much one of those looks-could-kill moments. “Excuse me?”
He swallows another gulp of his beer and wipes at his mouth with his finger, then points it at the new arrival sitting in front of me. “Your martini. Did I hear you order it dirty?”
I blink to try to erase the awkwardness I just created. “Yeah.” I sip the potent cocktail. “Olive juice.” Here I thought he was attempting to be a perv when he was only asking about my drink.
"Cool." He fiddles with the handle on his mug of golden beer and turns his attention back to me. "You come here often?"
Really? That’s the line he’s going to use?
“No.” I scan the faces behind him, and at the random people sitting at the tables. None of them looking any more familiar than the last.
"Can I buy you a drink?" Colton straightens his shoulders like he's going to somehow persuade me with better posture. His plain face and off-the-rack suit do him no favors, the material nowhere near the size he should be wearing. It's like he's playing dress-up in his father's clothing.
“I have a drink.” I point to the beverage I had only taken one sip of.
“I could get you another,” he suggests. “Whatever you want.” He raises his hand to signal to the lady but I raise mine and press his down. So much for avoiding physical contact.
“I’m okay. Thank you, though.”
He’s just trying to be a nice guy, Banks. Don’t be so hard on him.
But the second I attempt to cut him the slightest bit of slack, he dares to lean in close and place his slimy palm on my thigh. "It's one drink, come on.” His gaze turns from soft to hardened, like a darker version of this man could appear at any moment.
“Remove your hand from my leg,” I say through gritted teeth, my stare focused on him, my hand slowly creeping toward my clutch on the bar, where a knife is tucked inside.
