Page 69 of Before She Disappeared

I keep myself busy. I tell myself I’m not glancing at the door every time it opens. I promise myself I’m not some giddy schoolgirl anxiously waiting for her crush to appear.

It doesn’t really work, but thankfully the combination of cheap beer and low-priced food has the tables filled and the orders coming. I’m a good bartender. I like the steady rhythm, the adrenaline rush of juggling dozens of customers, followed by the quieter times where I restock, clean up, and prepare for the madness to return.

The hard-core drinkers aren’t ones to talk, but I like that, too. More of them make eye contact with me tonight. Another few days, and I’ll be worthy of them learning my name. Then my list of growing social contacts will really piss the detective off.

Nine p.m. Dinner crowd done, tables thinning, demand easing.

No detective.

Ten p.m. Down to a few tables of rowdies, enjoying a big night out.

No detective.

Eleven p.m. Tables are pretty much cleared. The bar is left with the hard-core stragglers, who will stay to closing.

I scared him off. Not everyone appreciates bluntness, and not every man can deal with the hot mess that is me.

Or he’s exhausted, having spent most of last night working. Or he’s still on the job, as today’s revelations have led to even more breaks in the case.

I want to hear about new breaks in the case. I want...

The door opens.

Lotham appears.

And despite all my bold declarations, my stomach flip-flops and my hands tremble, and I do feel like a stupid schoolgirl, even though I, of all people, know better.

The detective has showered and changed. Dark jeans, paired with a rich turquoise button-down shirt stretched across his broad chest. He radiates cop and authority figure and military man all rolled into one. As he approaches the bar, several of the hard-core drinkers beat a retreat. I don’t blame them.

“Girly drink?” I ask as he takes a seat.

He gives me a look. “I’ll take a glass of water.”

The order unsettles me. Because he’s still working and needs a clear head? Or because he wants complete focus for our future interlude?

I dump ice in a glass, add water. Stoney wanders over, greets the detective with a nod. This time of night, never bad to have a cop nearby. Then Viv bustles out, takes in my impressive new customer, eyes him, eyes me, then delivers a not-so-subtle “You go girl.”

I turn red, which frazzles me more. I never did the giddy schoolgirl thing. Frankly, I was much too hammered most of the time to care. Manic, yes. Destructive, certainly. Giddy, never.

I place the water in front of Lotham. He takes a sip. At the end of the bar, one of the regulars flags me down to settle up his bill. I’m grateful for the distraction.

More beer here. A final round of rum punch there. Clearing plates. Cleaning tables. Moving, moving, moving.

I really would like a drink right now—and that, as much as anything, pisses me off. Time to get over my own fucking self.

By the time I return to the bar, my nerves have settled and Lotham has finished half his water.

“Food?” I ask him.

“Honestly, I’ve had nothing but grease for days. What I could use is a salad, but that’s not exactly on the menu.”

“Viv has been known to do special orders. For her favorites.”

“Viv, from the kitchen?”

“That’s her. And judging by the way she was looking at you, you’re already one of her favorites.”

That earns me a grin. Briefly, the detective appears ten years younger. His job is a burden he never sets down. It is both extremely attractive and kind of sad. Trying to save the world can be as much a compulsion as drinking, except Lotham doesn’t have a twelve-step program to save him from himself. I wonder if he will burn out, become embittered with the job, the life he never took the time to build. Maybe one day he will envy me, but I doubt it.

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