Page 5 of Sinners Retreat

The bartender appears in front of me, and I lean back. I’ve gotten a positive ID, so there’s no need for false pretenses now.

“I’ll take a Negroni,” I say.

She smacks her gum and shakes her head. “We’re out of Campari.”

“Gin and tonic?”

“Soda gun is busted.”

Now I can see why this bar is so empty. “Just give me a gin on the rocks. That’s if you have ice?”

She spins away from the bar, but I don’t miss the subtle roll of her eyes.

I start toward the man against the wall, but a woman steps in front of me and blocks my path. Her nails stretch to a length that leaves me wondering how she wipes her ass. Also, she should have stopped bleaching her hair at home about four sessions ago. There’s hardly any left.

“Hey, cutie,” she slurs. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Probably to the nearest health department for a lot of testing if you come much closer,I think.

The woman is the human embodiment of a walking STD. A crusty cold sore obscures the left side of her bottom lip from view. Judging by the scars and sores on her face and arms, she either has a compulsive skin-picking issue or a chronic drug habit. The veins in her left arm look like they’ve reenacted the bombing of Pearl Harbor, so I’m guessing it’s the latter. They’re completely destroyed.

She places a hand on my arm, and I can’t wait to throw this jacket into the fireplace when I get home. “Don’t you want to buy me a drink?” she slurs.

I try not to squint as her breath reaches my nose. God help anyone who lights a match within five feet of her. “I don’t, but thanks for the offer.”

As I try to pull away, her grip tightens. “Aw, come on. You look like a movie star, and I ain’t ever shared a drink with a British movie star before.”

“If you don’t release my arm, you’ll be sharing your next drink with a group of medical experts as they try to dislodge a chair leg from your brain. Or what’s left of it.” I shake off her loosened grip. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

I stride away before she can say anything else. I don’t normally like to draw any attention to myself, but needs must.

The man at the end of the bar brings the pint glass to his lips and takes another short pull. I’m not surprised he’s drinking, but I would have expected him to hit something a little harder after the night he’s had.

I slide onto the barstool beside his, hold out my hand, and muster my best attempt at a smile. “Howdy, stranger. Haven’t seen you for a while.”

He turns to me, perplexed. “Do I know you?”

Ah, here it is. My second-favorite part of the dance. They should have called me The Chameleon, but Rasmussen already holds that title.

“Don’t act like you don’t remember me, Gary. We went to school together back at Georgetown High.” I clap him on the back and lean closer, holding my hand in front of me as I lay out the scene. “I certainly remember you. Fourth quarter, we were down by a touchdown against the Riverside Bengals. Thirty seconds left in the game. Then here you come, bolting down the sideline like a madman.”

A smile lights his face as I pull him into the farce. “Oh, yeah! I remember that game! We had a real rager that night.”

I know nothing of the party he speaks of, but that doesn’t matter. My foot is firmly in the door.

“A couple of the guys are getting together for a few rounds of poker tomorrow night,” I say. “You should join us.”

I wish I could have said tonight, but there are too many witnesses that might recall my face. You don’t fly under the radar for as long as I have by making yourself memorable.

When the bartender slides my iceless gin in front of me, I put my beliefs into practice. She receives payment, along with a tip that is of a forgettable amount.

“Aw, I can’t make it tomorrow,” he says. “I just started a shift job, and I’m on nights. Can I get a raincheck? I’d love to see everyone again. I’ve lost touch with all the guys.”

I’m well aware of his new job. And his schedule. He’s playing right into my plan.

Before I can respond, my phone once again rattles against my ass cheek. It’s not like my brother to be so incessant, so it must be something important.

“How about this weekend?” I ask as I stand from the stool.

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