Page 45 of Gates of Tartarus

“Tally,” the girl mimics. “Like a mark on a bedpost. Nice nickname,Terrance.”

Terry echoes the unknown woman’s tone. “Chanty. Like a damn sea-song or something,Flower.”

“Shut yourfucking…”

“Why are youeven…”

The words pour out of both of them, tumbling over each other, and Chantalle rubs her temples.

“... hit by a train.” Terry finishes whatever he was saying, moments before the girl snaps out, “...suck aDICK!And who the fuck even are these people?”

No one answers, just staring at the duo before them, and the silence grows to an uncomfortable level before I say, somewhat inanely, “I’m Kai. I like your boots.”

“Oh.” The girl looks surprised for a second, then smirks. “Thanks. I know. They’re amazing.”

Chantalle takes an audibly deep breath and finally speaks: “Flores, I need you to wipe the traffic cams for the past half hour surrounding the bar, please.” Pausing, she thinks for a moment, then says, “Actually, wipe everything in a two-mile radius. Can you do that?”

Flores bristles and looks back down at her computer, mumbling to herself. “Can Idothat? I do it all the fucking time, Chanty.Can I do that?… the fuck…” She’s tapping rapidly, when a loud knocking echoes through the bar from the front door.

Chantalle sighs in clear frustration. “Whatnow?” she wonders out loud, then freezes when a languid, bored-sounding voice calls from outside.

“Are you closed? Tally? Ooopen up!” It’s a man, voice like liquid apathy, but it lights Chantalle and her crew on fire.

“Shit.Shit!” There’s a flurry of activity from Marco, who reappears from nowhere, Terry, and even the pixie woman behind the bar, which only intensifies as we hear a fumbling at the door handle. “Plan B!” Chantalle snaps, and Marco physically picks me up and moves me to the dark, back corner of the room. At the same time, Terry grabs the remnants of the towels and water and throws them on the counter, where Flores takes them, shoving them under the bar.

“Move!” he snaps at the guys, pointing back at me, and, confused, they follow his directions. Flores is closing her computer when the front door starts to open, and she and Chantalle exchange a panicked look before she just flat-out drops to the floor like someone knocked her out, hiding behind the dark counter. Terry and Marco move to block us from direct view of the front door, and Chantalle arranges herself hastily at a table near the front, putting a calm, teasing face on like a mask.

The door opens to reveal a small, rat-like man, who scurries in, then, oddly, immediately turns to face the front corner of the room, back to us. He’s followed by a tall, foppish man with a square jaw and carefully mussed hair. He moves like he’s melting, like every step is too much effort, slow and utterly bored with even the act of walking. Looking around the bar with heavy, sanpaku eyes, he forces his gaze to settle on Chantalle, who looks like a little, heart-stung puppy, staring up at him with adoring eyes.

“Well. Hey there, Precious. I need a drink.” He stumbles toward the bar, but Chantalle hops up and takes his hand, leading him to a table instead.

“Hi, Coop!” Her voice is a masterclass of seduction. In two words she’s somehow promised dark nights and satin sheets, perfumed Merlot and silk skin. It washes over him like water, and from my hidden seat in the corner, I note his interest peak for the first time. “I’ll get it for you.” She saunters behind the bar to grab a bottle, and I study the face of the man who is, for whatever reason, causing so much concern. I know I’ve seen him before – I just can’t place him – which is strange for me because I have a good memory for faces. Then, for just a second, he turns his attention to the back of the bar, where we all huddle, and tilts his head, his hair falling in his face, before looking away.

Cooper, I think to myself.Cooper Firth. I recognize him from the benefit Walker and I had attended. I wonder if I imagined the brief flick of his eyes toward us – his movements are those of a careful drunk, and it’s clear he’s deep in his alcohol, but for just a moment… I thought I saw himseeus.

Chantalle passes him a glass, but he raises a single brow, smirking, and grabs the bottle instead, taking a long drink, before grabbing her hand. “Are you finally going to give into me, Blossom?” he pleads, wine and wanting mixing with a strange, teasing note in his words.

Chantalle smiles her practiced smile, the edges curling slowly, promise in every movement. “You know I would, Coop. I would. But I don’t do that anymore.”

“Even forspecialclients?” he asks, voice darkening minutely.

“Not even if Idesperatelywant to…” she drapes herself on him, settling herself on his lap, and I feel more than hear a quiet growl from Terry as Chantalle nuzzles Cooper’s neck, inhaling.

“You smell like money,” she laughs, teasing a grin from him, and his face lightens with it into a classic, Hollywood handsomeness, the sullen boy from moments before disappearing.

“I taste like money, too…” he whispers against her skin, drawing long, artist’s fingers down her arm. “Why won’t you let me take you away from all this?” he asks, a serious note entering his voice. “You know I could. You don’t have to be in a dirty bar with dirty people.”

“I’ve told you, Coop,” she replies, exasperation and, strangely, fondness, clear in her voice, “Ilikemy dirty bar and dirty people.” He laughs, a warm, rolling sound, something close to real affection flavoring it. Their whole interaction is a puzzle.

“Alright, alright. You know I won’t give up.” He picks up one of her hands, considers it, and kisses it with surprising gentleness.

“I know,” she laughs back, practiced happiness in her bell-like tone. “But you should.” The last is a warning, but I don’t think he hears it. “How did you get in, anyways? We’re closed.”

“Picked the lock,” he shrugs carelessly. “I don’t like being kept out when I want something.”

Ooooh. He heard her warning alright.

Surging to his feet suddenly, he tips the bottle up again, ostensibly showing the last few drops hitting his reaching tongue. Chantalle stumbles back slightly, but his hand snakes out and steadies her, even as he licks the last drops of red from the glass. “Careful, careful,” he cautions, gaze darting back to the corner where we hide again. This time he keeps his eyes focused on us, all traces of his drunkenness disappearing, and the corner of his lips twitches up on one side in an unbalanced smile. “Careful,” he says again quietly, pulling her in against him and whispering against the side of her head, one hand rubbing her back gently. “We wouldn’t want anything to happen to you now, would we?” Turning to the front door, he shrugs, his disinterested persona settling back over him like a cape.

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