Page 2 of Can't Stop Watching
Yeah, right.
I stretch, feeling the ache in my muscles from sitting too long. The job's a bitch sometimes—all this waiting, watching, hoping to catch a glimpse of something, anything. It's like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands.
Sometimes I think about getting help, maybe training some bright-eyed kid to do the grunt work. But then I remember how much I hate people, and the idea goes right out the window. Besides, I always get my man. Or woman. Equal opportunity disappointment, that's what I provide.
I start up the Charger, its rumble a comfort in the silent night. As I pull away from the curb, I can't help but glance backat the Langford place. What secrets are you hiding behind those walls, Brian? What skeletons are rattling in your designer closet?
The neon signs of my personal purgatory flicker like a twisted lighthouse, drawing in lost souls. The Old Haunt. Ain't that the goddamn truth. I shoulder my way through the door, letting the stench of desperation and booze slap me in the face. Another night in this NYU-adjacent den of iniquity. Home sweet fucking home.
"The usual, Dane?" Joey, the bartender, doesn't even look up from wiping down the bar.
"Make it a double, Joey. The kind of night that makes you question why you ever left your warm, cozy foxhole." I toss back half the whiskey in one go, savoring the burn. "On second thought, keep 'em coming."
I grab my glass and slink over to my usual corner, a pocket of darkness where the bar's weak lights don't quite reach. It's perfect. I can watch the whole room without anyone giving me a second glance. Just the way I like it.
From here, I see every desperate soul stumbling in, looking for liquid courage or temporary oblivion. They're all running from something, just like me. The only difference is, I know exactly what's chasing me. It's the ghosts of the past, the whispers of "what if," and the constant, gnawing hunger for justice in a world that seems hellbent on denying it.
I take another sip, letting the whiskey coat my tongue. It's a poor excuse for armor, but it'll do for now. It burns away the chill of the night. I swirl the amber liquid, watching it catch the dim bar light. Funny how something so smooth can be so damn destructive.
Just like Langford might if he turns out his wife is right. If my gut instinct is right.
I've seen his type before. Hell, I grew up surrounded by them… those polished sharks in custom suits, reeking ofentitlement. Dad's clients. The "pillars of the community" who'd smile for the cameras while stepping on the necks of anyone who got in their way.
I close my eyes, memories bubbling up like sewage from a broken main. Dad's office, filled with cigar smoke and the stench of corruption. His friends and clients, laughing as they toasted their latest 'acquisition'—some poor schmuck's life savings, a family's home, a young girl's innocence.
My fingers tighten around the glass. I was just a kid then, powerless to do anything but watch. Even for poor Gianna Moretti.
Clenching my teeth, I chase that particular memory away like I always do.
I tilt my glass, watching the last amber drop cling stubbornly to the bottom. Time for a refill. I raise my hand, ready to catch Joey's eye, but something's off. The familiar, weathered face behind the bar is gone, replaced by... her.
She's new. Definitely new. The kind of new that makes every sorry bastard in this dive sit up a little straighter, suddenly remembering they're supposed to be human beings and not just sentient bottles of booze.
I watch her carefully, wondering if she's an NYU student and noting the way she moves. Efficient, but with a hint of hesitation. Like she's trying to blend into the woodwork but can't quite manage it. There's a softness to her that doesn't belong in a place like this. It's like watching a deer wander into a wolf's den.
Her eyes, though. Those aren't the eyes of some wide-eyed innocent. There's a shadow there, a wariness that speaks of hard lessons learned. I've seen that look before… in the mirror, in the eyes of fellow Marines who've seen too much. It's the look of someone who's carrying more weight than they should.
She glances my way, and for a moment, our eyes lock. There's a flicker of... something. Recognition? Fear? It's gone before Ican place it, and she's back to polishing glasses like her life depends on it.
I chuckle to myself. Christ, Wolfe, you're getting soft. Or maybe just drunk. Since when do you give a damn about some random bartender's tragic backstory?
But I can't shake the feeling that there's more to her than meets the eye. In my line of work, you learn to trust your gut. And right now, my gut's telling me this woman's got secrets. The kind of secrets that could get a man killed if he's not careful.
Or maybe that's just the whiskey talking. Wouldn't be the first time Old Crow's led me down a rabbit hole.
I heave myself off the barstool, my body bitching at me like it's got a hangover already. Time to play detective with the enigma behind the bar. And if that means another glass of liquid oblivion, well, that's just thorough investigation, isn't it?
My inner voice—the one that sounds suspiciously like my old drill sergeant—barks at me to keep my distance. But there's something about her that's got me moving before I can talk myself out of it. It's been a long damn time since a woman made me want to close the gap, to peel back the layers and see what's underneath, especially after just one look.
As I make my way over, I can't help but wonder if I'm walking into something I can't handle. Wouldn't be the first time curiosity got the better of me. But in this cesspool of a city, a little danger might be just what I need to feel alive again.
As I approach the bar, I catch her scent, something light, floral. Out of place in this den of stale beer and regret. She turns, green eyes widening slightly as she takes me in. Yeah, sweetheart, I'm not exactly Prince Charming. But I've got a feeling you're not expecting a fairy tale ending anyway.
"What'll it be?" Her voice is soft, with a hint of rasp. Like silk over sandpaper.
I lean against the bar, offering my most disarming smile. "Another whiskey. And maybe your story, if you're selling."
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