Page 22 of Can't Stop Watching
"Coming right up," I smile professionally, though internally I'm contemplating how many olives I could stuff up his nose if he calls me "sweetheart" one more time.
I mix his martini with practiced efficiency, sliding it across the bar with a napkin. "Anything else I can get you?"
"Just your number." He winks.
"Sorry, company policy." I point to a sign that doesn't exist. "Bar staff can't fraternize with customers."
Funny how that policy seems to evaporate when I think about Dane.
The door opens and my heart does this stupid little jump before plummeting when it's just a group of students, not a certain broad-shouldered ex-Marine. God, I'm pathetic.
"You okay?" Joey asks, coming up beside me. "You keep looking at the door like you're expecting the tax man."
"I'm fine," I lie, reaching for a rag to wipe down the already spotless counter. "Just tired."
What I don't say: I'm waiting for a man who probably won't show because I turned him down like an absolute idiot. A man whose gray eyes haunt me when I close mine. A man who took down three guys without breaking a sweat and then politely asked to give me a ride.
The night wears on. Every time the door swings open, I look up. Every time, it's not him.
By midnight, I've gone from hopeful to irritated to a weird kind of sad that makes me angry at myself. Why am I even waiting? I said no. He respected that. End of story.
Except I don't want it to be the end of the story.
"Last call," I announce at 12:45 AM, my voice carrying over the dwindling crowd.
No sign of Dane. No tall figure in the dark corner, no quiet request for whiskey neat.
I count my tips at the end of the shift: decent money, terrible validation. Tomorrow I'll be better. I'll focus on my interview prep for the internships I'll be applying to and stop checking the door like some lovesick teenager.
But deep down, I know I'll be right back here tomorrow night, cleaning the same glass, straightening the same bottles, hoping for the same impossible thing.
Damn it, Dane Wolfe. Where are you?
9
DANE
Iclose the door to my apartment, tossing keys onto the kitchen counter where they skid and hit the wall. Eleven hours trailing Langford, and the bastard didn't do anything more suspicious than order a salad with dressing on the side. No Sarah. No secret apartment visits. Just meetings, phone calls, and a workout that lasted way too long for a guy who clearly skips leg day.
My phone buzzes. Milo.
Milo: Got that info you wanted. Attached. Wild that we're stalking a bartender now instead of cheating husbands. Career change?
I don't dignify that with a response. It's not wasted on me he used the wordstalking, though.
I grab a beer from the fridge and drop onto my couch, opening the file on my laptop.
My screen fills with Lila's life, laid bare in data points and background checks. Twenty-five years old. Graduate student atNYU. Journalism major. Works at The Old Haunt about five nights a week, give or take. No criminal record. No credit issues. Nothing remarkable.
Then I hit her history. New Orleans native. High school records showing an abrupt departure before graduation. GED completion instead of traditional diploma. No social media presence from that time frame—like she erased herself.
Something happened.
I scroll down to the notes Milo compiled from local newspaper archives.
"Holy shit," I mutter, setting my beer down.
New Orleans Times-Picayune article from eight years ago. Allegations against a high school drama teacher named Marcus Colton. The article doesn't name the student, but the timeline matches Lila's sudden disappearance from school records, and it matches the school she attended her previous years.
