Page 6 of Where Dark Hearts Devour
“I run casinos. I’m always working.” I turn to lift my glass and gulp back a larger than planned mouthful of the scotch. My throat isn’t too happy about it, but it’ll live.
“But you’re here on a break?”
I almost choke. “Not quite.”
“Well then, why are you here?”
I swirl the whiskey around one more time. I shouldn’t have let the conversation go this far. If I tell her I’m here because my father just died, it won’t take much for her to figure out who I am. And then she’ll run a mile.
I settle on: “Family matters.” Then I throw the rest of the whiskey down my throat and place the glass on the bar.
“You want another of those?” Her tone is playful.
Our eyes lock, and in those few seconds I consider indulging myself with another whiskey. But the door to the bar bangs against a wall, knocking the thought from my head.
What the fuck am I thinking?I have duties to carry out, people to console, papers to sign. I’d only be prolonging the inevitable, and I need a clear head for the coming days. I consider inviting her back to my place—a quick, hard fuck could be just what I need—but there’s a timidness about her that makes me think she’d run for the hills at the mere suggestion.
“No. It’s time I headed home.”
She pushes herself upright and hardens her jaw. “You’re leaving?” she asks quietly.
“Yeah. I have a busy day tomorrow.”
She smooths a hand over her hip. “Right. Okay, well, it was nice meeting you. I’m Trilby, by the way.”
Something pulls at me. Her name really is familiar. I’m sure we’ve met before, even though she clearly doesn’t remember it.
“I’m Cristiano.” I watch her face carefully for any flicker of recognition, but it doesn’t come. “Can I ask ... how long have you lived near Port Washington?”
“Why does it matter?”
“It doesn’t. I’m just curious.”
She shrugs, her eyelids falling heavy. “All my life.”
If she was fifteen when she first came in here five years ago, that makes her twenty now—eight years younger than me. Our paths may well have crossed.
She sways side to side.
“Isn’t it time you went home too?” I suggest.
Her skin pales. “I don’t want to go home yet.” As she says the words, she sways too far to the right and stumbles into a table.
I grab her before she can fall, trying not to process how soft her skin feels beneath my fingertips. The bartender appears, looking concerned.
“Yeah,” I say. “I think it’s home time. Come on—I can give you a ride.”
Her eyes flash suddenly, and she yanks her arms from my grip. “I’m not getting in a car with you,” she snaps. “I don’t even know you.”
“Fine.” Reaching into my jacket pocket instead, I pull out a thick roll of hundreds. I flick a few out and slap them on the bar. “Make sure she gets home safe.” I direct the words to the bartender, but my eyes bore into her.
Her face blanches. “You’re paying him to have me leave?”
“I’m paying him to get you home in one piece,” I reply.
She narrows her eyes like a seething cat, and there’s a flash of fire behind them.
The bartender puts an arm around her shoulders, and every muscle in my body tenses. “Come on, T. Have another glass of water, then we’ll get you in a cab.”
