Page 96 of Hellbent
“There was a man,” I add, carefully. “Older. He came up to me. Called me by name. I didn’t know him.”
The bartender’s gaze sharpens—just a flicker, then it’s gone.
“Don’t remember,” she says flatly.
But I saw it. That flicker.
I look down the bar. A man in his thirties, tan from working outside, sits two stools down with a half-finished beer and a pleasant, weathered face. Not bad-looking. He notices me looking and straightens a little—subtle, but there. Not leering. Just hopeful.
I pick up my glass and slide onto the stool beside him.
“Mind if I sit?”
“Not if you want to.” He smiles and straightens his shirt a little. Glances at my legs.
I keep my voice quiet.
“I was here a little while ago,” I say. “With a couple friends. A guy came up to me—older, said my name like he knew me.”
His brow furrows slightly, like he’s trying to place something.
“Then later, I found out someone took a picture of me. From inside the bar.”
He straightens a little, tension entering his shoulders.
“Wasn’t me,” he says quickly.
“I’m not accusing you,” I say, managing a tight smile. “I just thought—maybe you’re a regular. Have you noticed anyone new hanging around? Somebody…off. A little strange.”
He glances toward the bar again. The bartender is standing close to us, bent over her phone, but I can feel her listening.
“Strange how?” he asks. “This place draws a few different kinds.”
“I don’t know. Someone who wasn’t here to drink. Someone who watched more than they talked.”
He frowns, rubbing a hand over his jaw. Doesn’t speak right away. Maybe he’s thinking. Maybe he’s debating whether to get involved.
“You remember what the guy looked like?” he finally asks.
“Mid-forties. Looked like he worked a desk. Dress shirt and tie. Here alone.”
The guy shakes his head slowly. Regret, maybe. Or self-preservation.
“Sorry, sweetheart. I keep to myself. Don’t get involved in other people’s business.”
I nod, but disappointment settles in my chest.
“That’s okay,” I say. “Was worth a shot.”
He goes quiet. The bartender puts her phone in her pocket, snaps her head up, and walks away.
A flicker of unease pulses in my gut. I glance at the clock behind the bar, deciding I’ve been here long enough. I drain the last of my Coke and wish the man beside me a good night—just as the door opens, carrying in a wave of warm night air.
Two bikers step inside.
It’s obvious from the second they cross the threshold. The boots. The cuts. The attitude. They don’t belong in this bar—and they don’t care.
One is tall and heavy-set, with a long beard worked into a tight braid and mirrored sunglasses still on, even at night. The other’s much shorter. Wiry, with a wound-up, kinetic energy. Both wear worn leather vests stamped with a patch I recognize instantly.
