Page 13 of Pose for Me
A few minutes later, I head to the restroom, using the stall so I can have a measure of privacy. After I relieve myself, I tuck myself away and lean back against the stall door.
Before the conversation went left, it seemed like me and that guy could have at least cheered each other up from our shit days. He might have an intense presence I haven’t felt from anyone in years, but I thought we were getting off on the right foot. Even if he’s not into taking me home like I wanted him to, we could haveat least talked more. For those brief few minutes, I didn’t think about work.
Maybe…maybe if he’s still here, I can…I don’t know, strike up a conversation with him, try to bury what happened at the bar. If for no other reason than I don’t want to be alone right now. I just want someone to talk to that’s not close to the case to get me out of my head for a little while, at least until I have to go home and flashes of the crime scene keep me up until the late hours of the morning.
Exiting the stall, I wash my hands and leave the restroom. While I head to the bar, I try to see if the man is still here. My heart thumps when I spot him sitting alone in a booth. A woman keeps looking his way, but she doesn’t seem to have gathered the courage to approach him yet, which is perfect for me.
When I get to the bar, I order a Jack and coke. Emmy nods and says, “Last one?”
“Yep. I’m sobering up.”
She nods and fishes inside the bowl and grabs my keys. “If you order another?—”
“Give you back my keys, got it.”
She nods and drops them in my hand.
Turning back around, I see the woman has approached the man, twisting her fingers through her hair.
Fuck, I’m too late.
Just as I’m ready to detour to the pool tables to pick up a game, the woman’s shoulders slump, but she nods and walks back to her table, a dejected look on her face.
Fighting to keep my smile to myself, I meander over to his table and stand across from the stranger. “Not your type?”
His eyes roam my body, a smile crossing his face before he meets my gaze. “Not in the least.” His smile drops. “Listen, I’m?—”
I hold my hand up and slide into the booth opposite him. A bit presumptuous, but he doesn’t ask me to leave, so I relax. “No big deal. I don’t…I don’t want to talk about my job. I came here to drink my troubles away.”
He holds his glass up in a salute. “Me too. We can drink together.”
“This is my last. I don’t want to be hungover at work tomorrow.”
“How many have you had?” he asks, a teasing grin on his lips.
“Too fucking many.” I sip my Jack. “You want another round?”
He shakes his head. “No. I’m not much of a drinker. I only drink when I’ve had a really bad day.” After he sips from his glass, he holds his hand out to me. “I’m Ryell.”
I clasp it. “Ryell, that’s a nice name.”
“Thank you.” He pauses for a second, looking at our joined hands. “Do you have one?”
“Shit, I’m sorry. It’s Lane. Pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise.” Ryell lets my hand go slowly, his fingers brushing against mine. I have to fight to suppress a full-body shiver.
We sit in silence for a few moments, our eyes glancing away when they meet over the rims of our glasses.
It’s been a while since I’ve talked to someone at the bar like this. Queer people do drink here, but most of them are badge chasers, only wanting to fuck a cop to say they did. I’m not into that. I don’t mind hookups, but not if it means someone is only interested in fucking me because of my job.
I’m not sure if Ryell is gay or bi or what, but if he keeps looking at me the way he is, I might assume he’s interested in doing more than talking.
“So,” he says after draining his glass. “You’re an FBI agent. Is that what you always wanted to do?”
“No. I wanted to be a teacher.” He lifts an eyebrow, and I laugh. “I know. Different career paths, but I kinda teach as an agent. I give seminars to new grads once a month, so I didn’t completely give up my dream. What do you do for work?”
“I’m an architect. My firm has been working on the brand-new skyscraper downtown.”
