Page 41 of A Secret and a Lie
Ignoring the twinge of disappointment blossoming in my belly that Ford isn’t here himself, I smile at the man as I slide elegantly into the backseat. Closing my eyes briefly, I savor the smell of black pepper and tobacco that envelops me, both calming me and urging me to bolt from the now-moving vehicle.
I’ve made many bad decisions over the course of my lifetime, but I can’t help but think this might be the worst of them all.
Dusk descends as glimpses of the darkening city sail past my window. Soon, the driver pulls up in front of an old bar, the woodensign hanging above the door swaying gently in the breeze, reading:Living Hell.
I swallow hard, my stomach churning. What a terrible name for a bar. I’ve never been here before, never even heard of this place. I expected to be whisked to his home, or possibly a high-end restaurant, not…this.
The driver gets out, and I wipe my palms on my tweed dress. I have my shoulders squared and my mind—mostly—right by the time he’s rounded the car, opening the door for me.
With my clutch in hand, I follow him to the entrance, and he swings the door open for me, explaining, “I’ll be here when you’re ready for me to take you home. Have a nice evening.” He dips his chin politely, closing the door behind me the moment I step over the threshold.
It smells of slightly stale beer, aged wood, and ancient cigarette smoke that still lingers in the air from a time when it was acceptable to smoke indoors. The lighting is dim, the interior made entirely of old mahogany, with stickers and graffiti covering one side wall next to the entrance for the restrooms. Brownish-red tufted booths line the wall to my right, with low-hanging pendant lights above each table that almost appear to be covered in a tacky substance. Past the booths are pool tables and dartboards with a smattering of high-top tables placed throughout. There’s no other way to describe this place: it’s a dive bar.
But the most notable part of this establishment is the fact that it’s decidedly empty, not another patron in sight, except for the bartender, whom I happen to know.
A groan slithers up my throat, and I grind my molars to keep it from spewing from my lips as I take in the sight of his lean, muscular form. The sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled to his elbows as he leans a shoulder against the back counter of the bar, endless shelves of liquor behind him. Even in the low light, I can’t help but admire the way his black slacks hug his thighs just right. He’s certainly attractive, but that’s never been the problem.
“Thanks for coming, Genevieve.”
“Gen,” I find myself correcting him without thinking better of it. “If you insist on calling me Genevieve, that is.”
It’s silly for him to call me anything else at this point. The time for pretenses is over…at least where my moniker is concerned.
The corner of his lips moves almost imperceptibly, like he’s fighting a smirk, but it’s gone in a flash. Pushing off the counter, he leans over the bar, his exposed arms visible as I step up to the wooden surface. For a second, I simply stare at his hand, the veins on his forearm woven in a pattern that reminds me of an intricate river system on a map, some wider and longer than others, but all of them beautiful.
“I’m glad to learn that we’ve moved past the Madam Allison façade.” He winks, and my chest rises with a sharp breath, tightening the bodice of my dress for a split second.
“We can always go back to that if you think you might be capable of kissing my shoe now. It’s due for a shine.” Unable to stop it, I grin.
His nostrils flare, his gaze darkening, voice dropping an octave as he replies, “I’ll do it, if you do it.”
My smile vanishes, and I glance away in a feeble attempt to escape the heat of this moment. The worst part is that Iwantto do that…for him. Every time he opens his mouth, I seem to lose another skirmish in my war against this man.
He blessedly saves me by asking, “Can I get you a drink? A dirty gin martini, right? Four olives?”
He memorized my cocktail order? How?If only that didn’t make my stomach clench and my brain hum as I ponder what else he’s noticed. The realization that he’s been observing me so closely slams into me as if I wasn’t watching where I was going. But Ihavebeen paying attention to where I’ve been walking. It’s why I’m slightly unnerved that I didn’t catch on until now.
“Filthy,” I emphasize, purring the word, my eyes on his. “And a splash of lemon.”
“You got it.” His dimple makes an appearance before he turns, grabbing a chilled martini glass from the small refrigerator andreaching for the gin and vermouth. While I observe him measuring the clear liquor into the shaker, the short hairs on the back of my neck prickle, and my spine stiffens as I go on alert. Before I can pinpoint the source of my unease, he’s stirring the ingredients—because that’s theonlyway to serve a martini—the metal spoon clanking against the walls of the shaker, drawing my attention.
“So…” I glance around the vacant bar, still searching for what put me on edge. “Where is everyone?”
“Beats me, but they aren’t here. It’s ours for the night.”
He slides the martini to me, the four skewered olives perched delicately on the rim. I lift it to my lips, holding it by the stem, and practically moan at the tangy flavors.
“How’d you manage that?” I question with a lifted eyebrow. Reaching for a bottle of scotch from one of the taller shelves, he pulls it down, the crystal catching the light as he expertly pours a measure into his small Glencairn glass.
“You’ll find that I don’t half-ass anything, doll.”
The particles between us feel like they’ve been injected with electricity, and even as I suck in some air, my blood sizzles. Ireallyneed him to stop calling me that, but I must be a masochist at heart because I don’t correct him. Instead, I’d love to hear it again.
His targeted attention is more lethal than the revolver tucked in my purse as he says, “It’s easy to shut the place down when you own it, though.”
I’m not all that surprised to learn that he owns this place, considering just how much of the Eastern Seaboard that Crawford Enterprises commands.
With his scotch in hand, he rounds the bar, coming to stand next to me. He drags out a bar stool for me, and I settle on the edge, my knees now between his spread legs. Scanning the warm, inviting ambiance of the bar once more, I find myself endeared to the place. It reminds me of a time when I was younger, when Corinne and I would splurge on a night out. Those moments were rare, which madethem all the more special. Sometimes, I miss certain aspects of that time in my life, when I was less jaded, still young and more optimistic.
