Last Light(52)

“That’s not true.” I shifted on my seat. “And I don’t have a thing going on. You make it sound pretentious.”

“You know what I mean.”

“You’re cute, Mel. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding someone. And even if circumstances were different—” I shook my head. The lights of the city scrolled past, muted by my sunglasses. “You’re too young for me.”

Melanie grew quiet.

A crowd crossed the street in front of us, friends laughing and shouting.

I glanced at Mel. The excitement was gone from her face.

I meant it when I said Mel was cute—she was on par with Hannah, at least—but the world is full of beautiful women, and love, which starts as a feeling, always ends as a choice.

A familiar sign caught my eye, winking blue in the night. LOT 49, BAR AND LOUNGE.

I tapped the dash. “But you’re not too young to drink,” I said.

*

Ten minutes later, Mel and I sat in a private booth at the back of the Lot. I still wore my winter regalia, which kept Mel giggling. I even had on my sunglasses.

“You look ridiculous. Like, even more suspicious.” Melanie sipped her pint. She’d tried to order a rum and Coke, the drink of drinkers who have no idea what they’re doing, and I intervened to order her a vanilla stout with a shot of blackberry whiskey.

I looked around and removed my shades.

“Everyone in Denver knows the story of M. Pierce,” I whispered. “Plus, I mentioned this place in Night Owl. Can’t be too f*cking careful.”

“Hey, you wanted to come in here.” She had foam on her upper lip. I gestured. “What, you like my mouth? Oh, my, Mr. Sky.”

“Don’t say my name!” I prodded her mouth with a napkin. “Did you even read Night Owl, or did you just publish it like a crazy person?”

“I read it.” Melanie waggled her eyebrows. “This is where you saw the luscious Hannah for the first time.”

“Ha. Luscious is right.”

I relaxed as the minutes passed and slipped off my hat and shrugged out of my coat. The bar was warm and no one gave a damn about Mel and me. When I ordered another pint for her, the tender didn’t look at me twice.

We chatted about Mel’s blog, her unfinished four-year degree, and crappy temp jobs she’d taken in recent months. She’d worked in a concrete call center where she had to punch in and out for bathroom breaks. She’d taken surveys and picked up trash in parks.

“This is by far my best gig,” she said.

I felt pretty f*cking sorry for her then, and I wished she could keep on cashing in with Night Owl. Too bad.

Bob Dylan’s “This Wheel’s on Fire” started to play. I swayed to the ragged, honkytonk tune, and Melanie laughed at me.

“Let’s dance.” She grabbed my hand and hauled me out of the booth.

“No! Jesus. Not on the floor.”

I held her hand and she spun. She teased her fingers up her side and sashayed over to me. I smirked and shook my head.

“You’ve got a Rita Hayworth thing going on,” I said.

“High praise. You’re not bad yourself, M.”

“Yeah? My aunt forced us into lessons. I quit after a month.”

I danced Mel in lazy circles by the booth. My training kicked in and I smiled at her as we moved. It felt good, and we danced through two more songs. Whenever Mel got close to me, she rubbed her slight body along mine. The gesture was subtle enough to be unconscious, though I couldn’t be sure. The alcohol put a pretty glow on her face. Now and then, she leaned her cheek against my chest and sighed.

As we left the bar, I said, “Let me drive back to the condo.”

Mel handed me her keys without hesitation. I raised a brow.

“You know I don’t have a license on me, right?”

“Yeah.” She shrugged. “You know Denver better than I do. Just don’t get pulled over.”

I checked the time as I got behind the wheel. It was 6:48. Hannah wouldn’t be home until eight at the earliest.

The car rumbled under me and I sighed. “I miss driving.”

“I bet.”

“You mind?” I held up a cigarette. “Your buzz is making me jealous.”

“Nope, but share it with me,” she said.

“You can have your own.”

“No, share it with me. I want to be able to say I shared a cigarette with M. Pierce.”

“M. Pierce, that’s not me.” I smoked a bit of the cigarette and passed it to Mel.

“Okay, then I want to say”—she took a drag—“I shared a smoke with Matthew Sky.”

“Not me either.”

“Cal the demon?”

She passed it back. I tasted her minty lip gloss on the filter.

“Nah, not Cal. A demon, maybe.”

“Cabin Fever!” She laughed.

I grinned and stepped on the gas, pushing the Corolla fast on an empty street.

Melanie was right; I knew Denver better than she did. Better than most. I knew how to cut corners, and where to get what. I knew the best restaurants, the coolest bookstores, the hottest clubs. But I was like a fugitive in Denver, and I had peace at the cabin. I needed peace. I needed Hannah. Why wouldn’t she come away?

“Whatever trips your trigger,” I said. I handed Mel the cigarette with a gesture that said, Finish it. “That’s how it goes, right? You are who people decide you are.”