Darling Rose Gold(81)

I scooted her across the threshold. She tried to keep the conversation going. “Is this a new friend? What’s their name?”

“Arnie,” I said, the first name that came to mind, almost laughing at the thought of him and me spending time together outside of work.

“Is Arnie a special friend?” she said, smiling.

For Christ’s sake.

“Just a regular friend.” I smiled back and waved. “Bye now.”

Mrs. Stone turned and walked down the hallway. “Bye, dear,” she called.

I closed the door and walked to the other side of the apartment, waiting for her rotund body to appear in the parking lot. A minute later, there she was, standing on the sidewalk, peering into the dark. Wary of the nonexistent crime in Deadwick, no doubt. I left the window to finish tidying the apartment.

Five minutes later, I walked by the window again. Mrs. Stone was still in the parking lot, sitting in her car. She’d started the engine and had her lights on, so she wasn’t trying to be sneaky. But what was she waiting for? Was she checking up on me?

“Shit,” I groaned. I was going to have to get in my van and go somewhere so she wouldn’t know I’d lied. Once you were caught in a lie, no one ever trusted you again.

I pulled on a jacket and grabbed my purse. Jogging to the van like I was in a hurry, I pretended not to see Mrs. Stone’s car two rows over. The parking lot was full. Most of my neighbors would be plunked in front of their TVs at nine o’clock on a Wednesday night, myself included.

I drove five minutes to the town dive bar, checking my rearview mirror. I didn’t think Mrs. Stone was following me, but just in case, I went inside.

The bar was quiet, except for two old guys sitting in a corner booth with a lot of empties on their table. One of them noticed me walk in. I sat at the bar, on the opposite side of the room from them.

The bartender approached—a scruffy guy around my age—and asked what he could get me. I ordered a vodka and cranberry. He placed the drink in front of me. I’d been watching the front door of the bar for five minutes. Mrs. Stone wasn’t coming. I breathed a sigh of relief.

I took a sip of my drink and thought through my new options.

It would take some dedication to make them all believe I was back in her clutches. I’d have to play the role well, although I had sixteen years of experience being Patty Watts’s victim, so that shouldn’t be difficult. I’d have to be convincing. Nothing short of total commitment would suffice if I were going to send my mother back from where she came.

The corners of my mouth turned up.

“What’s a babe like you doing all alone in a bar?”

The bartender had reapproached, hands on hips, eyes glinting. I had never been called a babe before.

“What’s it look like?” I said, holding up my empty glass.

“Another?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“That’s your job, isn’t it?” I put an elbow on the bar, rested my chin on my knuckles.

The bartender grinned. He picked up a bottle of cheap vodka. “I like them sassy.”

I didn’t say anything. I watched him add cranberry juice to the vodka in my glass.

He opened the ice bin. “Out of ice. I’ll be right back.” He moved toward the back room with my drink in his hand.

“Hey,” I called. He turned around. I gestured for him to come back. “That’s okay. I don’t like ice in my drink.”

A flicker of disappointment crossed his face, but he brought it back and set it down in front of me. He stuck a fresh straw in the glass before sliding it across the bar.

I put my lips to the straw and sucked. The cool liquid eased down my throat. We locked eyes.

He winked. “I wish I was that straw right about now.”

I lifted my head from the drink and sat back in my chair. “Do you?” I asked, tilting my head to the side.

I grinned, putting every rotten tooth in my mouth on full display.

The bartender recoiled, then mumbled something about needing to restock the ice. I watched him scurry away to the back room.

Once he was gone, I hopped off my barstool. I tipped my drink over the bar. Red liquid began to drizzle out.

“This is for trying to slip something into my drink,” I muttered.

I walked the length of the bar and back, dripping the liquid from my glass the entire way. As someone not part of society until semirecently, I could by now confirm it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Other people were exhausting.

I returned to my barstool, leaned over the bar into the half-full ice bin, and pulled out a piece, cracking the ice between my teeth. Then I scanned the rows of liquor against the wall for the most expensive-looking bottle, and hurled my glass as hard as I could at it. My glass shattered, and the bottle fell to the side, knocking other bottles off the shelves. I jumped at the noise, feeling more psychotic than badass.

Looking around the bar, sure that someone would arrest me, I noticed for the first time a cute guy with sandy blond hair sitting in the corner. He watched me with a lopsided smile and winked.

I smiled back. “Oops,” I mouthed.

The bartender would be back any second—I had to get out of there. I picked up my purse and walked out the door, forcing myself not to turn around to see if the cute guy would follow.

I had work to do.